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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


XXI. 0 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.




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.

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 !

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.


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.

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.

A few secm 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.

Many and sharp the num'rous ills

Inwoven with our frame!

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