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T

T

LAMENT

FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN.

THE wind blew hollow frae the hills,
By fits the sun's departing beam
Look'd on the fading yellow woods
That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream:
Beneath a craigy steep, a bard,

Laden with years and meikle pain,
In loud lament bewail'd his lord,

Whom death had all untimely ta'en.

He lean'd him to an ancient aik,

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years
His locks were bleached white wi' time!
His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears!
And as he touch'd his trembling harp,
And as he tun'd his doleful sang,
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves,
To echo bore the notes alang.

"Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing,
The reliques of the vernal quire!
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds
The honours of the aged year!
A few short months, and glad and gay,
Again ye'll charm the ear and ee;

But nocht in a' revolving time

Can gladness bring again to me.

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"I am a bending aged tree,

That long has stood the wind and rain;
But now has come a cruel blast,

And my last hold of earth is gane:
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring,
Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom;
But I maun lie before the storm,
And ithers plant them in my room.

"I've seen sae mony changefu' years,
On earth I am a stranger grown;
I wander in the ways of men,
Alike unknowing and unknown:
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd,

I bear alane my lade o' care,
For silent, low, on beds o' dust,

Lie a' that would my sorrows share.

"And last (the sum of a' my griefs!)
My noble master lies in clay;
The flow'r amang our barons bold,
His country's pride, his country's stay;

In weary being now I pine,

For a' the life of life is dead,

And hope has left my aged ken,
On forward wing for ever fled.

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Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!
The voice of woe and wild despair!

Awake, resound thy latest lay,

Then sleep in silence evermair! And thou, my last, best, only friend, That fillest an untimely tomb,

Accept this tribute from the bard

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom.

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"In poverty's low barren vale,

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round;
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye,

Nae ray of fame was to be found :
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun
That melts the fogs in limpid air;
The friendless bard, and rustic song,
Became alike thy fostering care.

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"Oh! why has worth so short a date, ¿d odw
While villains ripen grey with time?
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great,
Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime!
Why did I live to see that day?

A day to me so full of woe!
Oh! had I met the mortal shaft
Which laid my benefactor low!

"The bridegroom may forget the bride
Was made his wedded wife yestreen;
The monarch may forget the crown
That on his head an hour has been

The mother may forget the child

;

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee;

But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,

And a' that thou hast done for me!"

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J

LINES, SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOrd, of whiTEFORD, BART, WITH THE FOREGOING POEM.

THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'st,
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st,
To thee this votive offering I impart,

The tearful tribute of a broken heart.

The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd ;
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd.
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone,

And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown.

TAM O' SHANTER.

A TALE.

Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke.

Gawin Douglas.

WHEN chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We thinkna on' the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonnie lasses).

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O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethring, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou wasna sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;

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