Did he smile his work to see?
Did He, who made the Lamb, make thee?

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

TO THE MUSES.

Whether on Ida's shady brow

Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, which now From ancient melodies have ceased; Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,

Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air, Where the melodious winds have birth,

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,

Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove, Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry,

How have you left the ancient lore
That bards of old engaged in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few.

I hear below the water roar,

The mill wi' clacking din,
And Lucky scolding frae the door,
To ca' the bairnies in.

O, no! sad and slow,

These are nae sounds for me;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It creeps sae drearily.

I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tam,
A snood o' bonnie blue,

And promised, when our trysting cam',
To tie it round her brow.
O, no! sad and slow,

The mark it winna' pass;
The shadow o' that dreary bush
Is tethered on the grass.

O now I see her on the way!

She's past the witch's knowe; She's climbing up the brownies brae; My heart is in a lowe,

O, no! 't is not so,

'Tis glamrie I hae seen;

The shadow o' that hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e'en.

My book o' grace I'll try to read,
Though conned wi' little skill;
When Collie barks I'll raise my head,
And find her on the hill.

O, no sad and slow,

The time will ne'er be gane; The shadow o' our trysting bush Is fixed like ony stane.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

[1762-1831.]

THE GOWAN GLITTERS ON THE
SWARD.

THE gowan glitters on the sward,
The lav'rock's in the sky,
And Collie on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.

O, no! sad and slow,

And lengthened on the ground;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It wears so slowly round.

My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near;
But still the sound that I love best,
Alack! I canna hear.

O, no! sad and slow,

The shadow lingers still;
And like a lanely ghaist I stand,
And croon upon the hill.

LADY CAROLINE NAIRN.

[1766-1845.]

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

I'm wearin' awa', Jean,
Like snaw in a thaw, Jean,
I'm wearin' awa'

To the Land o' the Leal.
There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
The day is ever fair

In the Land o' the Leal.

You've been leal and true, Jean, Your task is ended noo, Jean, And I'll welcome you

To the Land o' the Leal.

Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean; My soul langs to be free, Jean; And angels wait on me

To the Land o' the Leal.

Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, She was baith gude and fair, Jean, And we grudged her sair

To the Land o' the Leal! But sorrow's self wears past, Jean, And joy's a comin' fast, Jean, The joy that 's aye to last,

In the Land o' the Leal.

A' our friends are gane, Jean;
We've lang been left alane, Jean;
But we'll a' meet again

In the Land o' the Leal.
Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean!
This world's care is vain, Jean!
We'll meet, and aye be fain
In the Land o' the Leal.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

[1766-1823.]

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air,

And take possession of my father's chair! Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame, Appeared the rough initials of my name, Cut forty years before! The same old clock

Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock

I never can forget. A short breeze sprung,

And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue,

Caught the old dangling almanacs behind,

And up they flew like banners in the wind;

Then gently, singly, down, down, down

they went,

And told of twenty years that I had spent Far from my native land. That instant

came

A robin on the threshold; though so tame,

87

Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;

The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

[1774-1810.]

THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE
BURN.

THE midges dance aboon the burn;
The dews begin to fa';

The paitricks down the rushy holm
Set up their e'ening ca'.

Now loud and clear the black bird's sang
Rings through the briery shaw,
While flitting gay the swallows play
Around the castle wa'.

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky

The mavis mends her lay; The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, To charm the ling'ring day; While weary yaldrins seem to wail Their little nestlings torn, The merry wren, frae den to den,

Gaes jinking through the thorn.
The roses fauld their silken leaves,

The honeysuckle and the birk
The foxglove shuts its bell;

Spread fragrance through the dell.
Let others crowd the giddy court
Of mirth and revelry,

The simple joys that Nature yields
Are dearer far to me.

THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.

LET us go, lassie, go,

To the braes o' Balquhither,
Where the blae-berries grow
'Mang the bonnie Highland heather;
Where the deer and the roe,

Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang summer day
On the braes o' Balquhither.

the clay.

By the clear siller fountain, And I'll cover it o'er

Wi' the flowers of the mountain; I will range through the wilds, And the deep glens sae drearie, And return wi' the spoils

To the bower o' my dearie.

When the rude wintry win'

Idly raves round our dwelling,

WILLIAM R. SPENCER.

And the roar of the linn
On the night breeze is swelling,
So merrily we'll sing,

As the storm rattles o'er us,
Till the dear shieling ring

Wi' the light lilting chorus.

Now the summer's in prime

Wi' the flowers richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme

A' the moorlands perfuming;
To our dear native scenes
Let us journey together,
Where glad innocence reigns

'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.

WILLIAM R. SPENCER.

[1770-1834.]

TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON.

Too late I stayed, forgive the crime,
Unheeded flew the hours;
How noiseless falls the foot of Time
That only treads on flowers!

What eye with clear account remarks
The ebbing of his glass,
When all its sands are diamond sparks
That dazzle as they pass!

Ah! who to sober measurement Time's happy swiftness brings, When birds of Paradise have lent Their plumage to its wings?

JAMES GLASSFORD.

[1772- .]

THE DEAD WHO HAVE DIED IN THE LORD.

Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,

Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;

But weep not for him who is gone to his rest,

Nor mourn for the ransomed, nor wail for the blest.

The sun is not set, but is risen on high, Nor long in corruption his body shall lie; Then let not the tide of thy griefs overflow,

Nor the music of heaven be discord below; Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord,

Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord.

Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,

Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be reut;

But give to the living thy passion of tears, Who walk in this valley of sadness and fears;

Who are pressed by the combat, in darkness are lost,

By the tempest are beat, on the billows are tossed:

O, weep not for those who shall sorrow no more,

Whose warfare is ended, whose trial is o'er ;

Let the song be exalted, triumphant the chord,

And rejoice for the dead who have died in the Lord.