« PreviousContinue »
The much-lov'd tow'r, that overlooks thy stream,
A home and refuge the hill-fox may know,
Yet I would love thee in thy misery,
Whate'er my joys, my passions, or my woes,
And oh! that I could all thy beauties tell,
With softer tones, but not with warmer praise, Than him whose wilding lyrę awakes these lowly lays.
Alas? the hand is cold and bloodless now,
the minstrel, whose seraphic flow
Inspir'd M‘Niel !* has sought his native heav'n! A gift how dear! but ah, how seldom giv'n!
* Hector M‘Niel, Esq. Author of Will and Jean, &c.
Farewell Glenlara ! yet, again farewell,
And press with joy thy emerald velvet plain,
Ilth February, 1819.
X. Y. Za
On the field of the brave where the patriot has bled,
The shades of the valiant are fled to afar,
Hope brightens his visage, and watches his eye,
who would not flee to the fields of the brave, O who would not envy the patriot his grave? Where laurels of freedom immortal shall bloom, Memorials for ages preserved in the tomb.
Yes, years yet unnumbered sball cherish his fame,
EPITAPH In the Naval burying ground, Ļemon-Valley, St. Helena, over the grave of the Carpenter of H. M. S. Bucephalus, who died 6th June, 1816.
What though on this sequestered dell
Tune" Yon Burn-side."
din' Fortune seems to smile on thee, my ain dear Frien', I'maist forget she glooms on me, my ain dear Frien’;.
An' why shou'd I repine,
Or allow sweet Hope to dwine,
In the green leaf-shaded bow'r
We spen' the harmless hour,
The fause delight the wanton feels, my ain dear Frien’;
But Frien’ship's purer joys.
Are wisdom's happier choice,
The sick'nin' pleasures o' the bowl, my ain dear Frien',
The dissipated sot
Abuses Nature's lot,
The lover's happy wi' his lass, my ain dear Frien',
But nae joy beside I find
Like the raptures o' the mind,
Then let our souls in ane upite, my ain dear Frien',
Our hearts are ithers, ain,
And ever will remain,
Extracts from New Publications.
Extracts from “ Poems and Songs by the late Richard Gall. '-Edin. 1819.—pp. 168. price 7s. 6de
In the course of last month, a small volume of “ Poems, and Songs by the late Richard Gall,” has been given to the world - This we consider an act of justice to the memory of departed genius, that thus the public may award the tribute of their admiration no longer to an unknown name. Some of his Songs have been long known to us, and have obtained “ a name and a remembrance" in the records of our Scottish minstrelsy. We need only mention “ My only joe and dearie, 0," an exquisite production, adapted to one of our finest airs; and “ Farewell to Ayrshire," which has been generally ascribed to Burns. We open the volume at random and present our readers with two very fine Songs.
Whare mists o'ertap the mountain gray,
As cantily she held her way:
She made my saul wi' rapture glow!
An'aye she spak sae kind an' sweet,
My wee bit lassie fools them a';
She's stown my thoughtless heart awa'.
When spreading on the mountain 'green; Her voice saft as the mavis sang,
An' sweet the twinkle o' her een ; Aboon her brow sae bonny brent,
Her raven locks waved o'er her e'e, An' ilka slee bewitching glance Convey'd a dart o' love to me.
O speak na o' your courtly queens, &c The lasses fair in Scotia's isle,
Their beauties a' what tongue can tell ? But o'er the fairest o' them a'
My wee bit lassie bears the bell. O had I never mark'd her smile,
Or seen the twinkle o' her e'e, It might na þeen my lot the day, A waefu' lade oʻcare to dree.
O speak na o'your courtly queens, &c
THE HAZLEWOOD WITCH.
For mony lang year I hae heard frae my grannie,
Of brownies an' bogles by yon castle wa', Of auld wither'd hags that were never thought cannie,
An fairies that danc'd till they heard the cock craw. I leugh at their tales ; an' last owk i' the gloamin',
I dander'd, alane, down the Hazlewood green; Alas! I was reckless, an' rue sair my roamin',
For I met a young witch, wi',twa bonny black een.
· I thought o’the starns in a frosty night glancing,
Whan a' the lift round them is cloudless and' blue; I looked again, an' my heart fell a dancing;
Whan I wad hae spoken she glamoured my mou'. O wae to her cantraips! for dumpish'd I wander;
At kürk or at market there's nought to be seen: *For she dances afore me wherever I dander,
.- The Hazlewood witch wi' the bonny black een.