ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER THE DEATH OF JOHN
M'LEOD, ESQ., BROTHER TO A
PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S.
AD thy tale, thou idle page,
And rueful thy alarms:
Death tears the brother of her love
From Isabella's arms.
Sweetly deckt with pearly dew
The morning rose may blow;
But cold successive noontide blasts
May lay its beauties low.
Fair on Isabella's morn
The sun propitious smiled;
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
Succeeding hopes beguiled.
Fate oft tears the bosom chords
That Nature finest strung:
So Isabella's heart was form'd,
And so that heart was wrung.
Were it in the poet's power,
Strong as he shares the grief
That pierces Isabella's heart,
To give that heart relief!
Dread Omnipotence alone
Can heal the wound He gave ;
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes
To scenes beyond the grave.
Virtue's blossoms there shall blow,
And fear no withering blast;
There Isabella's spotless worth
Shall happy be at last.
THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER
TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.
My lord, I know your noble ear
MY Woe ne'er assails in vain ;
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.
The lightly-jumpin', glowrin' trouts,
That through my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I'm scorching up so shallow,
They're left, the whitening stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow.
Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,
As Poet Burns came by,
That to a bard I should be seen
Wi' half my channel dry:
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
Even as I was he shored me;
But had I in my glory been,
He, kneeling, wad adored me.
Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin ;
There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o'er a linn :
Enjoying large each spring and well,
As Nature gave them me,
I am, although I say't mysel,
Worth gaun a mile to see.
Would, then, my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes,
He'll shade my banks wi' towering trees,
And bonny, spreading bushes.
Delighted doubly, then, my lord,
You'll wander on my banks,
And listen mony a grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.
The sober laverock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire;
The gowdspink, Music's gayest child,
Shall sweetly join the choir;
The blackbird strong, the lint white clear,
The mavis mild and mellow;
The robin pensive autumn cheer,
In all her locks of yellow.
This, too, a covert shall insure,
To shield them from the storms; And coward maukins sleep secure Low in their grassy forms:
The shepherd here shall make his seat,
To weave his crown of flowers;
Or find a sheltering 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 flowers shall vie in all their charms
The hour of heaven to grace,
The 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 through the trees,
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream,
Hoarse swelling on the breeze.
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
My lowly banks o'erspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,
Their shadows' watery bed!
Let fragrant birks in woodbines dres
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 through Albion's farthest ken,
To social-flowing glasses,
The grace be-" Athole's honest men,
And Athole's bonnie lasses!"
THE TWA HERDS; OR, THE HOLY TULZIE.
H, a' ye pious godly flocks,
Weel fed on pastures orthodox,
Wha now will keep you frae the fox,
Or worrying tykes,
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks,
About the dikes?
The twa best herds in a' the wast,
That e'er gae gospel horn a blast,
These five-and-twenty simmers past,
Oh, dool to tell!
Hae had a bitter black outcast
Atween themsel.
O Moodie, man, and wordy Russell,
How could you raise so vile a bustle,
Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle,
And think it fine!
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle
Sin' I hae min'.
Oh, sirs! whae'er wad hae expeckit,
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit,
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