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Did he smile his work to see ?

I hear below the water roar, Did He, who made the Lamb, make thee? The mill wi' clacking din,

And Lucky scolding frae the door, Tiger! Tiger ! burning bright,

To ca’ the bairnies in. In the forests of the night,

0, no! sad and low, What immortal hand or eye

These are nae sounds for me; Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

The shadow of our trysting bush

It creeps sae drearily.

I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tam,
TO THE MUSES.

A snood o' bonnie blue,
Whether on Ida's shady brow

And promised, when our trysting cam', Or in the chambers of the East,

To tie it round her brow. The chambers of the sun, which now

0, no! sad and slow, From ancient melodies have ceased ;

The mark it winna' pass;

The shadow o' that dreary bush Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,

Is tethered on the grass.
Or the green corners of the earth,
Or the blue regions of the air,

O now I see her on the way!
Where the melodious winds have birth, She's past the witch's knowe;

She's climbing up the brownies brae; Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,

My heart is in a lowe, Beneath the bosom of the sea,

O, no! 't is not so, Wandering in many a coral grove,

'Tis glamrie 1 hae seen; Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry,

The shadow o' that hawthorn bush

Will move nae mair till e'en. How have you left the ancient lore That bards of old engaged in you !

My book o' grace I'll try to read, The languid strings do scarcely move,

Though conned wi' little skill;
The sound is forced, the notes are few. When Collie barks l'll raise my head,

And find her on the hill.
0, no! sad and slow,

The time will ne'er be gane;

The shadow o' our trysting bush JOANNA BAILLIE.

Is fixed like ony stane.

(1762-1831.)

THE GOWAN GLITTERS ON THE

SWARD.

LADY CAROLINE NAIRN.

(1766 - 1845.)

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

The gowan glitters on the sward,

The lav'rock's in the sky,
And Collie on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.
O, no! sad and slow,

And lengthened on the ground;
The shadow of our trysting bush

It wears so slowly round.
My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west,

My lambs are bleating near;
But still the sound that I love best,
Alack! I canna hear.
0, no! sad and slow,

The shadow lingers still ;
And like a lanely ghaist I stand,

And croon upon the hill.

I'm wearin' awa', Jean,
Like snaw in a thaw, Jean,
I'm wearin' awa'

To the Land o' the Leal.
There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
The day is ever fair

In the Land o' the Leal.

You've been leal and true, Jean,
Your task is ended noo, Jean,
And I'll welcome you

To the Land o' the Leal.

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and pain ;

Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean; At first he looked distrustful, almost My soul langs to be free, Jean;

shy, And angels wait on me

And cast on me his coal-black steadfast To the Land o' the Leal.

eye, And seemed to say, - past friendship to

renew, Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, She was baith gude and fair, Jean,

"Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?"

While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing And we grudged her sair To the Land o' the Leal!

still, But sorrow's self wears past, Jean,

On beds of moss spread on the window

sill, And joy 's a comin' fast, Jean, The joy that's

I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen to last,

aye
In the Land o' the Leal.

Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and

green,

And guessed some infant hand had placed A' our friends are gane, Jean;

it there, We've lang been left alane, Jean;

And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare. But we'll a' meet again

Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling In the Land o' the Leal.

rose; Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean!

My heart felt everything but calm repose ; This world's care is vain, Jean!

I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor We'll meet, and aye be fain

years,
In the Land o' the Leal.

But rose at once, and bursted into tears ;
Then, like a fool, confused, sat down

again,

And thought upon the past with shame ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. I raved at war and all its horrid cost,

And glory's quagmire, where the brave (1766 - 1823.)

are lost.

On carnage, fire, and plunder long I THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

mused,

And cursed the murdering weapons I had How sweet it was to breathe that cooler

used. air,

Two shadows then I saw, two voices And take possession of my father's chair! heard, Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame, One bespoke age, and one a child's apAppeared the rough initials of my name, peared. Cut forty years before! The same old in stepped my father with convulsive clock

start, Struck the same bell, and gave my heart And in an instant clasped me to his heart, a shock

Close by him stood a little blue-eyed I never can forget. A short breeze sprung,

And stooping to the child, the old man And while a sigh was trembling on my said, tongue,

“Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once Caught the old dangling almanacs be again; hind,

This is your uncle Charles, come home And up they flew like banners in the

from Spain. wind;

The child approached, and with her Then gently, singly, down, down, down fingers light they went,

Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of And told of twenty years that I had spent sight. Far from my native land. That instant But why thus spin my tale, - thus tedious A robin on the threshold ; though so Happy old soldier ! vvhat 's the world to tame,

me?

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came

JANE ELLIOTT.

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

(1781 - 1849.)

(1774-1810.)

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LAMENT FOR FLODDEN.

THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE

BURN. I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milk

The midges dance aboon the burn;
ing,

The dews begin to fa';
Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day;
But now they are moaning on ilka

The paitricks down the rushy holm

green
loaning-

Set up their e'ening ca’.
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede Now loud and clear the black bird's sang

Rings through the briery shaw,
away.

While flitting gay the swallows play
At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe Around the castle wa'.
lads are scorning,

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky
Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;
Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and

The mavis mends her lay;
sabbing,

The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her

To charm the ling'rig day;

While weary yaldrins seem to wail away.

