ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON. WHILE Virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, While Summer, with a matron grace, While Autumn, benefactor kind, While maniac Winter rages o'er So long, sweet poet of the year, Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that Thomson was her son. Burns. SONG. To all you ladies now at land But first would have you understand The muses now, and Neptune too, For tho' the muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain, Yet if rough Neptune rouze the wind, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Then if we write not by each post, Our tears we'll send a speedier way, The King, with wonder and surprize, Will swear the seas grow bold, Because the tides will higher rise Than e'er they did of old : But let him know it is our tears Should foggy Opdam chance to know The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind? Let wind and weather do its worst, Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, 'Tis then no matter how things go, To pass our tedious hours away But why should we in vain But now our fears tempestuous grow, Perhaps permit some happier man To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. When any mournful tune you hear, As if it sigh'd with each man's care, Think then how often love we've made To In justice you cannot refuse To think of our distress, When we, for hopes of honour, lose All those designs are but to prove And now we've told you all our loves, Let's hear of no inconstancy, We have too much of that at sea. By the Earl of Dorset, in 1665. THE AGED LOVER RENOUNCETH LOVE. AN OLD BALLAD. I LOTHE that I did love, In youth that I thought sweet, Methinks they are not meet. My lusts they do me leave, For age, with stealing steps, My muse doth not delight My hand and pen are not in plight, For reason me denies All youthly idle rime, And day by day to me she cries, The wrinkles in my brow, The furrows in my face, Say limping age will lodge him now, The harbinger of death, To me I see him ride; The cough, the cold, the gasping breath, Doth bid me to provide |