Enjoying large each spring and well
As nature gave them me,.
I am, altho I say't mysel',
Worth gaun a mile to see..
Wad then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes,
He'll shade my banks wi''tow'ring trees,
And bonnie spreading bushes;
Delighted, doubly then, my Lord,
You'll wander on my banks,
And listen mony a greatful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.
The sober laverock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire;
The gowdspink, musie's gayest child,
Shall sweetly join the choir:
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,
The mavis mild and mellow;
The Robin, pensive autumn cheer,
In all her locks of yellow.
This, too, a covert shall ensure,
To shield them from the storm ;.
And coward maukin sleep secure,
Low in her grassy form:
Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
To weave his crown o' flowers;
Or find a shelterin', safe retreat,
From prone descending show'rs,
And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair,
Despising worlds with all their wealth
As empty idle care;
The flowers shall vie in all their charms、
The hour of heaven to grace,
And birks extend their fragrant arms
To screen the dear embrace.
Here haply too, at vernal dawn,
Some musing bard may stray,
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn,
And misty mountain grey;
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,
Mild-chequering thro' the trees,
Bave to my darkly-dashing stream,
Hoarse swelling on the breeze
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
My lowly banks o'erspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,
Their shadows' wat'ry bed!
Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest,
My craggy cliffs adorn!!
And, for the little songster's nest,
The close embow'ring thorn.
So may old Scotia's darling hope,
Your little angel band,
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop
Their honourd Native land!
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken,
To social flowing glasses,
The grace be" Athole's honest men,
And Athole's bonnie lasses!??
ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL
IN LOCH-TRUIT, A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF
WHY, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake ?x
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,
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 giv'n
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n,
Glories in his heart humane.
And creatures for his pleasure slain !
In these savage liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv'let strays,
Fsr from human 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 pow'rs 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.
WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSON, THE POET, IN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS, PRESENTED TO À
YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, MARCH 19, 1787.
CURSE on ungrateful man, that can be pleased,
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure!
O thou my elder brother in misfortune,
By far my elder brother in the muses,
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!
Why is the bard unpitied by the world,
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?
WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKING-GLASSES
FAIR Empress of the Poet's soul,
And Queen of Poetesses;
Clarinda, take this kittle boon,
This humble pair of glasses.
And fill them high with generous juice,
As generous as your mind;
And pledge me in the generous to st
66 The whole of human kind!"
"To those who love us!"-second fill ;
But not to those whom we love;
Lest we love those who love not us!
A third-"To thee and me love!"
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL,
OVER THE CHIMNEY PIECE IN THE PARIOUR OF THE INN AT
KENMURE, TAYMOUTH.
ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, eurious, I pursue,
Till famed Bredalbane opens to my view:
The meeting cliffs e ch deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample sides;
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and ainazement fills;
The lay, meandering sweet in infant pride,
The palace rising on its verdant side;
The lawns wood-fringed in. Nature's native taste;.
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste;
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream;
The village glittering in the noontide bean
Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell:
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods;
The incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods,
Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre,
And look through Nature with creative fire;
Here, to the wrongs of fate half-reconciled,
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild.
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds:
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan,
And injured Worth forget and paidon man,
STANDING BY THE FALL OF FLYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS.
AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods,
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods;
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,
Where thro' a shapeless breach his stream resounds.
As high in air his bursting torrents flow,
As deep-recoiling surges foam below,
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,
And viewless Echo's ear astonish'd rends.
Dim seen thro' rising mists and ceaseless show'rs,
The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, low'rs.
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils,
And still below the horrid cauldron boils
TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLEB, OF WOODHOUSELER
WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE.
REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,
Of Stuart, a name once respected,
A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart,
But now 'tis despised and neglected.
Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye,
Let no one misdeem me disloyal;
poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh,
Still more, if that wand'rer were royal.
My fathers that name have revered on a throne;
My fathers have fallen to right it;
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,
That name should he scoffingly slight it.
Still in prayers for King George I most heartily jołn,
The Queen, and the rest of the gentry;
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine;
Their title's avow'd by my country.
But why of this epocha make such a fuss,
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