PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR WOODS ON HIS Monday, April 16, 1787. WHEN by a generous Public's kind acclaim, Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng, Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason's beam; Here Douglas forms wild Shakspeare into plan, When well-formed Taste and sparkling Wit unite Oh thou dread Power! whose empire-giving hand Firin may she rise with generous disdain Still self-dependent in her native shore, Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar, WILLIE'S AWA. AULD chuckie Reekie's† sair distrest, Down droops her ance weel-burnished crest, Nae joy her bonny buskit nest Can yield ava, Her darling bird that she lo'es best Willie's awa! Oh Willie was a witty wight, The "Man of Feeling.' sore once no, decorated at all wise was clever-handed neat A familiar sobriquet for Edinburgh. But now they'll busk her like a fright- The stiffest o' them a he bowed; We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd- Now gawkies, tawpics, gowks, and fools, He wha could brush them down to mools, dress boldest more fellow, gold simpleton, slut, silly The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer Amang them a'; I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer- Nae mair we see his levee door The adjutant o' a' the core, Willie's awa! Now worthy Gregory's* Latin face, Tytler'st and Greenfield'st modest grace; Mackenzies, Stewart,|| sic a brace As Rome ne'er saw; They a' maun meet some ither place, Willie's awa! Poor Burns-e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken, Scar'd frae its minnie and the clecken, By hoodie-craw; Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin'- Now every sour-mou'd girnin' blellum, His quill may draw ; He wha could brawlie ward their bellum Willie's awa! Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, Dr James Gregory. (a fungus) wood dust chamber sorrowful row company such must, other cannot chirps Author of "Man of Feeling." ON LEAVING A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS WHERE HE HAD WHEN death's dark stream I ferry o'er- ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ., BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. SAD thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy alarms Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms. Sweetly decked with pearly dew Fair on Isabella's morn The sun propitious smiled, Fate oft tears the bosom cords Can heal the wound he gave- Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. THE lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave; The inconstant blast howled through the darkening air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. Lone as I wandered by each cliff and dell, Once the loved haunts of Scotia's royal train ;* The increasing blast roared round the beetling rocks, The paly moon rose in the livid east, And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately form, "Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I viewed: Her form majestic drooped in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. Park, Holyrood. + St Anthony's Well. St Anthony's Chapel. |