A TALE. IN Scotland's realms, where trees are few, For husband there and wife may boast And false ones are as rare almost *This tale is founded on an article which appeared in the Buckinghamshire Herald, Saturday, June 1, 1793:"Glasgow, May 23. In a block, or pulley, near the head of the mast of a gabert, now lying at the Broomielaw, there is a chaffinch's nest and four eggs. The nest was built while the vessel lay at Greenock, and was followed hither by both birds. Though the block is occasionally lowered for the inspection of the curious, the birds have not forsaken the nest. The cock, however, visits the nest but seldom, while the hen never leaves it, but when she descends to the hull for food." VOL. VIII. B In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare The history chanced of late The history of a wedded pair, The spring drew near, each felt a breast With genial instinct fill'd; They pair'd, and would have built a nest, But found not where to build. The heaths uncover'd and the moors Long time a breeding-place they sought, At length a ship arriving brought A ship? could such a restless thing Or was the merchant charged to bring Hush-silent hearers profit most- Proved kinder to them than the coast, But such a tree! 'twas shaven deal, And had a hollow with a wheel Through which the tackle pass'd. Within that cavity aloft Their roofless home they fix'd, Form'd with materials neat and soft, Bents, wool, and feathers mix'd. Four ivory eggs soon pave its floor With russet specks bedightThe vessel weighs, forsakes the shore, And lessens to the sight. The mother-bird is gone to sea, No-soon as from ashore he saw The winged mansion move, He flew to reach it, by a law Then perching at his consort's side, The billows and the blast defied, And cheer'd her with a song. The seaman with sincere delight For seamen much believe in signs, Hail, honour'd land! a desert where Whom nothing could divide. And ye who, rather than resign Were not afraid to plough the brine For whose lean country much disdain We English often show, Yet from a richer nothing gain But wantonness and woe Be it your fortune, year by year, And may ye, sometimes landing here, June, 1793. TO MARY. THE twentieth year is well nigh past Ah! would that this might be the last! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow My Mary! 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, Thy needles, once a shining store, My Mary! For my sake restless heretofore, My Mary! For, though thou gladly wouldst fulfil The same kind office for me still, Thy sight now seconds not thy will, My Mary! But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart, Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language utter'd in a dream: My Mary! Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary! |