Till some ev'ning, sober, calm,
Dropping dews, and breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings;
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,
Shed thy dying honours round,
And resign to parent earth

The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.

ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH OF JOHN MCLEOD, Esq.

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR's.

SAD thy tale, thou idle page,
And Fueful thy alarms:

Death tears the brother of her love
From Isabella's arms.

Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew
The morning rose may blow;
But, cold successive noontide blasts
May lay its beauties low.

Fair on Isabella's morn
The sun propitious smil'd;

But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
Succeeding hopes beguil'd."

Fate oft tears the bosom chords
That nature finest strung:
So Isabella's heart was form'd,
And to that heart was rung.

Dread Omnipotence, alone,

Can heal the wound he gave; Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes To scenes beyond the grave.

Virtuous blossoms there shall blow, And fear no withering blast; There Isabella's spotless worth Shall happy be at last.

Dry-withering, waste my foaming streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

The lightly-jumpin glowrin trouts,
That thro' my waters play,

If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I'm scorching up so shallow,
They're left the whitening stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow.

Last day I grat, wi' spite and teen,
As poet B- -- came by,
That, to a bard I should be seen,
Wi' half my channel dry :
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
Even as I was he shor'd me:
Bit had I in my glory been,

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me.

Hre, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin;
Tiere, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o'er a linn:
Enjoying large each spring and well
As nature gave them me,
I am, although I say't mysel,
Worth gaun a mile to see.

Would 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 grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.

The sober laverock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire;

The gowdspink, music's gayest child,
Shall sweetly join the choir:

The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,
The mavis wild 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;

BRUAR-WATER.*

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.

MY LORD, I know your noble ear
Woe ne'er assails in vain ;
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,

Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.

Low in her grassy form.

Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
To weave his crown of flowers;
Cr find a shelt'ring safe retreat,
From prone descending showers.

And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair,
Despising worlds with all their wealth
As empty idle care:

The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms
The hour of heav'n to grace,

And birks extend their fragrant arms
To screen the dear embrace.

As high in air the bursting torrents flow,
As deep recoiling surges foam below,
Prone down the rock the whitening sheet
scends,

As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is cu rious, I shall here give it.-In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle which at the commencement of the orgies he laid on the table, and whoever was last able to blow it, every body else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories without de-a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany; and challenged the Scots Baccha nalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. After many over

ON THE BIRTH OF A

POSTHUMOUS CHILD,

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY DISTRESS.

SWEET Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love,
And ward o' mony a prayer,
What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

November hirples o'er the lea,
Chill on thy lovely form;
And gane, alas! the shelt ring tree,
Should shield thee frae the storm.

May HE who gives the rain to pour, And wings the blast to blaw, Protect thee frae the driving shower The bitter frost and snaw!

May HE, the friend of woe and want, Who heals life's various stounds, Protect and guard the mother plant, And heal her cruel wounds!

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast,
Fair on the summer morn:
Now feebly bends she in the blast,
Unshelter'd and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
Unscath'd by ruffian hand!
And from thee many a parent stem
Arise to deck our land!

throws on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that name; who, after three days and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table,

And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill.

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel, of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's.-On Friday, the 16th of October 1790, at Friars-Carse, the Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had continued; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried off the hard-won honours of the field.

I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North,
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish
king,

And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.

Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall

"This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland. get o'er,

And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more !"

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, What champions ventur'd, what champions fell;

The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill.

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the
Scaur,

Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea, No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd; Which now in his house has for ages remain'd

See Ossian's Caric-thura,

A bard was selected to witness the fray, And tell future ages the feats of the day; A bard who detested all sadness and spleen,

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink:

Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink;

But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, Come-one bottle more-and have at the sublime!

"Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom with Bruce,

Shall heroes and patriots ever produce;
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ;
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of
day!"

SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. t

AULD NEELOR,

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, ⚫ For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter;

been.

Ye speak so fair : For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter,

Some less maun sair.