When, gin the truth were a' but kent,
Her life's been warse than mine.

Whene'er my father thinks on me,
He stares into the wa';
My mother, she has ta'en the bed
Wi' thinking on my fa'.

Whene'er I hear my father's foot,
My heart wad burst wi' pain;
Whene'er I meet my mither's ee,
My tears rin down like rain.
Alas! sae sweet a tree as love

Sic bitter fruit should bear!
Alas! that e'er a bonnie face
Should draw a sauty tear!

if, known

worse

taken

would

eye

salt

ON THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY.

How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace

Discarded remnant of a race

Once great in martial story?

His forbears' virtues all contrasted-
The very name of Douglas blasted-
His that inverted glory.

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore;

But he has superadded more,

And sunk them in contempt;

Follies and crimes have stain'd the name,
But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim,
From ought that's good exempt.

ancestors

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CHILD.

OH sweet be thy sleep in the land of the grave,

My dear little angel, for ever;

For ever-oh no! let not man be a slave,

His hopes from existence to sever.

Though cold be the clay where thou pillow'st thy head,
In the dark silent mansions of sorrow,

The spring shall return to thy low narrow bed,
Like the beam of the day-star to-morrow.

The flower-stem shall bloom like thy sweet seraph form,
Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom,

When thou shrunk'st frae the scowl of the loud winter storm,
And nestled thee close to that bosom.

Oh still I behold thee, all lovely in death,

Reclined on the lap of thy mother;

When the tear trickled bright, when the short stifled breath,
Told how dear ye were aye to each other.

My child, thou art gone to the home of thy rest,
Where suffering no longer can harm ye,

Where the songs of the good, where the hymns of the blest,
Through an endless existence shall charm thee.

While he, thy fond parent, must sighing sojourn,
Through the dire desert regions of sorrow,
O'er the hope and misfortune of being to mourn,
And sigh for this life's latest morrow.

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S POCKET-BOOK.

GRANT me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live,
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give,
Deal freedom's sacred treasures free as air,
Till slave and despot be but things which were.

FRAGMENT.

THE black-headed eagle

As keen as a beagle,

He hunted owre height and owre howe;

But fell in a trap

On the braes o' Gemappe,

E'en let him come out as he dowe.

hollow

WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS,

ON THE OCCASION OF A NATIONAL THANKSGIVING FOR A
NAVAL VICTORY.

YE hypocrites! are these your pranks ?-
To murder men, and gie God thanks!
For shame! gie o'er, proceed no further-
God won't accept your thanks for murther!

THE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES.

YE true "Loyal natives," attend to my song
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long:
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt;
But where is your shield from the darts o' contempt?

can

ON THE AUTHOR'S FATHER.
Он ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend!
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,

The tender father, and the gen'rous friend.
The pitying heart that felt for human woe;
The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride;
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;

"For ev❜n his failings lean'd to virtue's side."

EPITAPH ON THE POET'S DAUGHTER.

HERE lies a rose, a budding rose,
Blasted before its bloom;

Whose innocence did sweets disclose
Beyond that flower's perfume.
To those who for her loss are grieved,
This consolation's given-

She's from a world of woe relieved,
And blooms a rose in Heaven.

"THOUGH FICKLE FORTUNE."
THOUGH fickle Fortune has deceiv'd me,
She promis'd fair, and perform❜d but ill;
Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me,
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.-

I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able,
But if success I must never find,

Then come, Misfortune, I bid thee welcome,
I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind.

TO THE OWL.

BY JOHN M'CREDDIE.

SAD Bird of Night, what sorrow calls thee forth, To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour; Is it some blast that gathers in the north,

Threat'ning to nip the verdure of thy bow'r ?

Is it, sad Owl, that Autumn strips the shade,
And leaves thee here, unsheltered and forlorn?
Or fear that Winter will thy nest invade?
Or friendly Melancholy bids thee mourn?

Shut out, lone bird, from all the feather'd train,
To tell thy sorrows to th' unheeding gloom;
No friend to pity when thou dost complain,
Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home.

Sing on, sad mourner! I will bless thy strain,
And pleased in sorrow listen to thy song:
Sing on, sad mourner! to the night complain,
While the lone echo wafts thy notes along.

Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek
Sad piteous tears in native sorrows fall?
Less kind the heart, when Sorrow bids it break?
Less happy he who lists to pity's call?

Ah no, sad Owl! nor is thy voice less sweet,

That sadness tunes it, and that grief is there; That Spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou canst repeat, And sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair.

Nor that the treble songsters of the day,

Are quite estranged, sad Bird of Night! from thee;
Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray,
When darkness calls thee from thy reverie.

From some old tower, thy melancholy dome,
While the grey walls and desert solitudes
Return each note, responsive, to the gloom
Of ivied coverts, and surrounding woods;
There hooting, I will list more pleased to thee,
Than ever lover to the nightingale ;
Or drooping wretch, oppressed with misery,
Lending his ear to some condoling tale.

TO THE RUINS OF LINCLUDEN ABBEY.

YE holy walls, that still sublime
Resist the crumbling touch of Time,
How strongly still your form displays
The piety of ancient days,

As through your ruins, hoar and grey-
Ruins, yet beauteous in decay-
The silvery moonbeams trembling fly,
The forms of ages long gone by
Crowd thick on Fancy's wond'ring eye,
And wake the soul to musings high.
Ev'n now, as lost in thought profound,
I view the solemn scene around,
And pensive gaze with wistful eyes,
The past returns, the present flies;
Again the dome, in pristine pride,
Lifts high its roof, and arches wide,
That, knit with curious tracery
Each Gothic ornament display;
The high-arched windows, painted fair,
Show many a saint and martyr there;

As on their slender forms I gaze,
Methinks they brighten to a blaze;
With noiseless step and taper bright,
What are yon forms that meet my sight?
Slowly they move, while every eye
Is heavenward raised in ecstasy :-
"Tis the fair, spotless, vestal train,
That seeks in prayer the midnight fane.
And hark! what inore than mortal sound
Of music breathes the pile around?
"Tis the soft chaunted choral song,
Whose tones the echoing aisles prolong:
Till thence return'd they softly stray
O'er Cluden's wave with fond delay;
Now on the rising gale swell high,
And now in fainting murmurs die:
The boatmen on Nith's gentle stream,
That glistens in the pale moon's beam,
Suspend their dashing oars to hear
The holy anthem, loud and clear;
Each worldly thought awhile forbear,
And mutter forth a half-formed prayer.
But as I gaze, the vision fails,

Like frost-work touch'd by southern gales;
The altar sinks, the tapers fade,

And all the splendid scene's decay'd.
In window fair the painted pane

No longer glows with holy stain,

But, through the broken glass, the gale
Blows chilly from the misty vale.
The bird of eve flits sullen by,

Her home, these aisles and arches high:
The choral hymn, that erst so clear
Broke softly sweet on Fancy's ear,
Is drowned amid the mournful scream,
That breaks the magic of my dream:
Roused by the sound, I start and see
The ruin'd, sad reality.