FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY.

My heart is sair, I dare nae tell,
My heart is sair for somebody;
I could wake a winter night
For the sake of somebody.
Oh-hon! for somebody!
Oh-hey! for somebody!

I could range the world around,
For the sake of somebody.

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,
O sweetly smile on somebody!
Frae ilka danger keen him free,
And send me safe my somebody
Oh-hon! for somebody!
Oh-hey! for somebody!

I wad do-what wad I not,
For the sake of somebody!

O do thou kindly lay me low With him I love at rest!

O MAY, THY MORN.

O MAY, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet,
As the mirk night o' December;
For sparkling was the rosy wine,
And private was the chamber:
And dear was she I darna name,
But I will aye remember
And dear, &c.

And here's to them, that like oursel,
Can push about the jorum ;

And here's to them that wish us weel,
May a' that's gude watch o'er them;
And here's to them, we darna tell,
The dearest o' the quorum,
And here's to, &c.

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVER

NESS.

THE lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For e'en and morn she cries, alas! And aye the saut tear blins her e'e: Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,

A waefu' day it was to me; For there I lost my father dear,

My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding sheet the bloody clay, Their graves are growing green to see ; And by them lies the dearest lad

That ever blest a woman's e'e! Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be ; For mony a heart thou hast made sair, That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee.

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON.

Tune-" Finlayston House."

FATE gave the word, the arrow sped,
And pierced my darling's heart:
And with him all the joys are fled
Life can to me impart.
By cruel hands the sapling drops,
In dust dishonour'd laid:
So fell the pride of all my hopes,
My age's future shade.

The mother linnet in the brake
Bewails her ravished young;
So I for my lost darling's sake,
Lament the live-day long.
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow,
Now fond I bare my breast,

O WHAT YE WHAS IN YON TOWN.

O WHAT ye wha's in yon town, Ye see the e'ening sun upon, The fairest dame's in yon town,

That e'ening sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw, She wanders by yon spreading tree; How blest ye flow'rs that mind her blaw, Ye catch the glances o' her e'e.

How blest ye birds that round her sing, And welcome in the blooming year, And doubly welcome be the spring,

The season to my Lucy dear.

The sun blinks blythe on yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr;
But my delight in yon town,

And dearest bliss is Lucy fair.

Without my love, not a' the charms,
O' paradise could yield me joy;
But gie me Lucy in my arms;
And welcome Lapland's dreary sky.

My cave wad be a lover's bower,
Tho' raging winter rent the air;
And she a lovely little flower,
That I wad tent and shelter there.

O sweet is she in yon town,

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon; A fairer than's in yon town, His setting beam ne'er shone upon.

If angry fate has sworn my foe,
And suffering I am doom'd to bear;

By beedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,*
And, by the moon-beam, shook, to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.

Had I a statue been o' stane,
His darin look had daunted me;
And on his bonnet grav'd was plain,
The sacred posie-Liberty!

And frae his harp sic strains did flow,
Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear;
But oh, it was a tale of woe,

As ever met a Briton's ear!

He sang wi' joy his former day,
He weeping wail'd his latter times;
But what he said it was nae play,
I winna ventur't in my rhymes.†

COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS

TO

MR WILLIAM TYTLER,

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE. REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected, A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart,

But now 'tis despised and neglected:

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye,

Let no one misdeem me disloyal; A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh,

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal.

My fathers, that name have rever'd on a throne;

My fathers have fallen to right it;

* Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld, Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear'd; When, lo, in form of minstrel auld,

A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd.

+ This poem, an imperfect copy of which was printed in Johnson's Museum, is here given from the poet's MS. with his last corrections. The scenery so finely described is taken from nature. The poet is supposed to be musing by night on the banks of the river Cluden, and by the ruins of Lincluden- Abbey, founded in the twelfth century, in the reign of Malcolm IV. of whose present situation the reader may find some account in Peunant's Tour in Scotland, or Grose's Antiquities of that division of the island. Such a time and such a place are well fitted for holding converse with aerial beings. Though this poem has a political bias, yet it may be presumed that no reader of taste, whatever his opinions may be, would forgive it being omitted. Our poet's prudence suppressed the song of Liberty, perhaps fortu nately for his reputation. It may be questioned whe ther, even in the resources of his genius, a strain of poetry could have been found worthy of the grandeur and solemnity of this preparation.

Those fathers would spurn their degenerate

son,

That name should he scoffingly slight it.

Still in prayers for King George Imost heartily join,

The Queen and the rest of the gentry, Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine;

Their title's avow'd by the country.

But why of that epocha make such a fuss,

But loyalty, truce! we're on dangerous ground,
Who knows how the fashions may alter,
The doctrine, to day, that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring us a halter.

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard,

A trifle scarce worthy your care;

But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard, Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your

eye,

And ushers the long dreary night:

"Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter shall rue!

With tillage or pasture at times she would sport,

To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling

corn;

But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn.

