And singing, lone, the lingering hours,
I shelter in thy honoured shade.

Here wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy Trade his labour plies;
There Architecture's noble pride
Bids elegance and splendour rise;
Here Justice, from her native skies,
High wields her balance and her rod;
There Learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks Science in her coy abode.

Thy sons, Edina! social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to Sorrow's wail, Or modest Merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name!

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy! Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine;

I see the Sire of Love on high,

And own his work indeed divine!

There, watching high the least alarms,

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; Like some bold veteran, gray in arms,

And marked with many a seamy scar.
The ponderous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock,
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repelled the invader's shock.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately dome,
Where Scotia's kings of other years,
Famed heroes! had their royal home.
Alas, how changed the times to come
Their royal name low in the dust!
Their hapless race wild wandering roam,
Though rigid law cries out, 'T was just!

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Through hostile ranks and ruined gaps
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore.
Even I who sing in rustic lore,

Haply, my sires have left their shed,
And faced grim danger's loudest roar,
Bold-following where your fathers led!

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat Legislation's sovereign powers! From marking wildly-scattered flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I strayed, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honoured shade.

ODE ON THE CHEVALIER'S BIRTHDAY.

FALSE flatterer, Hope, away!

Nor think to lure us as in days of yore; We solemnise this sorrowing natal-day To prove our loyal truth; we can no more; And owning Heaven's mysterious sway, Submissive low adore.

Ye honoured mighty dead!

Who nobly perished in the glorious cause,
Your king, your country, and her laws!

From great Dundee who smiling victory led,
And fell a martyr in her arms

(What breast of northern ice but warms?) To bold Balmerino's undying name,

Whose soul of fire, lighted at heaven's high flame,

Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim.

Nor unavenged your fate shall be,
It only lags the fatal hour;
Your blood shall with incessant cry
Awake at last th' unsparing power;
As from the cliff, with thundering course,
The snowy ruin smokes along,

With doubling speed and gathering force,

Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the vale!

TO MISS LOGAN WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS:

AS A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT, JANUARY 1, 1787.

A

GAIN the silent wheels of time

Their annual round have driven, And you, though scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer heaven.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;

I send you more than India boasts
In Edwin's simple tale.

Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charged, perhaps, too true;
But may, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you!

7

BONNIE DOON.

YE flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fair!

How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae fu' o' care!

Thou 'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings upon the bough;

Thou minds me o' the happy days

When my fause luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,
That sings beside thy mate;

For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wistna o' my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' its love,
And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose

Frae aff its thorny tree,

And my fause luver staw the rose,
But left the thorn wi' me.

THE GUDEWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE TO BURNS.

MY cantie, witty, rhyming ploughman,

I hafflins doubt it is na true, man, That ye between the stilts was bred, Wi' ploughmen schooled, wi' ploughmen fed; I doubt it sair, ye 've drawn your knowledge Either frae grammar-school or college. Guid troth, your saul and body baith War better fed, I'd gie my aith,

Than theirs who sup sour milk and parritch,
And bummil through the single Carritch.
Whaever heard the ploughman speak,

Could tell gif Homer was a Greek?
He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel,