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Yet still (for I am quite sincere)
But, like your pretty sex,
Yet once with coward fondness curs'd, My poor weak heart I fear'd would burst
At thought of separation: But now despise my feeble chain, And bless the salutary pain
That cur'd me of my passion.
Impatient of his iron cage,
And 'scapes with shatter'd wings: But soon with new-fledg'd pinions soars, And hast'ning to his native bow'rs,
A joyful welcome sings.
Fond female vanity will say,
A heart that's hankering still :
Does it not touch the will?
Lovers, like soldiers, Molly, dwell
When all the danger's o'er:
The chains which once we wore.
In kind indulgence to a heart,
This sweet revenge I write ;
Your fondness or your spite.
A frail false maid I lost, but you
Which fortune is the worse? Try all love's mighty empire round, A faithful lover's seldom found;
A jilt's a common curse.
THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.
MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn
The wretched owner sees afar His all become the prey of war ; Bethinks him of his babe, and wife, Then smites his breast, and curses life! Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks Where once they fed their wanton flocks : Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain; Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it then, in every clime Through the wide-spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
and rancour fell.
The rural pipe and merry lay
O baneful cause! oh, fatal morn, Accurs’d to ages yet unborn! The sons against their fathers stood, The parent shed his children's blood. Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd, The victor's soul was not appeas'd; The naked and forlorn must feel Devouring flames, and murdering steel!
The pious mother, doom'd to death, Forsaken wanders o'er the heath,
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
While the warm blood bedews my veins,
my filial breast shall beat;
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn.'
ODE TO LEVEN WATER.
On Leven's banks, while free to rove,