My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow;
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning.
Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil,
To counterbalance all this evil;
Give me, and I've no more to say,
Give me Maria's natal-day!
That brilliant gift shall so enrich me,
Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me.
""Tis done!" says Jove; so ends my story,
And Winter once rejoiced in glory.
ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH
A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OCHTERTYRE.
7HY, ye tenants of the lake,
your watery haunts 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:
Peaceful 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.
294 THE LEAGUE AND COVENANT.
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 given
A ray direct from pitying Heaven.
Glories in his heart humane-
And creatures for his pleasure slain.
In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wandering swains,
Where the mossy rivulet strays,
Far from humans 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 powers 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.
THE LEAGUE AND COVENANT.
THE Solent and blood-cost Scotland tears:
HE Solemn League and Covenant
But it sealed Freedom's sacred cause-
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers.
TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL. 295
ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK; WRITTEN 25TH JANUARY 1793, THE BIRTHDAY OF
ING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
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 would never give, nor take away !
Yet come, thou child of Poverty and Care;
The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee
I'll share.
TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL.
RIEND of the poet, tried and leal,
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal ;
Alake alake! the meikle Deil
Wi' a' his witches
Are at it, skelpin! jig and reel,
In my poor pouches
I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,
That one pound one I sairly want it:
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it,
And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted,
I'd bear't in mind.
So may the auld year gang out moaning
To see the new come laden, groaning,
Wi' double plenty o'er the loaning
To thee and thine;
Domestic peace and comforts crowning
The hale design,
Ye've heard this while how I've been licket
And by fell Death was nearly nicket:
Grim loun! he gat me by the fecket,
And sair me sheuk;
But by guid luck I lap a wicket,
And turn'd a neuk.
But by that health, I've got a share o't,
And by that life, I'm promised mair o't,
My hale and weal I'll tak a care o't
A tentier way:
Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't,
For ance and aye!
LINES TO JOHN RANKINE.
HE who of Rankine sang lies stiff and dead,
And a green grassy hillock haps his head;
Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed!
Y honour'd Colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the Poet's weal:
Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel
The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus pill
And potion glasses.
Oh, what a canty warld were it,
Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it ;
And fortune favour worth and merit
As they deserve!
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret;
Syne wha wad starve ?)
Dame Life, though fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and frippery deck her;
Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker
I've found her still,
Aye wavering, like the willow-wicker,
'Tween good and ill.
Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrons by a ratton,
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on
Wi' felon ire;
Syne whip his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on--
He's aff like fire.
Ah, Nick! ah, Nick! it is na fair,
First showing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,
To put us daft;
Syne weave, unseen, the spider snare
O' hell's damn'd waft.
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