'Ranged on thy banks the race of Fingal stood, Strong as the lofty, black, aspiring wood,
Keen glanced their steely spears with fiery rage,
And bold was he who durst that wrath engage;
Amid the chiefs great Fillan did appear,
And Oscur! thou my noble son wast there;
There Fingal stood, unknown to trembling fears,
Strong in the white, the hoary locks of years;
Full rose his sinewy limbs, firm fell his tread,
And wide and fair his ample shoulders spread;
Soon as the terrors of his wrath arose,
Beneath his arm how sunk his dying foes!
"Gaul, son of Morny came, forth from his place, The tallest, hugest of the human race;
High as an oak upon the hill he stood,
His voice loud roaring like the roaring flood,
'Why reigns (he cries in proud contempt) alone
The mighty Corval's feeble, tim'rous son?
Unfit is Fingal's slender arm to save;
He ne'er support to his poor people gave;
But here I stand enthroned in terrors now,
Fierce as a whirlwind on the mountain's brow;
Strong as a storm that roars amid the sea,
Yield son of Corval, coward, yield to me!'
"Forth Oscur stood, his breast with rage did glow,
(My son, my noble son would meet the foe!)
But Fingal came, high-moving through the host,
And smiled to hear the haughty vaunter's boast;
Around each other hard their arms they threw,
And fierce the fight, and dread the combat grew,
Madly they struggled o'er the trembling ground,
And deep their heels ploughed up the earth around,
Loud crack'd their bones. As where white billows rave
The boat leaps light from dashing wave to wave.
Long toiled the chiefs the doubtful field to gain,
And fell, with night, upon the sounding plain.
"Thus two huge oaks before the tempest's sweep, With mingled boughs, roll crashing down the steep, Bound was the son of Morny, mute with shame,
The hoary, aged hero overcame.
"Fair, with her golden locks of glossy show, Her polished neck and rising breasts of snow; Fair, as the spirits of the hill appear
When from the cliffs they charm the list'ning ear;
Or when to view, light as the morning's breath,
At silent noon they glide along the heath;
Fair as the arch o'er heav'ns wide dome displayed,
So fair came Minvane the delightful maid.
'Fingal,' she softly said in accents sweet,
'Loose me my brother from his conqueror's feet,
Oh loose my Gaul,-my race's hope alone!
For all but Fingal tremble at his frown.'
'Shall I (replied the King) thy suit deny,
Thou lovely daughter of the mountain high?
No, free thy brother take, and welcome go,
Sweet Minvane! fairer than the northern snow.'
"Such Fingal were thy words, sweet in my ear,
But now no more shall I these accents hear;
To wail my friends, and mourn their hapless doom,
Here sit I, sightless, by the dreary tomb;
Wild through the wood I hear the tempest roar,
But see my friends and hear their voice no more.
Ceased is the cry of hunters from afar,
And hushed, for ever, the loud voice of War."
ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.
THOU dearest object of my soul on earth,
Thou kind, young sharer of my joys and woe,
Forgive, while here I pour my sorrows forth,
E'er life's last current from its fountain flow.
The hour arrives with heaven's supreme behest;
Advancing death in awful pomp I see;
Disease slow writhes within my troubled breast;
And past are all the joys of life with me.
Farewell ye pleasing scenes of fond delight.
Farewell ye hopes that promised once so well; Ye charms that shot through my enraptured sight; Ye days of peace, ye nights of joy farewell.
No more with thee the drowsy town I'll leave,
To tread the dews, and breathe the sweets of morn, Nor fondly wish the dear return of eve,
To meet thee blushing near the lonely thorn.
The eyes that gazed unwearied on thy charms,
The heart that wont at sight of thee to leap,
A few sad hours will finish its alarms,
And seal their orbs in everlasting sleep.
When this weak pulse hath numbered out its date, When all my hopes and all my fears are o'er, When each young friend shall pensive tell my fate, And death's black train stand mournful at my door;
Then, oh! Lavinia, while thou dost survey,
The pale changed features, once to thee well known, The limbs that flew thy dictates to obey,
The arms that oft enclasped thee as their own;
Check not the tear that trembles in thine eye,
Nor stop the sigh that struggles from thy heart; These are the rites for which I'd rather die, Than all the pomp of marble and of art.
Lavinia, oh! thou dear, thou precious name! That opes each wound, and tears my trembling heart,
Wilt thou vouchsafe one poor request I claim,
To breathe one wish, one prayer ere we part?
O round thy head may heaven its blessings strew!
May angels waft each comfort to thy cell,
Pure be thy peace-thy tears, thy troubles few,
Thou kindest maid, thou dearest friend, farewell.
OR THE MERITS OF ALLAN RAMSAY AND ROBERT FERGUSSON CONTRASTED.
Delivered in the Pantheon, at Edinburgh, on Thursday, 14th
April, 1791, on the Question-" Whether have the exertions of
Allan Ramsay or Robert Fergusson done more honour to
Scotch Poetry."
To Merit's brow this garland gives the Muse,
For who to Merit would a wreath deny ?
Though base Neglect the due deserts refuse,
Fair Fame forbids the poet's name to die.
BEFORE ye a' ha'e done, I'd humbly crave,
To speak twa words or three amang the lave,
No for mysel', but for an honest carl,
Wha's seen right mony changes i' the warl',
But is sae blate, down here he durstna come,
Lest, as he said, his fears might ding him dumb;
And then he's frail-sae begged me to repeat
His simple thoughts about this fell debate;
He gied me this lang scroll, its e'en right brown;
I'se let you hear't, as he has it set down.
"Last ouk, our Elpsa wi' some creels o' eggs,
And three fat eerocks fastened by the legs,
Gaed down to Embrugh, caft a new bane kame,
And brought a warl' o' news and clashes hame.
For she's scarce out a day, and gets a text,
But I'm dung deaf wi' clatter a' the next;
She'll tell a' what she heard frae end to end,
Her cracks to wives, wives cracks to her again,
Till wi' quo' I's, quo' she's, and so's, her skirle
Sets my twa lugs a ringing like a gir❜le.
"Mang ither ferlies whilk my kimmer saw,
Was your print paper battered on the wa';
She said she kentna rightly what it meant,
But saw some words o' goud and poets in't.
This gart me glour, sae aff sets I my lane
To Daniel Reid's, an auld frien' o' my ain;
He gets the news, and tauld me that ye'd hecht
A dawd o' goud, on this same Fursday night,
To him wha'd show, in clinking verses drest,
Gin Ramsay's sangs, or Fergusson's were best.
"Trouth I was glad to hear ye were sae kind,
As keep our slee-tongued billies in your mind;
And though our Elpsa ca'd me mony a gowk
To think to speak amang sae mony folk,
I got my staff, put on my bonnet braid,
And best blue breeks, that were but fern-year made;
A saxpence too, to let me in bedeen,
And thir auld spentacles to help my een;
Sae I'm come here, in hopes ye'll a' agree,
To hear a frank auld kintra man like me.
"In days when Dryden sang ilk bonny morn,
And Sandy Pope began to tune his horn,
When chiels round Lon'on chaunted a' fu' thrang,
But poor auld Scotland sat without a sang;
Droll Will Dunbar, frae flyting then was freed,
And Douglas too, and Kennedy were dead,
And nane were left, in hamely cracks to praise
Our ain sweet lasses, or our ain green braes.
Far aff our gentles for their poets flew,
And scorned to own that Lallan sangs they knew,
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