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The morn that warns th' approaching day,
Awakes me up to toil and wo; I see the hours, in long array,
That I must suffer, lingʻring slow : Full many a pang, and many a throe,
Keen recollection's direful train, Must wring my soul, ere Phæbus, low,
Shall kiss the distant western main.
And when my nightly couch I try,
Sore harass'd out with care and grief, My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye,
Keep watchings with the nightly thief; Or if I slumber, Fancy, chief,
Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright; Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief,
From such a horror-breathing night.
0! thou bright queen, who o'er th’ expanse
Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway' Oft has thy silent-marking glance
Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray ! The time, unheeded, sped away,
While love's luxurious pulse beat high, Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray,
To mark the mutual kindling eye.
Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set!
Scenes never, never to return ! Scenes, if in stupor I forget,
Again I feel, again I burn;
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn,
Life's weary vale I'll wander thro'; And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn
A faithless woman's broken vow.
OF A MOTHER FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON.
TUNE - “ Finlayston House.” Fate gave the word, the arrow sped,
And pierc'd 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 dishonor'd laid ;
My age's future shade.
The mother linnet, in the brake,
Bewails her ravish'd 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; 0, do thou kindly lay me low,
With him I love, at rest'
FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN.
THE wind blew hollow frae the hills,
By fits the sun's departing beam Look'd on the fading yellow woods
That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream; Beneath a craigy steep, a bard,
Laden with years and meikle pain, In loud lament bewail'd his lord,
Whom death had all untimely ta’en.
He lean'd him to an ancient aik,
Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years; His locks were bleached white wi' time,
His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! And as he touch'd his trembling harp,
And as he tun'd his doleful sang, The winds, lamenting thro' their caves,
To Echo bore the notes alang.
“ Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing,
The reliques of the vernal quire!
The honors of the aged year!
Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e;
Can gladness bring again to me.
"I am a bending, aged tree,
That long has stood the wind and rain But now has come a cruel blast,
And my last hald of earth is gane; Nae leaf oʻmine shall greet the spring
Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; But I maun lie before the storm,
And ithers plant them in my room.
“I've seen sae monie changefu' years,
On earth I am a stranger grown; I wander in the ways of men,
Alike unknowing and unknown: Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved,
I bear alane my lade o' care, For silent, low, on beds of dust,
Lie a' that would my sorrows share.
“ And last, (the sum of a' my griefs !)
My noble master lies in clay ; The flow'r amang our barons bold,
His country's pride, his country's stay; In weary being now I pine,
For a the life of life is dead, And hope has left my aged ken,
On forward wing for ever fled.
“Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!
The voice of wo and wild despair ! Awake! resound thy latest lay,
Then sleep in silence evermair! And thou, my last, best, only friend,
That fillest an untimely tomb, Accept this tribute from the bard
Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom.
“In poverty's low, barren vale,
Thick mists, obscure, involv’d me round Tho' oft I turn'd the wistful eye,
Nae ray of fame was to be found : Thou found'st me, like the morning sun
That melts the fogs in limpid air ; The friendless bard, and rustic song,
Became alike thy fost’ring care.
“Oh! why has worth so short a date?
While villains ripen gray with time, Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great,
Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ? Why did I live to see that day?
A day to me so full of wo! O, had I met the mortal shaft
Which laid my benefactor low!
“The bridegroom may forget the bride
Was made his wedded wife yestreen; The monarch may forget the crown
That on his head an hour has been; The mother may forget the child
That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,
And a' that thou hast done for me."