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November hirples o'er the lea,

Chill, on thy lovely form ;
And gane, alas! the sheltering tree,

Should shield thee frae the storm. May He who gives the rain to pour,

And wings the blast to blaw, Protect thee frae the driving show'r,

The bitter frost and snaw !

May He the friend of wo and want,

Who heals life's various stounds, Protect and guard the mother-plant,

And heal her cruel wounds:

But late she flourished, rooted fast,

Fair on the summer morn;
Now, feebly bends she in the blast,

Unshelter'd and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,

Unscath'd by ruffian hand; And from thee many a paront stem

Arise to deck our land.

ON SENSIBILITY.

To my dear and much-honored friend, Mrs.

Dunlop, of Dunlop.
SENSIBILITY, how charming,

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ;
But distress with horrors arming,

Thou hast also known too well.

Fairest flower, behold the lily,

Blooming in the sunny ray ;
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley,

See it prostrate on the clay.

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest,

Telling o'er his little joys;
Hapless bird! a prey the surest,

To each pirate of the skies.
Dearly bought the hidden treasure,

Finer feelings can bestow;
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,

Thrill the deepest notes of wo.

VERSES.

On seeing a wounded Hare limp by me, which a

fellow had just shot at. INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art,

And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye:

May never pity sooth thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart?

Go, live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,

'The bitter little that of life remains; No more the thickening brakes and verdant plain To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. Seek, 'mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,

No more of rest, but now thy dying bed! The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait

The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,

I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless

fate.

LINES

On scaring some water fowl in Loch T'urit, a wild

scene among the hills of Oughtertyre.
Why, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your wat’ry baunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties?
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free ;
Peacetul keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave ;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.

Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace;
Man, your proud usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below;
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle from the cliffy brow, Marking you his prey below, In his breast no pity dwells, Strong necessity compels; But man, to whom alone is giv'n A ray direct from pitying Heav'n, Glories in his heart humane And creatures for his pleasure slain.

In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv'let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
All on Nature you depend,
And life's poor season peaceful spend.

Or, if man's superior might,
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn ;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs ;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

SONNET,

Written on the 25th January 1793, the birthday of

the author, on hearing a thrush in a morning walk. Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough;

Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain;

See aged Winter, mid his surly reign,
At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow;
So in lone Poverty's dominion drear,

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart,

Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day
Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,
What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care;
The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee

I'll share.

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