XX.

O Scotia my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil,

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!

And, O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle.

XXI.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide

That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart; Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert:

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

A DIRGE.

I.

WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev❜ning, as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spy'd a man, whose aged step
Seem'd weary, worn with care;
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

II.

Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou? Began the rev'rend sage;

Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure's rage;

Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man!

III.

The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride;

I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return;
And ev'ry time has added proofs,

That man was made to mourn.

IV.

O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Mispending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force gives nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.

V.

Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right:

But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn,

Then age and want, Oh! ill-match'd pair! Show man was made to mourn.

VI.

A few seem favourites of fate,

In pleasure's lap carest;

Yet, think not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly blest.

But, Oh! what crowds in ev'ry land,
Are wretched and forlorn;

Thro' weary life this lesson learn,

That man was made to mourn.

VII.

Many and sharp the num'rous ills

Inwoven with our frame!

Young strange wine wat rest thou Began the restrent shape.

Does thurst of weath the step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure's rage:

Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man!