Did he smile his work to see? Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? TO THE MUSES. WHETHER on Ida's shady brow Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, which now From ancient melodies have ceased; Whether in Heaven ye wander fair, Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air, Where the melodious winds have birth, Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove, Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry, How have you left the ancient lore I hear below the water roar, O, no! sad and slow, These are nae sounds for me; I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tam, And promised, when our trysting cam', O, no! sad and slow, The mark it winna' pass; O now I see her on the way! She's past the witch's knowe; She's climbing up the brownies brae; My heart is in a lowe, O, no! 't is not so, 'Tis glamrie I hae seen; The shadow o' that hawthorn bush My book o' grace I'll try to read, And find her on the hill. O, no! sad and slow, The time will ne'er be gane; JOANNA BAILLIE. [1762-1831.] THE GOWAN GLITTERS ON THE THE gowan glitters on the sward, O, no! sad and slow, And lengthened on the ground; My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west, O, no! sad and slow, The shadow lingers still; LADY CAROLINE NAIRN. [1766-1845.] THE LAND O' THE LEAL. I'm wearin' awa', Jean, To the Land o' the Leal. In the Land o' the Leal. You've been leal and true, Jean, To the Land o' the Leal. ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean; My soul langs to be free, Jean; And angels wait on me To the Land o' the Leal. Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, She was baith gude and fair, Jean, And we grudged her sair To the Land o' the Leal! But sorrow's self wears past, Jean, In the Land of the Leal. A' our friends are gane, Jean; We've lang been left alane, Jean; But we'll a' meet again In the Land o' the Leal. Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean! This world's care is vain, Jean! We'll meet, and aye be fain In the Land o' the Leal. ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. [1766-1823.] THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 87 But rose at once, and bursted into tears; Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again, And thought upon the past with shame and pain; I raved at war and all its horrid cost, And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost. On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused, And cursed the murdering weapons I had used. Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard, One bespoke age, and one a child's appeared. In stepped my father with convulsive start, And in an instant clasped me to his heart. Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid; And stooping to the child, the old man said, "Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again; This is your uncle Charles, come home from Spain." The child approached, and with her fingers light Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight. But why thus spin my tale, — thus tedious be? Happy old soldier! what's the world to me? JANE ELLIOTT. [1781 - 1849.] LAMENT FOR FLODDEN. I'VE heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away. In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie The Flowers of the Forest are weded away. Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewemilking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. ROBERT TANNAHILL. [1774-1810.] THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE THE midges dance aboon the burn; The paitricks down the rushy holm Beneath the golden gloamin' sky The mavis mends her lay; The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, To charm the ling'ring day; While weary yaldrins seem to wail Their little nestlings torn, The merry wren, frae den to den, Gaes jinking through the thorn. The roses fauld their silken leaves, Let others crowd the giddy court Of mirth and revelry, The simple joys that Nature yields THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER. LET us go, lassie, go, To the braes o' Balquhither, Lightly bounding together, I will twine thee a bower By the clear siller fountain, Wi' the flowers of the mountain; To the bower o' my dearie. When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling, |