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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 strivin,
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 Phæbus' 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 wil 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.

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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;

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Here shall the shepherd make his seat,

To weave his crown of flow'rs;
Or find a sheltring, 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' watry 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,

[graphic]

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

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