There shall my voice in plaintive wailings teach
The hollow caverns to resound my woes.

Sweet are the waters to the parched tongue;
Sweet are the blossoms to the wanton bee;
Sweet to the shepherd sound the lark's shrill song;
But sweeter far is solitude to me.

Adieu, ye fields! where I have fondly strayed,
Ye swains who once the fav'rite Damon knew;
Farewell, ye sharers of my bounty's aid!

Ye sons of base Ingratitude, adieu!

WRITTEN AT THE HERMITAGE OF BRAID,

NEAR EDINBURGH.

[It was among the Braid hills that Burns was wont to walk with Professor Stewart: and it was the scenery which excited the muse of Fergusson that made him beautifully say to the Professor, "that the sight of so many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind, which none could understand who had not witnessed, like himself, the happiness and worth which they contained." The 'Hermitage' stands in the secluded low ground near the Braid Burn. An engraving of it was published by Storer and Greig.]

WOULD you relish a rural retreat,

Or the pleasure the groves can inspire?

The city's allurements forget,

To this spot of enchantment retire.

Where a valley and crystalline brook,
Whose current glides sweetly along,
Give nature a fanciful look

The beautiful woodlands among.

Behold the umbrageous trees

A covert of verdure have spread,
Where shepherds may loll at their ease,
And pipe to the musical shade:

For lo! through each op'ning is heard
In concert with waters below,1
The voice 2 of a musical bird,

Whose numbers do gracefully flow.

The bushes and arbours so green,
With tendrils of spray interwove,
With foliage shelter the scene,

And form a retirement for love.

Here Venus transported may rove
From pleasure to pleasure unseen,

Nor wish for the Cyprian grove
Her youthful Adonis to screen.

Oft let me contemplative dwell

3

On a scene where such beauties appear;

I could live in a cot or a cell,

And never think solitude near.

1 Var. The strain of wild melody flow. 2 Var. from the throat.

3 Var. In concert with waters below.

SONG.

[From Johnson's Scots Musical Museum (125, p. 131. Vol. II. Note, p. 121.) where it is given as additional words to the tune of "Braw, braw lads of Galla-water."]

No repose can I discover

Nor find joy without my lover;

Can I stay when she's not near me?
Cruel fates! once deign to hear me.

The charms of grandeur don't decoy me,
Fair Eliza must enjoy me:

1

My crown and sceptre I resign,

The shepherd's life shall still be mine.

A BURLESQUE ELEGY

ON THE AMPUTATION OF A STUDENT'S HAIR, ANTECEDENT TO

HIS ENTERING INTO ORDERS. 2

O SAD catastrophe! O event dire ! 3

How shall the loss, the heavy loss be borne?
Or how the muse attune the plaintive lyre,
To sing of Strephon with his ringlets shorn?

Say ye who can divine the mighty cause,
From whence this modern circumcision springs?

1 Give me joy.

2 This 'title' restored from the original.

3 Improved by Mr. Robert Chambers thus:

O sad catastrophe! event most dire!

Ed. of Fergusson, 1840, p. 39.

Why such oppressive and such rigid laws
Are still attendant on religious things?

Alas! poor Strephon, to the stern decree

Which prunes your tresses, are you doom'd to yield? Soon shall your Caput, like the blasted tree, Diffuse its faded honours o'er the field.

Now let the solemn sounds of mourning swell,
And wake sad echoes to prolong the lay;
For hark! methinks I hear the tragic knell;
This hour bespeaks the barber on his way.

O razor! yet thy poignant edge suspend;
O yet indulge me with a short delay,
Till I once more pourtray my youthful friend,
Ere his proud locks are scatter'd on the clay.

Ere the huge wig, in formal curls array'd,
With pulvile pregnant, shall o'ershade his face;
Or, like the wide umbrella, lend its aid,
To banish lustre from the sacred place.

Mourn, O ye zephyrs! for, alas! no more

His waving ringlets shall your call obey ;
For ah! the stubborn wig must now be wore,
Since Strephon's locks are scatter'd on the clay.

Amanda, too, in bitter anguish sighs,

And grieves the metamorphosis to see: Mourn not, Amanda, for the hair that lies

Dead on the ground shall be revived for thee.

Some skilful artist of a French frizeur,

With graceful ringlets shall thy temples bind, And cull the precious relics from the floor, Which yet may flutter in the wanton wind.

FASHION.-A POEM.

Bred up where discipline most rare is,
In Military Garden Paris.

HUDIBRAS.

in humble song,

O NATURE, parent goddess! at thy shrine,
Prone to the earth, the muse,
Thy aid implores: Nor will she wing her flight
Till thou, bright form, in thy effulgence pure
Deign'st to look down upon her lowly state,
And shed thy powerful influence benign.

Come then, regardless of vain fashion's fools,
Of all those vile enormities of shape

That crowd the world, and with thee bring
Wisdom in sober contemplation clad,

To lash those bold usurpers from the stage.

On that bless'd spot where the Parisian dome To fools the stealing hand of time displays, Fashion her empire holds; a goddess great! View her amidst the millinerian train On a resplendent throne exalted high, Strangely diversified with gew-gaw forms. Her busy hand glides pleasurably o'er The darling novelties, the trinkets rare That greet the sight of the admiring dames, Whose dear bought treasures o'er their native isle Contagious spread, infect the wholesome air

That cherish'd vigour in Britannia's sons.