'Tis not us alone, boys-the Army

and Navy

Have each got a slap 'mid their

politic pranks; Cornwallis cashier'd, that watch'd winters to save ye,

And the Cape call'd a bauble,
unworthy of thanks.
But vain is their taunt,

No soldier shall want

The thanks that his country to valour can give : Come, boys,

Drink it off merrily,—

Sir David and Popham, and long may they live!

And then our revenue-Lord knows how they view'd it,

While each petty statesman talk'd lofty and big;

But the beer-tax was weak, as if Whitbread had brew'd it,

And the pig-iron duty a shame to a pig.

In vain is their vaunting,

Too surely there's wanting

What judgment, experience, and

steadiness give :

Come, boys,

Drink about merrily,

he live!

Our King, too-our Princess-I dare not say more, sir,

May Providence watch them with mercy and might!

While there's one Scottish hand that

can wag a claymore, sir, They shall ne'er want a friend to stand up for their right. Be damn'd he that dare not,For my part, I'll spare not To beauty afflicted a tribute give :

And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made,
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
You shall see him brought to bay,
'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we;
Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk:
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.

THE RESOLVE.

(180S.)

in imitation of an Old English Poem.)

My wayward fate I needs must 'plain,
Though bootless be the theme;

I loved, and was beloved again,
Yet all was but a dream:
For, as her love was quickly got,

So it was quickly gone;

No more I'll bask in flame so hot,
But coldly dwell alone.

Not maid more bright than maid was e'er

My fancy shall beguile, By flattering word, or feigned tear, By gesture, look, or smile: No more I'll call the shaft fair shot, Till it has fairly flown, Nor scorch me at a flame so hot; I'll rather freeze alone.

Each ambush'd Cupid I'll defy,

In cheek, or chin, or brow,
And deem the glance of woman's eye
As weak as woman's vow:
I'll lightly hold the lady's heart,
That is but lightly won;

I'll steel my breast to beauty's art,
And learn to live alone.

The flaunting torch soon blazes out,
The diamond's ray abides;
The flame its glory hurls about,
The gem its lustre hides;

Such gem I fondly deem'd was mine,
And glow'd a diamond stone,
But, since each eye may see it shine,
I'll darkling dwell alone.

No waking dream shall tinge my thought

With dyes so bright and vain,
No silken net, so slightly wrought,
Shall tangle me again :

No more I'll pay so dear for wit,
I'll live upon mine own,

Nor shall wild passion trouble it,
I'll rather dwell alone.

And thus I'll hush my heart to rest'Thy loving labour's lost;

Thou shalt no more be wildly blest,

To be so strangely crost;
The widow'd turtles mateless die,

The phoenix is but one;

They seek no loves, no more will I— I'll rather dwell alone.'

Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son.

Whether on India's burning coasts he toil,

Or till Acadia's winter-fetter'd soil, He hears with throbbing heart and moisten'd eyes,

her head;

Why on her branches, silent and

unstrung,

The minstrel harp is emblematic hung; What poet's voice is smother'd here in dust

Till waked to join the chorus of the just,

Lo! one brief line an answer sad

supplies,

Honour'd, beloved, and mourn'd, here Seward lies;

Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friendship say,

Go seek her genius in her living lay.

PROLOGUE

To Miss Baillie's Play of The Family Legend!' (1809.)

'Tis sweet to hear expiring Summer's sigh,

Through forests tinged with russet, wail and die;

'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to hear

Of distant music, dying on the ear;

rise!

It opens on his soul his native dell,

The woods wild waving, and the water's swell;

Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain,

The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain;

The cot, beneath whose simple porch were told,

By grey-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old,

The infant group, that hush'd their sports the while,

And the dear maid who listen'd with a smile.

The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain,

Is denizen of Scotland once again.

Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined,

And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind?

Oh no! For she, within whose mighty page

Each tyrant Passion shows his woe and rage,

Has felt the wizard influence they inspire,

The plaided boatman, resting on his oar, Points to the fatal rock amid the roar Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night

Our humble stage shall offer to your sight;

Proudly preferr'd that first our efforts give

Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live;

More proudly yet, should Caledon approve

The filial token of a Daughter's love.

THE POACHER.

(1809.)

(In imitation of Crabbe.)

WELCOME, grave stranger, to our green retreats,

Where health with exercise and

freedom meets!

Thine

ear has heard, with scorn instead of awe,

Our buckskinn'd justices expound the law,

Wire-draw the acts that fix for wires the pain,

And for the netted partridge noose the swain;

And thy vindictive arm would fain have broke

The last light fetter of the feudal yoke,

To give the denizens of wood and wild,

Nature's free race, to each her freeborn child.

Hence hast thou mark'd, with grief, fair London's race,

Mock'd with the boon of one poor Easter chase,

And long'd to send them forth as free as when

Pour'do'er Chantilly the Parisian train, When musket, pistol, blunderbuss, combined,

And scarce the field-pieces were left behind!

Seek we yon glades, where the

proud oak o'ertops

Sunk 'mid yon sordid blankets, till the sun

copse,

Leaving between deserted isles ofland, Where stunted heath is patch'd with

ruddy sand;

And lonely on the waste the yew is seen,

toils are done.

Loaded and primed, and prompt for desperate hand,

Rifle and fowling-piece beside him stand;