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There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
In humble guise ;
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless maid,
And guileless trust;
Low i’ the dust.
Such is the fate of simple bard,
Of prudent lore,
And whelm him o'er.
Such fate to suff'ring worth is giv'n,
To mis’ry's brink;
He, ruin'd, sink!
Ev'n thou who mourn'd the daisy's fate,
Full on thy bloom;
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 :
Your humble slave complain, –
In flaming summer-pride,
And drink my crystal tide.
The lightly-jumping, glowrin trouts,
That thro' my waters play,
They near the margin stray ;
I'm scorching up so shallow,
In gasping death to wallow.
Last day I grat wil spite and teen,
As Poet B**** came by,
Wi' half my channel dry;
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 m
Here, foaming down the shel
In twisting strength I rin; There, high my boiling torrer
Wild-roaring o'er a linn: Enjoying large each spring an
As nature gave them me, I am, altho' I say't mysel,
Worth gaun a mile to see.
Would then my noble master
To grant my highest wishe He'll shade my banks wi' tow
And bonie spreading bushes Delighted doubly, then, my la
You'll wander on my banks And listen monie a grateful b
Return you tuneful thanks.
The sober lav’rock, warbling
Shall to the skies aspire ; The gowdspink, music's gayes
Shall sweetly join the choir The blackbird strong, the lint
The mavis mild and mellow The robin pensive autumn che
In all her looks of yellow :
This, too, a covert shall ensur
To shield them from the sto And coward maukin sleep seci
Low in her grassy form;
Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
To weave his crown of flow'rs;
From prone descending show'rs
And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair,
As empty, idle care.
The hour of heav'n to grace,
To screen the dear embrace.
Here haply, too, at vernal dawn,
Some musing bard may stray,
And misty mountain gray ;
Mild chequ’ring thro’ the trees,
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
My lowly banks o'erspread,
Their shadows' watry bed;
My craggy cliffs adorn;
The close embow'ring thorn.
So may old Scotia’s darling hope,
Your little angel band,
Spring, like their fathers, up
Their honor'd native land. So may, thro' Albion's farthes
To social flowing glasses, The grace be—“Athole's ho
And Athole's bonie lasses !
INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'ro
And blasted be thy murder-aiming
May never pity soothe thee with Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel he
Go, live, poor wand'rer of the wood
The bitter little that of life remai
No more the thick’ning brakes, an To thee shall home, or food, or past
Seek, mangled wretch, some place
No more of rest, but now thy dyi
The sheltring rushes whistling o' The cold earth with thy bloody bos
Oft, as by winding Nith I musing
The sober eve, or hail the cheerf I'll miss thee sporting o'er the de And curse the ruffian's aim, and mour