ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace, ON SCARING SOME WATER- The meeting clifs each deep-sunk glen divides, FOWL, IN LOCH-TURIT; A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OCHTERTYRE. WHY, ye tenants of the lake, Conscious, blushing for our race, Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. Man, your proud usurping foe, Would be lord of all below; Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, Tyrant stern to all beside. The eagle, from the cliffy brow, Marking you his prey below, In his breast no pity dwells, Strong necessity compels. But man, to whom alone is giv'n A ray direct from pitying heav'n, Glorious in his heart humaneAnd creatures for his pleasure slain. The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample sides; Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills; Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, And look through nature with creative fire; Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild; And disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds: Here heart-struck Grief might heaven-ward stretch her scan, And injur'd worth forget and pardon man. WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods As high in air the bursting torrents flow, THE WHISTLE: A BALLAD. As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curious, I shall here give it.-In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle which at the commencement of the orgies he laid on the table, and whoever was last able to blow it, every body else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories without de-a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany; and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else After many overof acknowledging their inferiority. And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding lowers. ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF SWEET Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, November hirples o'er the lea, Chill on thy lovely form; Should shield thee frae the storm. May He who gives the rain to pour, And wings the blast to blaw, Protect thee frae the driving shower, The bitter frost and snaw! May Hɛ, the friend of woe and want, But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, Unscath'd by ruffian hand! And from thee many a parent stem throws on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that name; who, after three days and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table, And blew on the Whistle his requiem skrill. Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel, of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's.-On Friday, the 16th of October 1790, at Friars-Carse, the Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwel ton; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had continued; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried off the hard-won honours of the field. I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall "This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er, And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more !" Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, What champions ventur'd, what champions fell; The son of great Loda was conqueror still, Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd; Which now in his house has for ages remain'd; • See Ossian's Caric-thura. I MIND it weel in early date, E'en then a wish, I mind its pow'r, Shall strongly heave my breast, That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, Some usefu' plan or book could make, Or sing a sang, at least. The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, My envy e'er could raise, But still the elements o' sang She rous'd the forming strain: At every kindling keek, ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. THE lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, Once the loved haunts of Scotia's royal train ;+ Or mused where limpid streams once hallow'd well, Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. § Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks, The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry sky, The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. The paly moon rose in the livid east, And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately form, In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd ; Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. The reader will find some explanation of this poem in p. viii. The King's Park at Holyrood-house. St. Anthony's Chapel. Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, | Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw; Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law; And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins; And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines. Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil; Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, And once more, in claret, try which was the Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage; The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the But who can with fate and quart bumpers contend? Though fate said-a hero should perish in light; So uprose bright Phoebus-and down fell the knight. Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink : "Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink; But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, Come one bottle more-and have at the sublime! "Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom Shall heroes and patriots ever produce; SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. † AULD NEEBOR, I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, The dinner being over, the claret they ply, And every new cork is a new spring of joy ; In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet. Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, And vowed that to leave them he was quite forlorn, Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides. Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle; Your auld grey hairs. But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit; An' gif it's sae, ye sud be lickit Until ye fyke; Sic hans as you sud ne'er be faikit, Be hain't wha like. |