For here, thro' glades, and every rustling grove,
Sweet peace and rosy health for ever rove;
For you my vines their clustering fruits suspend,
My pinks and roses blow but for my friend-
For him who joins with elegance and art,
The brightest talents to the warmest heart.

Come then, O come, your burning streets forego, Your lanes and wharfs, where winds infectious blow, For deep majestic woods and opening glades, And shining pools and awe-inspiring shades, Where fragrant flowers perfume the air around, And bending orchards kiss the flowery ground, And luscious berries spread a feast for Jove, And golden cherries stud the boughs above. Amidst these various sweets, thy rustic friend Shall to each woodland haunt thy steps attend, His noontide walks, his vine entwisted bowers, The old associates of his lonely hours, While friendship's converse, generous and sincere, That mingles joy with joy, and tear with tear, Shall fill each heart, and give to memory's eye Those native shores where fond relations sigh, Where war accursed, and haggard famine howl, And R o'er prostrate millions growl, While we, alas, these mournful scenes retrace, In climes of plenty, liberty, and peace, A mingled flood of joy and grief shall flow, For this so free, and that so full of woe.

- D

Thus, in celestial bowers, the heavenly train Escaped from earth's dark ills and all its pain, Talk o'er our scenes of suffering here below, And drop a tear of pity for our woe.

Address to Calder Banks.

YE hoary rocks, ye woody cliffs that rise
Unwieldy, jutting o'er the brawling brook;
Ye lowering steeps, where hid the adder lies,

Where sleeps the owl and screams the sable rook.

Ye reverend trunks, that spread your leafy arms
To shield the gloom that dark'ning swells below;
Ye nameless flowers, ye busy-winged swarms;

Ye birds that warble and ye streams that flow.

Say, ye blest scenes of solitude and peace,
Strayed e'er a bard along this hermit shore?
Did e'er his pencil your perfections trace?
Or did his Muse to sing your beauties soar ?

Hast oft at early morn and silent eve,
Responsive echo stole athwart the trees;
While easy laid beside the glitt'ring wave,
The shepherd sang, his listening fair to please?

Alas! methinks the weeping rocks around,

And the lone stream that murmurs far below, And trees and caves, with hollow, solemn sound, Breathe out one mournful, melancholy-No.

Epistle to a Brother Pedlar.

THOU curious, droll, auld-farran chiel,
Some rhyme I'se now hae with thee-
May I gang hurlin' to the deil,

But I'd be blythe to see thee.
'Mang a' the chiels wha bear a pack,
Through kintra, town, or claughan,
The fient a ane can tell a crack,
Whilk sets us aye a laughin',
Like thee, this day.

A snawy winter's now maist ower,
Since we frae other parted;

Like ony ghaist I then did glower,
Wi' sickness-broken hearted.
But, by my sang! now gin we meet,
We'll hae a tramp right clever.
Since I'm now stively on my feet,
And hale an' weel as ever,

This blessed day.

Whiles when I think upon our tramp,

It sets me aft a sneering;

Though 'deed our conscience it should damp,

When we ca' to a clearing;

How whiles, amang the lasses' smocks,

We raised an unco splutter,

On Sundays, speelt ower awfu' rocks,
Or ramed auld grannie's butter,
I' the plate yon day.

I'll ne'er forget yon dreadfu' morn,
That maist had proved our ruin,

When ye sat on a sack forlorn,

Half dead with fright, and spewin. Waves dashing down wi' blatterin' skyle, Winds roarin'-sailors fighting; Poor wretches bockin, rank and file, And some-God knows!-maist sh-ing Their breeks, that day!

Though conscience's gab we try to steek,

It gies us whiles a tastle;

I'm cheated gin it didna speak,

Right smartly at Fa's Castle.

Poor jute! she'd curse our ilka stop,

When she tauld ower her siller;

But, faith! she got an honest kepp,
Might served a decent miller,

Lang may thou, aye right snug and dry,
Frae barns be kept aback,

Where tinkled wives, and beggars lie,

And rain seeps through the thack.

Aft may some canty kintra wife,

When hunger wrings your painches,
Draw through her cheese the muckle knife,
And stap thy pouch wi' lunches

O' scons, that day.

The Cruelty of Rebenge.

A TALE.

WHAT rising passions through my bosom range,
When beauteous Susan sings the "Moor's Revenge;"
Thus runs the tale.-"Far from the noisy court,
'Midst lonely woods, was wealthy Don's resort.
A worthy lady blest his generous arms,

And two young boys, with all their winning charms,
Possessed of these, and of each other's hearts,
They scorned the world and all its cheating arts.
Domestic cares, her lord, her smiling boys,
Where all her pride, the source of all her joys;
His, through wild woods, to hunt the leopard fleet,
Bear home the spoils and lay them at her feet.

When morning rose, equipt he coursed the plain,
And sought the chase, a Moor his only train,
Him from dire chains his master's bounty freed,
Behind his lord to curb the stately steed.
Indulged in sloth, the gloomy villain grew
Each day more heedless and more haughty too.
He now e'en dares his orders to deride;

His lord rebuked him, and chastised his pride.

With madd'ning rage his sparkling eye-balls roll, And black revenge employs his furious soul.

High on a rock, amid the gloomy wood, Secure from foes their ancient castle stood; A wide, deep moat, around the fabric soaked, And strong high walls the midnight robber mocked; One path alone led to its dizzy height,

By day a bridge, a bolted gate by night.

One morn, as forth they took their early road, And through dark vales and deep'ning forests trod, Urged by revenge, the Moor back sudden springs, Secures the gate, and forth the children brings. His lord alarmed, spurs swiftly o'er the plain, Fast finds the gate, and views with shuddering pain His beauteous babes, from their fond mother tore, Dashed down the rock, and reeking in their gore; While his fair spouse, beneath a lifted knife, In loud lamentings deep implored for life. 'Thou fury, stop!' the raving husband cries;— 'I scorn thy threats,' the infernal Moor replies; 'A blow thou gave-now for thy rashness feel;' Then in her breast he plunged the deadly steel, And bounding headlong down the impervious rock, His mangled cor'se in bloody fragments broke."

Second Epistle to Mr. William Mitchell. WHILE ye nod on the weavers' thronie,

Poring wi' sharp inspection,

Or in a freak wi' lassies bonnie,

Skip round in supple action;

Or maybe wi' a bosom crony,
Kick up a funny faction,
Accept this as a testimony
Of my sincere affection

For you this day.