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Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely throttle,

And hollo'd, 'Ma'am, that is not

what I ail.

Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug glen?'

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Happy?' said Peg; 'what for d'ye want to ken?

Besides, just think upon this bygane year,

Grain wadna pay the yoking of the pleugh.'

What say you to the present?' 'Meal's sae dear,

To mak' their brose my bairns have scarce aneugh.'

The devil take the shirt,' said Solimaun,

'I think my quest will end as it began.

Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I beg.'

'Ye'll no be for the linen then?' said Peg.

XX.

Now for the land of verdant Erin The Sultaun's royal bark is steering, The Emerald Isle, where honest Paddy dwells,

The cousin of John Bull, as story tells.

And if the nitmugs were grown ony For a long space had John, with

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my last.

'By Mahomet,' said Sultaun Soli- Why should we part, while still some

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Till every sneering youth around inquires,

Is this the man who once could please our sires?'

And

Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line,

What fervent benedictions now were thine!

scorn assumes compassion's But my last part is play'd, my knell is

doubtful mien

To warn me off from the encumber'd

scene.

This must not be;-and higher duties

crave

Some space between the theatre and

the grave,

That, like the Roman in the Capitol,
I may adjust my mantle ere I fall:
My life's brief act in public service
flown,

The last, the closing scene, must be

my own.

Here, then, adieu! while yet some

well-graced parts

May fix an ancient favourite in your hearts,

Not quite to be forgotten, even when You look on better actors, younger

men:

And if your bosoms own this kindly debt

Of old remembrance, how shall mine forget

O, how forget!-how oft I hither came In anxious hope, how oft return'd with fame!

How oft around your circle this weak hand

Has waved immortal Shakespeare's magic wand

Till the full burst of inspiration came, And I have felt, and you have fann'd the flame!

By mem'ry treasured, while her reign endures,

Those hours must live-and all their

charms are yours.

rung,

When e'en your praise falls faltering from my tongue;

And all that you can hear, or I can tell,

Is-Friends and Patrons, hail, and

FARE YOU WELL.

LINES

WRITTEN FOR MISS SMITH.

(1817.)

WHEN the lone pilgrim views afar
The shrine that is his guiding star,
With awe his footsteps print the road
Which the loved saint of yore has trod.
As near he draws, and yet more near,
His dim eye sparkles with a tear;
The Gothic fane's unwonted show,
The choral hymn, the tapers' glow,
Oppress his soul; while they delight
And chasten rapture with affright.
No longer dare he think his toil
Can merit aught his patron's smile;
Too light appears the distant way,
The chilly eve, the sultry day-
All these endured no favour claim,
But murmuring forth the sainted name,
He lays his little offering down,
And only deprecates a frown.

We too, who ply the Thespian art, Oft feel such bodings of the heart, And, when our utmost powers are strain'd,

Dare hardly hope your favour gain'd.

O favour'd Land! renown'd for She, who from sister climes has sought The ancient land where Wallace

arts and arms,

For manly talent and for female charms,

fought

Land long renown'd for arms and arts, And conquering eyes and dauntless

hearts-

She, as the flutterings here avow,
Feels all the pilgrim's terrors now;
Yet sure on Caledonian plain
The stranger never sued in vain.
'Tis yours the hospitable task

To give the applause she dare not ask;
And they who bid the pilgrim speed,
The pilgrim's blessing be their meed.

THE DREARY CHANGE.

(1917.)

THE Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,
In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet;
The westland wind is hush and still,
The lake lies sleeping at my feet.
Yet not the landscape to mine eye
Bears those bright hues that once
it bore ;

Though evening, with her richest dye, Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain,
I see Tweed's silver current glide,

And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,

Are they still such as once they were? Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye! The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord, How to the minstrel's skill reply! To aching eyes each landscape lowers, To feverish pulse each gale blows chill; And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.

MARCH OF THE MONKS OF BANGOR.

(1817.)

WHEN the heathen trumpet's clang
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar grey
March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye;
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the silvan Dee,

O miserere, Domine!

On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
And the Virgin-mother mild
In their peaceful banner smiled ;
Who could think such saintly band
Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand?
Such was the Divine decree,

O miserere, Domine!

Bands that masses only sung,
Hands that censers only swung,
Met the northern bow and bill,
Heard the war-cry wild and shrill:
Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand,
Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand,
Woe to Saxon cruelty,

O miserere, Domine!

Weltering amid warriors slain,
Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane,
Slaughter'd down by heathen blade,
Bangor's peaceful monks are laid :
Word of parting rest unspoke,
Mass unsung, and bread unbroke;
For their souls for charity,

Sing, miserere, Domine!

Bangor! o'er the murder wail !
Long thy ruins told the tale,
Shatter'd towers and broken arch
Long recall'd the woful march :
On thy shrine no tapers burn,
Never shall thy priests return;
The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,
O miserere, Domine!

EPISTLE

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH, AT DRUMLANRIG CASTLE.

Sanquhar, 2 o'clock, July 30, 1817.

FROM ROSS, where the clouds on Benlomond are sleepingFrom Greenock, where Clyde to the

Ocean is sweeping

From Largs, where the Scots gave

the Northmen a drillingFrom Ardrossan, whose harbour cost many a shilling—

From Old Cumnock, where beds are as hard as a plank, sir— From a chop and green pease, and a chicken in Sanquhar,

This eve, please the Fates, at Drumlanrig we anchor.

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Threw off poor me, and pounced upon Trusting our humble efforts may

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