November hirples o'er the lea, And gane, alas! the sheltering tree, 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, Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, Unscath'd by ruffian hand; And from thee many a parent stem Arise to deck our land. ON SENSIBILITY. To my dear and much-honored friend, Mrs. SENSIBILITY, how charming, Thou, my friend, canst truly tell; Fairest flower, behold the lily, Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, To each pirate of the skies. Dearly bought the hidden treasure, VERSES. On seeing a wounded Hare limp by me, INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art, which a Go, live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 1 No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains 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 Turit, a wild scene among the hills of Oughtertyre. WHY, ye tenants of the lake, Conscious, blushing for our race, The eagle from the cliffy brow, But man, to whom alone is giv'n 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, Man with all his pow'rs you scorn; 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; 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. |