Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow,
And troubled, like his wintry wave,
And deep, as soughs the boding wind
Amang his eaves, the sigh he gave-
'And came ye here, my son,' he cried,
'To wander in my birken shade?
To muse some favourite Scottish theme,
Or sing some favourite Scottish maid?

'There was a time, it's nae lang syne,
Ye might hae seen me in my pride,
When a' my banks sae bravely saw
Their woody pictures in my tide;
When hanging beech and spreading elm
Shaded my stream sae clear and cool,
And stately oaks their twisted arms
Threw broad and dark across the pool;

'When glinting, through the trees, appear'd The wee white cot aboon the mill,

And peacefu' rose its ingle reek,

That slowly curling clamb the hill. But now the cot is bare and cauld, Its branchy shelter's lost and gane, And scarce a stinted birk is left

To shiver in the blast its lane.'

'Alas!' quoth I, 'what ruefu' chance Has twined ye o' your stately trees? Has laid your rocky bosom bare?

Has stripp'd the cleeding o' your braes?
Was it the bitter eastern blast,

That scatters blight in early spring?
Or was't the wil'fire scorch'd their boughs,
Or canker-worm wi' secret sting?'

'Nae eastlin blast,' the sprite replied; 'It blew na here sae fierce and fell, And on my dry and halesome banks

Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell:

ΙΟ

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Man! cruel man!' the genius sigh'd

As through the cliffs he sank him down— 'The worm that gnaw'd my bonnie trees, That reptile wears a ducal crown.'

ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGH-SHIRE,
WITH BAYS.

WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green,
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian strains between ;

While Summer with a matron grace
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
The progress of the spiky blade;

While Autumn, benefactor kind,

By Tweed erects his agèd head, And sees, with self-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty fed;

While maniac Winter rages o'er

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows;

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.

K

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ON A CERTAIN COMMEMORATION.

DOST thou not rise, indignant Shade!
And smile with spurning scorn,

When they wha would hae starved thy life
Thy senseless turf adorn?

Helpless, alone, thou clamb the brae,
Wi' meikle honest toil,

And claught th' unfading garland there,
Thy sair-won rightful spoil.

And wear it thou! And call aloud
This axiom undoubted-

'Wouldst thou hae nobles' patronage?
First learn to live without it!'

To whom hae much, more shall be given,
Is every great man's faith;

But he, the helpless needy wretch,
Shall lose the mite he hath.

SONNET

ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK IN JANUARY, WRITTEN JANUARY 25, 1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR.

SING on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough;
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain :
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

ΤΟ

I thank thee, Author of this opening day!

Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies! 10 Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,

What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care;

The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.

SONNET ON THE DEATH OF

ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. OF GLENRIDDEL.

No more ye warblers of the wood- -no more!
Nor pour your descant, grating on my soul;
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole,
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes?
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend :
How can I to the tuneful strain attend?

That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies.

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe!
And soothe the Virtues weeping o'er his bier:
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer,
Is in his narrow house' for ever darkly low.

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Thee, Spring, again with joys shall others greet;
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet.

ΤΟ

LIBERTIE-A VISION.

As I stood by yon roofless tower,

Where the wa'flower scents the dewy air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care;

The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky;
The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant echoing glens reply;

The stream adown the hazelly path
Was rushing by the ruined wa's
To join yon river on the strath,
Whase distant roaring swells an' fa's;

The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights wi' hissing eerie din ;
Athwart the lift they start an' shift,
Like fortune's favours, tint as win;

By heedless chance I turned mine eyes,
And, by the moonbeam, shook to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,

Attired as minstrels wont to be;

Had I statue been o' stane,

His daring look had daunted me; And, on his bonnet graved was, plain, The sacred posy-LIBERTIE !

And frae his harp sic strains did flow
Might roused the slumbering 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 wailed his latter times; But what he said it was nae play,

I winna venture 't in my rhymes.

'No Spartan tube, no Attic shell,
No lyre Aeolian I awake;
'Tis liberty's bold note I swell ;

Thy harp, Columbia, let me take!