Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd, Dead, even resentment, for his injur❜d page, He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage! So by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd, For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast; By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. O dulness! portion of the truly blest! Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest! Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. If mantling high she fills the golden cup, With sober selfish ease they sip it up: Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, They only wonder "some folks" do not starve, The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, And just conclude that "fools are fortune's care." So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train, Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown; 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 on an ancient aik, Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years; H locks were bleached white with 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! The honours of the aged year! But nocht in all revolving time Can gladness bring again to me. "I am a bending aged tree, That long has stood the wind and rain; But now has come a cruel blast, And my last hald of earth is gane: Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, And ithers plant them in my room. "I've seen sae mony changefu' years, I bear alane my lade o' care, Lie a' that would my sorrow's share. "And last, (the sum of a' my griefs') His country's pride, his country's stay: For a' the life of life is dead, And hope has left my aged ken, On forward wing for ever fled. "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. "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. "O! why has worth so short a date? A day to me so full of woe? "The bridegroom may forget the bride That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; 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 bogylis full is this buke. Gawin Douglas. When chapman billies leave the street, This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter. O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise She prophesy'd that late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Deon; |