Dear, dear I lo'ed her, and whane'er we met,
Pleaded to have the bridal-day but set:
Stappit her pouches fu' o' prins and laces,
And thought mysel' weel paid wi' twa three kisses;
Yet still she put it aff frae day to day,
And aften kindly in my lug wad say,
"Ae half year langer is nae unco stop,
We'll marry then, and syne set up a shop."
O, sir, but lasses words are saft and fair,
They soothe our griefs, and banish ilka care;
Wha wadna toil to please the lass he lo'es?
A lover true minds this in a' he does.
Finding her mind was thus sae firmly bent,
And that I couldna get her to relent,
There was nought left, but quietly to resign,
To heeze my pack for ae lang hard compaign;
And as the Highlands was the place for meat,
I ventured there in spite of wind and weet.
Cauld now the Winter blew, and deep the sna'
For three haill days incessantly did fa'.
Far in a muir, amang the whirling drift,
Whar nought was seen but mountains and the lift,
I lost my road, and wandered mony a mile,
Maist dead wi' cauld and hunger, fright and toil.
Thus wand'ring, east or west, I kend na' where,
My mind o'ercome wi' gloom and black despair,
Wi' a fell ringe, I plunged at ance, forsooth,
Down through a wreath o' snaw, up to my mouth.
Clean o'er my head my precious wallet flew,
But whar it gaed, Lord kens, I never knew.
What great misfortunes are pour'd down on some, I thought my fearfu' hinder en' was come; Wi' grief and sorrow was my soul o'ercast, Ilk breath I drew was like to be my last, For aye the mair I warsled round and roun', I fand mysel' aye stick the deeper down;
Till ance, at length, wi' a prodigious pull,
I drew my poor cauld carcase frae the hole.
Lang, lang I sought, and grappit for my pack,
Till night and hunger forced me to come back.
For three lang hours I wandered up and down,
Till chance, at last conveyed me to a town;
There, wi' a trembling hand, I wrote my Kate
A sad account of a' my luckless fate;
But bade her aye be kind, and no despair,
Since life was left, I soon wad gather mair;
Wi' whilk, I hoped, within a towmond's date,
To be at hame, and share it a' wi' Kate.
Fool that I was, how little did I think
That love would soon be lost for fa't o' clink.
The loss of fair won wealth, though hard to bear,
Afore this-ne'er had power to force a tear.
I trusted time wad bring things round again,
And Kate, dear Kate, wad then be a' mine ain;
Consoled my mind, in hopes o' better luck,
But, O! what sad reverse!-how thunderstruck!
When ae black day brought word frae Rab my brither,
That Kate was cried, and married on anither!
Though a' my friends, and ilka comrade sweet, At ance, had drapped cauld dead at my feet; Or, though I'd heard the last day's dreadfu' ca', Nae deeper horror on my heart could fa': I cursed mysel', I cursed my luckless fate, I grat-and, sobbing, cried-O Kate! O Kate! Frae that day forth, I never mair did weel, But drank, and ran headforemost to the deil. My siller vanished, far frae hame I pined, But Kate for ever ran across my mind. In her were a' my hopes-these hopes were vain, And now-I'll never see her like again.
'Twas this, Sir President, that gart me start, Wi' meikle grief and sorrow at my heart,
To gi'e my vote, frae sad experience, here,
That disappointed love is waur to bear,
Ten thousand times, than loss o' warld's gear.
ADDRESSED TO JOVE, THE GOD OF THUNDER, DURING THE
LATE HOT WEATHER
GOD of thunders! clouds and rain,
Hear, nor let us pray in vain;
In this sultry hot September,
Jove, thy worms of earth remember :
See us panting, blowing, sweating,
Choked with dust, fatigued and fretting,
Roasted up as brown's potatoes,
Stung by flies, and curst musquetoes;
Sleepless nights-for ever turning,
Drenched in sweat from night to morning,
Drinking grog to quench the fire,
Still the more we drink, the drier.
See our meadows, fields, and pastures,
Bare and brown as blist'ring plaisters;
See our melons, pears, and peaches,
Shrivelled up like skins of witches:
Streams and ponds, and creeks a-drying,
Millers groaning-fishes dying;
Frogs extended stiff as pokers,
Dead, alas-are all the croakers,
Tenor, treble, bass and chorus,
Blood and wounds himself no more is.
See the clouds of dust ascending
O'er the burning road contending;
There the wet and foaming steed,
Panting lashed to cruel speed,
Feels in ev'ry vein the fires,
Staggers, tumbles, and expires.
See these strangers faint and sweating,
Landed from the shores of Britain,
(Blessed shores! where temp'rate gales,
Health and verdure never fails;
Round whose airy cliffs, sea-driven,
Sweeps the purest breath of Heaven :)
See them clad in coats of woollen,
Panting for some shade to cool in,
Looking round with restless gaze,
Through the sultry sick'ning blaze;
On each parched field they meet,
With'ring in the torrid heat,
With a sigh-that fate should lead 'em
To such burning shores of freedom.
See our cits with tun-like bellies, Melted down almost to jellies; See our mowers-mason-tenders, See our smiths, like salamanders. See-but, gracious Pow'r, forgive us, Thou see'st all, and can'st relieve us; God of thunders, clouds, and rain, Hear, nor let us pray in vain, From the wat❜ry western regions, Call thy clouds in gloomy legions, Tow'ring, thick'ning, moving horrid, O'er the day's affrighted forehead, Swift athwart the low'ring deep, Sudden let the lightning sweep, Loud the bursting thunders roar, Flashes blaze, and torrents pour, Dark'ning-blazing-roaring-pouringTill this earth has got a scouring, Till each stream, and creek, and current, Swells and roars a raging torrent, Till each freshened field, and every Hill and dale, wear Nature's livery,
And cool buxom breezes winnow,
Bracing ev'ry nerve and sinew.
God of thunders, clouds, and rain!
Hear! nor let us pray in vain,
And till age has made us hoary,
Thine shall be the praise and glory.
FROM Milestown's fertile fields and meadows clear,
I hail my worthy friend with heart sincere,
And welcome-nay, most pressingly implore,
One friendly visit to my cot once more.
The fairest scenes that ever blessed the year,
Now o'er our lawns, and woods, and meads appear;
The richest harvests choke each loaded field,
The fairest fruit our growing orchards yield.
In green, and gold, and purple plumes arrayed,
The sweetest songsters chant from every shade.
Such boundless plenty, such luxuriant stores,
The rosy hand of Nature round us pours,
That every living tribe their powers employ
From morn to eve to testify their joy,
And pour from meadow, field, and air above,
One general song of gratitude and love.
Come then, dear Orr, the noisy town forsake, With me a while these rural joys partake, Forget your books, your pens, your studious cares, Come see the gifts that God for man prepares. Here, as with me, at morn you range the wood, Or headlong plunge amid the sparkling flood, More vig'rous life your firmer limbs shall brace, A ruddier glow shall wanton o'er your face, A brighter glance re-animate your eye,
Each anxious thought, each fretting care shall fly.
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