Their little nestlings torn,
In har’st, at the shearing, nae youths The merry wren, frae den to den,
now are jeering,

Gaes jinking through the thorn.
Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and The roses fauld their silken leaves,

gray;
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae The honeysuckle and the birk

The foxglove shuts its bell;
fleeching
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede Let others crowd the giddy court

Spread fragrance through the dell.
away.

Of mirth and revelry,

The simple joys that Nature yields
At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers

Are dearer far to me.
are roaming
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to

play;
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her

THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.
dearie-
The Flowers of the Forest are weded Let us go, lassie, go,
away.

To the braes o' Balquhither,

Where the blae-berries grow Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads

Mang the bonnie Highland heather; to the Border !

Where the deer and the roe,
The English, for ance, by guile wan

Lightly bounding together,
the day;

Sport the lang summer day
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought On the braes o' Balquhither.

aye the foremost,
The prime of our land, are cauld in I will twine thee a bower
the clay.

By the clear siller fountain,

And I'll cover it o'er We 'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe Wi' the flowers of the mountain ; milking;

I will range through the wilds, Women and bairns are heartless and And the deep glens sae drearie, wae;

And return wi' the spoils Sighing and moaning on ilka

green

loan To the bower o' my dearie.
ing-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede When the rude wintry win'
away.

Idly raves round our dwelling,

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WILLIAM R. SPENCER.

JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE.

89

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And the roar of the linn

The sun is not set, but is risen on high, On the night breeze is swelling, Nor long in corruption his body shalllie; So merrily we'll sing,

Then let not the tide of thy griefs overAs the storm rattles o'er us,

flow, Till the dear shieling ring

Nor the music of heaven be discord below; Wi' the light lilting chorus.

Rather loud be the song, and triumphant

the chord, Now the summer 's in prime

Let us joy for the dead who have died in Wi' the flowers richly blooming,

the Lord. And the wild mountain thyme A' the moorlands perfuming;

Go, call for the mourners, and raise the To our dear native scenes

lament, Let us journey together,

Let the tresses be torn, and the garinents Where glad innocence reigns

be rent; 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.

But give to the living thy passion of tears,
Who walk in this valley of sadness and

fears;
Who are pressed by the combat, in dark-

ness are lost, WILLIAM R. SPENCER.

By the tempest are beat, on the billows

are tossed: (1770 – 1834.)

O, weep not for those who shall sorrow

no more, TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON.

Whose warfare is ended, whose trial is

o'er; Too late I stayed, forgive the crime, Unheeded fiew the hours;

Let the song be exalted, triumphant the

chord, How noiseless falls the foot of Time

And rejoice for the dead who have died That only treads on flowers !

in the Lord. What eye with clear account remarks

The ebbing of his glass,
When all its sands are diamond sparks
That dazzle as they pass !

JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE.
Ah! who to sober measurement

(1775-1841.) Time's happy swiftness brings, When birds of Paradise have lent

NIGHT AND DEATH. Their plumage to its wings?

MYSTERIOUS night! when our first par.

ent knew Thee from report Divine, and heard thy

name, JAMES GLASSFORD.

Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue?

Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, (1772 .]

Bathed in the rays of the great setting THE DEAD WHO HAVE DIED IN THE

flame, LORD

Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came,

And lo! creation widened in man's view. Go, call for the mourners, and raise the Who could have thought such darkness lament,

lay concealed Let the tresses be torn, and the garments Within thy beams, Csun! or who be rent;

could find, But weep not for him who is gone to Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood

revealed, Nor mourn for the ransomed, nor wail That to such countless orbs thou for the blest.

mad'st us blind ?

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his rest,

Why do we, then, shun death with anx. I crossed the tedious ocean-wave, ious strife?

To roam in climes unkind and new. If light can thus deceive, wherefore not The cold wind of the stranger blew life?

Chill on my withered heart: the grave

Dark and untimely met my view,
And all for thee, vile yellow slave!

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By Chérical's dark wandering streams, WRITTEN AFTER RECOVERY FROM
Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild,

A DANGEROUS ILLNESS.
Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams
Of Teviot loved while still a child,

Lo! o'er the earth the kindling spirits
Of castled rocks stupendous piled

pour By Esk or Eden's classic wave,

The flames of life that bounteous naWhere loves of youth and friendship

ture gives; smiled,

The limpid dew becomes the rosy flower, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave !

The insensate dust awakes, and moves,

and lives.
Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory
fade! -

All speaks of change: the renovated
The perished bliss of youth's first prime, forms
That once so bright on fancy played,

Of long-forgotten things arise again ;
Revives no more in after time.

The light of suns, the breath of angry Far from my sacred natal clime,

storms, I haste to an untimely grave;

The everlasting motions of the main, The daring thoughts that son red sublime

These are but engines of the Eternal Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.

will,

The One Intelligence, whose potent Slave of the mine! thv yellow light

sway Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. Has ever acted, and is acting still, A gentle vision comes by night

Whilst stars, and worlds, and systems
My lonely widowed heart to cheer;

all obey;
Her eyes are dim with many a tear,
That once were guiding stars to mine : Without whose power, the whole of inor-
Her fond heart throbs with many a

tal things
fear!

Were dull, inert, an unharmonious I cannot bear to see thee shine.

band,

Silent as are the harp's untunéd strings For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, Without the touches of the poet's I left a heart that loved me true!

hand.

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