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And here forget he was design'd

To mortal tread earth's humble sphere
All hail ! my muse, thou charmer dear,

(Loved guardian of my rustic songs,
With fancy's eye I view thee here,

The stream or forest skip along.

Here, might misfortune find relief

From recollection's painful throes,
Or thoughtful, melancholy grief,

Might here attain enjoy'd repose.
Here angels might to man disclose

The secrets of their blest abode,
And through this fleeting scene of woes,

Point to the great Rewarder-God.
October, 1819.




Shall I forget Clyde's princely stream,
Whose banks I've trod so oft along,
When love and beauty were the theme,
And joy the offspring of my song.

O stream, to fond remembrance dear,
How smooth thy current seem'd to glide,
When Anna pride of maids was near,
My fair, adored, and promised bride.

Still fancy paints her last adieu,
Farewell, farewell, she fondly said,
My love for thee shall aye prove true,
And mine for thee my lovely maid.

That voice will never charm me more,
Not long to India was my doom,


When ah ! return'd with fortune's store,

My love was gone, laid in hor tomb. Glasgow, 17th November, 1819.





Low sunk the sun to the bed of the ocean,

And light danc'd the breeze on the blue rolling wate. All nature was hush'd not the softest emotion,

Was heard to disturb the repose of the grave.
The moon's silver light on the landscape is sleeping,

As cloudless she sails thro' the depths of the sky;:
All bath'd in soft dew, every flowret is weeping,

And wails for poor Mary, who wanders to sigh.

Her eye, once as bright as the beam of the morning,

The chill blast of sorrow had dimmed with a tear ;
Her cheek, once the blush of the rosebud adorning,

Seem'd pale as the lily, the last of the year:
How soon were the visions, her fancy had cherish'd,

By the dark lowering storm of misfortune laid low! In the grave of her sire, her latest hope perish's

And left her to mourn, the fair victim of woe..

The landscape grows dim and the moon is retiring,

To quench her pale gleam in the brine of the deep; As the last fading gleam of her lamp is expiring,

Poor Mary still lingers to wail and to weep.
Her dark withered form, the night-breeze is chilling,

And the last bursting throes of keen anguish depart; The cold damp of death o'er her bosom is stealing,

To freeze the warm blood, as it streams from her heart..

Oh! weep not, poor Mary, for soon shall thy sorrow,
Be hushed in the lonely repose of the tomb :

The Thistle.

To cheer thy sad bosom, no sun of to-morrow

Shall lend his bright beams, and enlighten the gloom : Oh! soon shall the dark-spreading cypress wave o'er thee!

And evening's mild eye drop its tears on thy breast; But oft shall the sigh of pure Friendship deplore thee, And the sweet tones of Pity shall hush thee to rest.

S. R. RUFUS. Old Kilpatrick, 9th Oct. 1819.



Let the Lily of France in luxuriance bloon,
And the Shamrock of Erin its beauty maintain,
Let the Rose of fair England still waft its perfume,
The Thistle of Scotia will dearest remain.

To Scotia her Thistle,
Her broad waving Thistle,
The evergreen Thistle, will dearest remain.

• Twas the badge that our fathers triumphantly wore,
When they foliowel their sovereigns to vanquish the Dane;
The emblem our Wallace in battle aye bore-
Then the Thistle of Scotland must dearest remain.

To Scotia her Thistle, &c.

It blooms on the mountain, it blooms in the vale,
It blcoins in the winter, in snow and in rain,
The type of ler sons when rude seasons assail,
To Scotia her Thistie will dearest remain.

To Scotia her Thistle, &c.

How many brave warriors our Thistle may clain,
How many survive and how many are slain,


We weep for our Moore, and exult in our Graeme,
For to us the broad Thistle will dearest remain.

To us the broad Thistle,
The evergreen Thistle,

The broad waving Thistle must dearest remain: November 12th, 1819.

