Still bending o'er the clay-cold maid,
The youthful warior hung;
His fhield outspread like eagle's wing,
To guard her callow young.
And still the braveft foldier fell,
That urg'd the fierce attack;
And till the tyrant flunk behind,
And gor'd him in the back.
Death perch'd upon his pallid cheek,
Smil'd on the gufhing gore,
And o'er the wound whence well'd the life,
Fate fung the deadly lore.
But yet he quitted not his sword,
Nor fell he to the ground,
Till thro' the tyrant's heart the fteel
Had forc'd a fatal wound.
The tyrant, like a tree o'erthrown,
Fell breathlefs on the earth,
Cold finking down, by him the youth,
Befide him too in death.
The fair maid woke, as from a dream,
And faw her lover lay,
She ran and kifs'd his pallid lips,
While they were clad in clay.
C
She kifs'd the wound that tore his fide,
With many a weep and wail,
She call'd upon her lover's name,
But all would not prevail.
She fnatched up the reeking fword,
Which by her lover lay,
And called on his hov'ring ghost
A little space to stay.
Her fnowy bofom now the bares,
And right the hilt she fet,
The hilt that oft her William held,
In her heart's blood was wet.
The foldiers on their batter'd shields,
They bore them both away,
And in one grave, by yonder cross,
TO THE REV. MR TH-N OF O—TREE,
ON HIS CONFUTATION OF DR PRIESTLY.
THE title-page is well enough,
The reft nor one nor t'other,
For you know yourself you are a guff,
And that your book is but a blether.
ON HIS ELEGANT TRANSLATION OF ST MARTHE'S
yet the Theban touch'd the tuneful lyre,
Ere yet the bard had felt the holy fire,
Sweet poefy, in am'rous toy with thee,
The little cherubs met in fympathy.
In rofy health they wreath'd the dewy flow'r,
To deck fair Venus flumb'ring in her bow'r,
Th' ambrofial wreathe, which Venus' foft decree
Gives to the bard of Venus' poely;
Who fung her rites, and ftrove her blush to hide,
With Modefty ftill trembling by his fide.
The theme how sweet, an infant babe the theme,
Still fporting gay as gilded fummer's beam.
How oft enraptur'd, in thy lovely line,
I've gather'd fweets, and tafted blifs divine!
As down fome ftream I've sported all the way,
And gather'd flow'rs the live-long fummer's day.
Thy fong ftill trembles on my lift'ning ear,
As foft as flows the sympathetic tear.
Yet thou can'ft fing of mighty Freedom's lays,
And bid the punic fhield terrific blaze;
Bid Scipio ftand, with noble fury fraught,
His Rome yet trembling on the brink of nought.
E'en now I fee the punic hero fmile,
As down the Alps he winds his weary toil.
With thee I've trembl'd at the direful scene,
With thee I've sported on the rural green;
Mid elfish fays, and laughter-loving fprits,
And balmy zephyrs breathing sweet delights.
But, O to thee *, whofe manly bofom glow'd,
Who call'd forth merit from her dark abode;
Refcu'd by thee from out the fhades of night,
Have Scotia's fages feen their wonted light.
May Heav'n's bright beam ftill in thy bofom glow,
And unknown sages rear the laurell'd brow.
WRITTEN DURING THE DISTURBANCES IN EDINBURGH, 1793.
FAIR SC-T-A ftands a quiet cow,
Ane G-die hads her lugs,
While at her tail the pl-men pow,
Ane P-t he milks her dugs.
He milks agane, nought comes but blood,
Stinted in her fother;
They'll put her in a canker'd mood,
She'll tak their foups a lether.
An' anes fhe does begin to kick,
gar the nation ring,
She'll tak a' pl-men fic a lick,
May be she'll fell the ****,
A SCOTS SONG.
A day at the road-fide I ftopped to reft,
At a wee theeket houfie, 'twas just for a jest,
I had na ftay'd lang afore the course weather
Brought a' the beggars in plenty together.
And fic a merry company I never yet saw,
As if they had nae cares nor forrow ava.
Sic finging, fic laughing, fic fportin and daffin, [bra.
While the youngfters were dancin fu' trig and fu'
And the ane drank whisky, and the ane drank tea,
And the ane drank yill, till that he scarce could fee;
When up they gat, fu' blythly togither,
And all on the floor they danced through ither;
Wi' pleasure fae mighty, wi' pleasure fae gay,
They pafs'd the lang mornin fae jolly away,
When in cam an eggman, it was nae for to beg man,
For he fat down the bafket, and lap as weel as they.
Thus it is plain, that every ane may fee,
The pleasures of life are born wi' Poverty;
And a' the ills of man are only in the fancy,
For beggars can fing, and beggars can dance ay.
Why then let us fport like the merry month of May,
Then let us fport wi fancy so gay,
And like the poor eggman, who cam not for to beg,
Set down our forrows, and dance as weel as they.
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