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November hirples o'er the lea,
Chill, on thy lovely form ;
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;
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.
To my dear and much-honored friend, Mrs.
Dunlop, of Dunlop.
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ;
Thou hast also known too well.
Fairest flower, behold the lily,
Blooming in the sunny ray ;
See it prostrate on the clay.
Hear the wood-lark charm the forest,
Telling o'er his little joys;
To each pirate of the skies.
Finer feelings can bestow;
Thrill the deepest notes of wo.
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
On scaring some water fowl in Loch T'urit, a wild
scene among the hills of Oughtertyre.
Conscious, blushing for our race,
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,
Or, if man's superior might,
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,
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
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care;