E J. D


Now June is present with her mantle gay,
And Nature all her joyous robes display,
She thus address’d a youth deep sunk in thought,
Regardless of the charms her beauty brought;
- Be cheerful, said she, wly wilt thou be sad,
“ When nature all around thee seems so glad,
• When in my presence all is fresh and green,
" And where I smile no sorrow there is seen.
66 Why dost thou thus 'gainst nature's law transgress,
“ And spend thy days in dreary thoughtfulness;
“ Hath fortune with her partial ruling sway,
• Refused to aid thee through life's troubled way,
" Or health fled from thee, with her blessful train :
“ Say what it is that makes thee thus complain.”
'Tis not thy presence though with beauty bless'd,
That can bring joys into my troubled breast.
Fortune may go, and favour whom she will,
Her absence ne'er my peace of mind can kill.
Of health, that beauteous nymph, I am possessed,
But ah! a nymph more fair destroy'd my rest.
A nymph of beauteous form, and virtuous mind,
Hath stole my cheerfulness and peace of mind ;
But could I gain the heart of her I love,

Then from me inelancholy would be drove.
June, 1819.


Scrapiana Poetica.




Much meat doth gluttony procure, TO A GENTLEMAN OF THE NAME

To feed man fat as swine, OF GEE.

But he's a frugal man indeed,

That with a leaf can dine. Sure madam, by your choice your taste we

He needs no napkin for his hands, see.

His finger ends to wipe, What's good, or great, or grand, without That hath his kitchen in a box, a G.

His roast meat in a pipe.
A godly glow must sure on G depend,
Or oddly
low our righteous thoughts must

The want of G all gratitude effaces,

(To Readers of Newspapers.)' And without G the Graces would run ra. Who is it, “ Gentle Reader,” who, ces.

That labours hard in pleasing you,

By telling all that's strange and new?

The Printer.
Resigned in every state,
With patience bear,

Who tells you of the affairs of state,
With prudence push your fate,

Whilst Lords and Commons legislata,
By suffering well

Aud spend their nights in warm debate? Our fortune we subdue,

The Printer.
Fly when she frowns

Ye polititians, truly tell,
And when she calls, pursue

Who makes you understand so well,

The affairs on which you love to dwell? EPIGRAM

The Printer. On seing Mr Coward conducting the Duke of

Wellington through the streets of Bath, Then, in no case should you delay, on his grace's recent visit there.

(Though many do from day to day) Oh ! blush for shame, each warlike band,

With punctuality to pay

The Printer. And blush thou also, honest reader,The bravest Soldier in the land,

HONOUR. Has got a Coward for a leader!

Not all the threats, or favours of a crown W. R. T.

A prince's whisper, or a tyrant's frown, on Reading the above in the Bath Gazette. Can awe the spirit, or allure the mind, W. R. T. your remark is untoward- To honour's strict and noble laws inclined. Tis not the first time he followed a Coward. On higher springs, men of true honour

move, ON BEING MADE AN APRIL FOOL. Free is their service, and unbought their I pardon, Sir, the trick you play'd me,

love. When an April fool you made me,

When danger calls, and honour leads the Since I do only once appear,

way, What you alas! do all the year.

With joy they follow, and with pride obey.. ON A LADY WRITING.

HUMAN LIFE. Her even lines, her steady temper show,

Twist ye twist ye ever so, Neat as her dress, and polished as her brot; Mingle shades of human woe, Strong as her judgment, easy as her air,

Hope and fear, and peace and strife, Correct, though free, and regular, though Weave the thread of human life.

While the mystic twist is spinning, And the same graces o'er her pen preside,

And the infant life beginning, That form'd her manners and her footsteps Pimly seen through twilight bending,

Lo! what varied shapes attending!

Passions wild, and follies vain,

Pleasures, soon exchanged for pain, With glittering beams, and native glory Hope and fear, and peace and strife, bright,

Form the thread of human life!
Virtue nor darkness dreads, nor covets light;
But from her settled orb looks calmly down,, or death, a prison, or a crown.


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