There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head,
In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust;

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd;
Unskillful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er.

Such fate to suff'ring worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n

To mis'ry's brink;

Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'd the daisy's fate,

That fate is thine

no distant date;

Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom;

Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight

Shall be thy doom.

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER,*

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.

My lord, I know your noble ear
Wo 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-with'ring, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

The lightly-jumping, glowrin trouts,
That thro' 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 whit'ning stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow.

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,
As Poet B**** came by,
That, to a bard, I should be seen
Wi' half my channel dry;

A panegyric rhyme, I ween,

Ev'n as I was, he shor'd me;

* Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.

But, had I in my glory been,
He, kneeling, wad ador'd 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, altho' 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' tow'ring tree",
And bonie spreading bushes;
Delighted doubly, then, my lord,
You'll wander on my banks,
And listen monie a grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.

The sober lav'rock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire;

The gowdspink, music's gayest child
Shall sweetly join the choir;
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite
The mavis mild and mellow;

The robin pensive autumn cheer,
In all her looks of yellow:

This, too, a covert shall ensure.
To shield them from the storm
And coward maukin sleep secure,
Low in her grassy form;

ear,

Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
To weave his crown of flow'rs;
Or find a shelt'ring, safe retreat,
From prone descending show'rs

And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair,

Despising words, with all their wealth,
As empty, idle care.

The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms
The hour of heav'n to grace,

And 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 gray;
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,
Mild chequ❜ring thro' 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' wat'ry bed;

Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest,

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 honor'd native land.

So may, thro' Albion's farthest ken,
To social flowing glasses,
The grace be-"Athole's honest men,
And Athole's bonie lasses!"

VERSES

ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT.

INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye:
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart'

Go, live, poor wand'rer of the wood and field,
The bitter little that of life remains;

No more the thick'ning brakes, and verdant plains, To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!
The shelt'ring rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

Oft, as by winding Nith I musing wait

The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate