And coward maukin sleep secure,
Low in her grassy form;
Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
To weave his crown of flowers;
Or 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.

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, Rave to my darkly dashing stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.

Let lofty firs, and ashes coo',

My lowly banks o'erspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,
Their shadows' watery 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 honour'd 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!",

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,
Glorious 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; Far 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 WITH A PENCIL

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, 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, curious, I pursue,
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view-
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen di-
vides,

IN LOCH-TURIT;

sides,

The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, The palace rising on his verdant sides, [taste; The lawns wood-fringed in Nature's native The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste! The arches striding o'er the new-born stream; The village, glittering in the moontide beam

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 heav'n-taught lyre, And look through nature with creative fire;

Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild;

And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Find balm to sooth her bitter rankling wounds: Here heart-struck Grief might heaven-ward stretch her scan,

And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.

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!

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL,

STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, 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 the bursting torrents flow,
As deep recoiling surges foam below,
Prone down the rock the whitening shoot de-
scends,

And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. Dim-seen, through rising mists, and ceaseless showers,

The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, lowers. Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, And still below, the horrid caldron boils

ON THE BIRTH OF A

POSTHUMOUS CHILD,

HORN 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:

THE WHISTLE:

A BALLAD.

As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curi ous, 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 gipion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle which gantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless chamat 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 pro duced credentials of his victories without a single deWarsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany feat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alterna tive of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert their inferiority. After many overthrows on the part Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor to 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.

• See Ossian's Caric-thura.

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; Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, The jovial contest again have renew'd.

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw;

Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law;

And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins; And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines.

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,

Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret, try which was the

man.

"By the gods of the ancients," Glenriddel replies,

"Before I surrender so glorious a prize, I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er."

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,

But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe-or his friend,

Said, Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,

And knee-deep in claret, he'd die or he'd yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, So noted for drowning of sorrow and care; But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame,

Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame.

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, And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy, In the bands of old friendship and kindred so

set,

And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er; Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a

core,

See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides.

I MIND it weel in early date,
When I was beardless, young, and blate,
An' first could thresh the barn;
Or haud a yokin o' the pleugh;
An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh,
Yet unco proud to learn;
When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckon'd was,
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass,
Still shearing, and clearing
The tither stooked raw,
Wi' claivers, an' haivers,
Wearing the day awa.
II.

E'en then a wish, I mind its pow'r,
A wish that to my latest hour
Shall strongly heave my breast,

The reader will find some explanation of this poem, in p. xxix

This is one of our Bard's early productions. Armour is now Mrs. Burns.

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, Once the loved haunts of Scotia's royal train ;*

Or mused where limpid streams once hallow'd, well,t

Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks,

The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry sky,

The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.

The paly moon rose in the livid east,

And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately form,

In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm.

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd; Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.

Reversed that spear, redoubtable in war,
Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd,
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar,
And braved the mighty monarchs of the
world.-

"My patriot son fills an untimely grave!"

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried; "Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save,

Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride!

"A weeping country joins a widow's tear,

The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; The drooping arts around their patron's bier, And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh.

"I saw my sons resume their ancient fire; I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow! But, ah! how hope is born but to expire!

Relentless fate has laid the guardian low.

"My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, While empty greatness saves a worthless name!

No; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages hear his growing fame.

"And I will join a mother's tender cares,

Thro' future times to make his virtues last, That distant years may boast of other Blairs" She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast.

*The King's Park at Holyrood-house. +St Anthony's Well.

St Anthony's Chapel.

WRITTEN

ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF THE POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED.*

ONCE fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear,
Sweet early object of my youthful vows,
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,
Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows.

And when you read the simple artless rhymes,
One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more,
Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes,
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar.

THE JOLLY BEGGARS:

A CANTATA.

RECITATIVO.

WHEN lyart leaves bestrow the yird, Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird,†

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast; When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, And infant frosts begin to bite,

In

In hoary cranreuch drest;
Ae night at e'en a merry core,
O' randie, gangrel bodies,
Poosie-Nansie's held the splore,
To drink their orra duddies:
Wi' quaffing and laughing,
They ranted and they sang;
Wi' jumping and thumping,
The vera girdle rang.

First, niest the fire, in auld red rags,
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags,

And knapsack a' in order;
His doxy lay within his arm,
Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm-
She blinket on her sodger:
An' aye he gies the tousie drab
The tither skelpin' kiss,
While she held up her greedy gab
Just like an a'mous dish.
Ilk smack did crack still,

Just like a cadger's whip,
Then staggering and swaggering
He roar'd this ditty up-

AIR.

Tune-"Soldier's Joy."

I.

I AM a son of Mars who have been in many

wars,

And show my cuts and scars wherever I come;

* The girl mentioned in the letter to Dr Moore. The old Scotch name for the Bat.