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The Brigs of a yr.

While arts of minstrelsy among them rung,
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung.
Oh, had M•Lachlan, thairm-inspiring sage,
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage,
When through his dear strathspeys they bore with

Highland rage;
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs,
The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares;
How would his Highland lug been nobler fired,
And even his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd!
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd,
But all the soul of Music's self was heard ;
Harmonious concert rung in every part,
While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart.

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The Genius of the stream in front appears,
A venerable chief advanced in years ;
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd,
His manly leg with garter-tangle bound.
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring,
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring;
Then, crown'd with flowery hay, came Rural Joy,
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye:
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn,
Led yellow Autumn, wreathed with nodding corn ;
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show,
By Hospitality with cloudless brow.

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The Brigs of Ayr.

Next follow'd Courage, with his martial stride,
From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide ;
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air,
A female form came from the towers of Stair :
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode
From simple Catrine, their long-loved abode :
Last, white-robed Peace, crowned with a hazel wreath,
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath
The broken iron instruments of death ;
At sight of whom our sprites forgat their kindling

wrath.

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Lines

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNEYPIECE IN THE

PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH.

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
The abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious, I pursue,

,
Till famed Breadalbane opens to my view,-
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides,
The outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills :
The Tay, meandering sweet in infant pride ;
The palace, rising on its verdant side ;
The lawns, wood-fringed in Nature's native taste;
The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste;
The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream ;
The village, glittering in the noontide beam-

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Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell :

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The sweeping theatre of hanging woods !
The incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods.

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Here Poesy might wake her Heaven-taught lyre,
And look through Nature with creative fire ;
Here, to the wrongs of Fate half-reconciled,
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ;
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds;
Here heart-struck Grief might heavenward stretch

her scan,

And injured Worth forget and pardon man.

*

verses

ON AV EVENING VIEW OF 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 gray-
Ruins yet beauteous in decay--
The silvery moonbeams trembling fly,
The forms of ages long gone by
Crowd thick on Fancy's wondering eye,
And wake the soul to musings high.
Even 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-arch'd windows, painted fair,
Show many a saint and martyr there.

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