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?' 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 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, 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 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, To give the applause she dare not ask; THE DREARY CHANGE. (1917.) THE Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, Though evening, with her richest dye, Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. With listless look along the plain, 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 O miserere, Domine! On the long procession goes, O miserere, Domine! Bands that masses only sung, O miserere, Domine! Weltering amid warriors slain, Sing, miserere, Domine! Bangor! o'er the murder wail ! 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. you saw, Threw off poor me, and pounced upon Trusting our humble efforts may |