Long quiet she reigned; 'till thitherward

steers

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand :*

Repeated, successive, for many long years, They darken'd the air, and they plundered the land:

Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry,

They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside : She took to her hills and her arrows let fly,

The daring invaders they fled or they died.

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north,

The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore ;t

The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth
To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore:

vail'd,

No arts could appease them, nor arms could repel;

But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell.§

The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose, With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife; Provoked beyond bearing, at last she arose, And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life: ||

The Anglian lion, the terror of France, Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver flood;

But taught by the bright Caledonian lance, He learned to fear in his own native wood.

THE FOLLOWING POEM

Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang But wi' miscarriage?

HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CON

TINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE.

KIND sir, I've read your paper through,
And faith, to me, 'twas really knew!
How guessed ye, sir, what maist I wanted?
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted,
To ken what French mischief was brewin';
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin';
That vile doup skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie works
Atween the Russian and the Turks;
Or if the Swede, before he halt,
Would play anither Charles the Twalt!
If Denmark, ony body spak o't;

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't;
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin';
How libbet Italy was singin;

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss,
Were sayin or takin ought amiss:
Or how our merry lads at hame,

In Britain's court kept up the game:

How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him!
Was managing St Stephen's quorum ;
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin,
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ;
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin,
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin;
How cesses, stents, and fees were raxed,
Or if bare a yet were taxed;
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls;
If that daft Buckie, Geordie Wales,
Was threshin still at hizzies' tails,
Or if he was growin oughtlins douser,
And no a perfect kintra cooser.-
A' this and mair I never heard of;
And, but for you, I might despair'd of.
So gratefu', back your news I send you,
And pray, a' guid things may attend you!
ELLISLAND, Monday Morning, 1790.

Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives; Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives Horatian fame;

In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives Even Sappho's flame.

POEM.

ON PASTORAL POETRY.

HAIL Poesie! thou nymph reserved! In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved Frae common sense, or sunk enerved 'Mang heaps o' clavers; And och o'er aft thy joes hae starved, 'Mid a' thy favours!

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,
While loud the trump's heroic clang,
And sock or buskin skelp alang

To death or marriage;

ON

THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR,

BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL OF MAR.

"O CAM ye here the fight to shun,
Oi herd the sheep wi' me, man?
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir,
And did the battle see, man?
I saw the battle sair and teugh,
And reekin-red ran monie a sheugh.

My heart for fear gae sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds,
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.

The red coat lads wi' black cockades,

To meet them were na slaw, man; They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgush'd, And mony a bouk did fa', man: The great Argyle led on his files, I wat they glanced twenty miles! They hack'd and hash'd, while broadswords clash'd,

And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, Till fey men died awa, man.

But had you seen the philibegs,

And skyrin tartan trews, man,
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs,
And covenant true blues, man ;
In lines extended lang and large,
When bayonets opposed the targe,
And thousands hastened to the charge,
Wi' highland wrath they frae the sheath,
Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath,

They fled like frighted doos, man.

"O how deil Tam can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man; I saw myself, they did pursue

The horsemen back to Forth, man; And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi' a' their might, And straught to Stirling winged their flight; But, cursed lot! the gates were shut; And mony a hunted poor red-coat

For fear amaist did swarf, man."

My sister Kate came up the gate
Wi' crowdie unto me, man:
She swoor she saw some rebels run,
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man;
Their left-hand general had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae good will
That day their neebor's blood to spill;
For fear by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o' brose; all crying woes,

And so it goes, you see, man.

They've lost some gallant gentlemen,
Amang the Highland clans man;
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain,

Or fallen in whiggish hands, man
Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right;
But mony bade the world gude-night;
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,
By red claymores, and muskets, knell,
Wi' dying yell, the tories fell,

And whigs to hell did flee, man."

*This was written about the time our bard made his tour to the Highlands, 1787

SKETCH

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

TO MRS DUNLOP.

THIS day, Time winds th' exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonths' length again :
I see the old bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow
Adjust the unimpair'd machine,
To wheel the equal, dull routine.

The absent lover, minor heir,

In vain assail him with their prayer.
Deaf as my friend he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,*
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray ;)
From housewife cares a minute borrow-
-That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-
And join with me a moralizing,

This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver;
"Another year is gone for ever."

And what is this day's strong suggestion!
"The passing moment's all we rest on !"
Rest on-for what! What do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may-a few years must-
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then, is it wise to damp our bliss ?
Yes, all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
Hang matters of eternal weight;
That future-life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone :
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as misery's woeful night-
Since then, my honour'd first of friends,
On this poor being all depends:
Let us th' important now employ,
And live as those who never die.
Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd,
Witness that filial circle round,
(A sight life's sorrows to repulse,
A sight pale envy to convulse)
Others now claim your chief regard
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

*This young lady was drawing a picture of Coila from the Vision, see page 108.