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But man, to whom alone is giv'n
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n,
Glories in his heart humane-
And creatures for his pleasure slain.
In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv❜let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
All on Nature you depend,

And life's poor season peaceful spend.

Or, if man's superior might

Dare invade your native right,

On the lofty ether borne,

Man with all his pow'rs you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,

Scorn at least to be his slave.

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN
AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH.

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious, I pursue,
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.—
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods,wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides:
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills;

The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride,
The palace rising on his verdant side;

The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste;
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste;
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream;
The village, glittering in the noon-tide beam-

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Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,

Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell;
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods;
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods-

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 heav'nward stretch
her scan,

And injur❜d Worth forget and pardon man.

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL,

STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS,

NEAR LOCH-NESS.

AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods;
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,
Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream
resounds.

As high in air the bursting torrents flow,

As deep recoiling surges foam below,

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,
And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends.
Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless
show'rs,

The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, lours.
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils,
And still below the horrid cauldron boils-

*

ON THE

BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD,

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY

DISTRESS.

SWEET Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love,
And ward o' mony a pray'r,

What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

November hirples o'er the lea,
Chill, on thy lovely form;
And gane, alas, the shelt'ring tree,
Should shield thee frae a storm.

May He who gives the rain to pour,
And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving show'r,
The bitter frost and snaw!

May He, the friend of woe and want,
Who heals life's various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother plant,
And heal her cruel wounds!

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast,
Fair on the summer morn :

Now feebly bends she in the blast,
Unshelter'd and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
Unscath'd by ruffian hand!

And from thee many a parent stem
Arise to deck our land!

SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE,
A Brother Poet '.

AULD NEEbor,

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor,
For your auld-farrent, frien❜ly letter;
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter,
Ye speak sae fair;

For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter,

Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;
Lang may your elbuck jink an' diddle,
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle
O' war❜ly cares,

Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle

Your auld gray 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 licket

Until ye fyke;

Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit,

Be hain't wha like.

This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, published

at Kilmarnock, 1789.

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink,

Rivin the words to gar them clink;

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink Wi' jads or masons;

An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think

Braw sober lessons.

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,
Commend me to the Bardie clan;
Except it be some idle plan

O' rhymin clink,

The devil-haet, that I sud ban!

They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin,
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin;

But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

An' while ought's there,

Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin,
An' fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,
At hame, a-field, at wark or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie!
Tho' rough an' raplock be her measure,
She's seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie :
The warl' may play you mony a shavie;
But for the Muse, she'll never leave
Tho' e'er sae puir,

Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie
Frae door to door,

ye,

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