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For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent !
content! And o may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much loved isle.
XXI. O Thou ! who pour’d the patriotic tide That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted
heart; Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert :
But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard !
V. “ Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Supported is his right:
With cares and sorrows worn,
In pleasure's lap carest;
Are likewise truly blest.
Are wretched and forlorn ;
That man was made to mourn.
MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.
When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
Along the banks of Ayr,
Seem'd weary, worn with care ;
And hoary was his hair.
“ Many and sharp the numerous ills
Inwoven with our frame ! More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame! And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn!
VIII. “See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil; And see his lordly fellow worm
The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, though a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn.
IX. “ If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,
By nature's law design'd, Why was an independent wish
E’er planted in my mind ?
His cruelty or scorn ?
To make his fellow mourn ?
“ Young stranger, whither wanderest thou ?”
Began the reverend sage;
Or youthful pleasure's rage ;
Too soon thou hast began
Out-spreading far and wide,
A haughty lordling's pride ;
Twice forty times return;
That man was made to mourn.
XI. “O death! the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best! Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn; But 0! a bless'd relief to those
That weary-laden mourn !”
A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THE
AUTHOR LEFT 1.
THE FOLLOWING VERSES
IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT.
O thou dread Power, who reign'st above!
I know thou wilt me hear:
When for this scene of peace and love,
I make my prayer sincere.
The hoary sire—the mortal stroke,
Long, long be pleased to spare !
To bless his little filial flock,
And show what good men are.
She, who her lovely offspring eyes
With tender hopes and fears,
O bless her with a mother's joys,
But spare a mother's tears !
Their hope, their stay, their darling youth,
In manhood's dawning blush;
Bless him, thou God of love and truth,
Up to a parent's wish!
The beauteous, seraph sister band,
With earnest tears I pray,
When soon or late they reach that coast, Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene?
O’er life's rough ocean driven, Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ?
May they rejoice, no wanderer lost,
A family in heaven! Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between :
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms: Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?
Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;
THE FIRST PSALM. I tremble to approach an angry God,
The man, in life wherever placed, And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.
Hath happiness in store,
Who walks not in the wicked's way,
Nor learns their guilty lore !
Nor from the seat of scornful pride
Casts forth his eyes abroad, Again in folly's path might go astray;
But with humility and awe
Still walks before his God.
That man shall flourish like the trees
Which by the streamlets grow;
The fruitful top is spread on high, ran?
And firm the root below. O thou, great Governor of all below!
But he whose blossom buds in guilt If I may dare a lifted eye to thee,
Shall to the ground be cast, Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
And, like the rootless stubble, tost
Before the sweeping blast.
For why? that God the good adore
Hath given them peace and rest, To rule their torrent in th’allowed line;
But hath decreed that wicked men O aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine !
Shall ne'er be truly blest.
UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH.
O THOU Great Being! what thou art
Surpasses me to know :
Are all thy works below.
All wretched and distrest;
Obey thy high behest.
From cruelty or wrath !
Or close them fast in death!
To suit some wise design;
To bear and not repine !
THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINE
Of all the human race !
Their stay and dwelling place!
Beneath thy forming hand,
Arose at thy command :
This universal frame,
Was ever still the same.
Which seem to us so vast,
Than yesterday that's past.
Is to existence brought:
Return ye into naught !”
In everlasting sleep;
With overwhelming sweep.
In beauty's pride array'd ;
All wither'd and decay'd.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet ! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet !
The purpling east.
Amid the storm,
Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield, But thou beneath the random bield
O'clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field,
Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise ;
And low thou lies !
And guileless trust,
Low i' the dust.
Of prudent lore,
And whelm him o'er! Such fate of suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven, By human pride or cunning driven,
To misery's brink,
He, ruin'd, sink !
Full on thy bloom,
Shall be thy doom !
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL,
I. All hail! inexorable lord ! At whose destruction-breathing word,
The mightiest empires fall! Thy cruel wo-delighted train, The ministers of grief and pain,
A sullen welcome, all!
I see each aimed dart;
And quivers in my heart.
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem; To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem.
Then lowering, and pouring,
The storm no more I dread; Though thickening and blackening Round my devoted head.
II. And, thou grim power, by life abhorr'd, While life a pleasure can afford,
0! hear a wretch's prayer !
To close this scene of care !
Resign life's joyless day;
To stain my lifeless face;
Within thy cold embrace !
The real, harden'd wicked,
Are to a few restricked:
An' little to be trusted;
IV. Yet they wha fa’ in fortune's strife,
Their fate we should nae censure, For still th' important end of life
They equally may answer ;
Though poortith hourly stare him ; A man may tak a neebor's part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.
TO MISS L
WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS AS A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.
JANUARY 1, 1787.
AGAiN the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driven,
Are so much nearer heaven.
The infant year to hail;
In Edwin's simple tale.
Is charged, perhaps, too true ;
An Edwin still to you!
Aye free, aff han’ your story tell,
When wi'a bosom crony;
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Frae critical dissection ;
Luxuriantly indulge it;
Though naething should divulge it! I wave the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard of concealing; But och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling!
VII. To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by every wile
That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Not for a train-attendant; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent.
To haud the wretch in order;
Let that aye be your border;
Debar a' side pretences;
Must sure become the creature;
And e'en the rigid feature;
Be complaisance extended ;
For Deity offended!
EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.
I lang hae thought, my youthfu’ friend,
A something to have sent you,
Than just a kind memento;
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps turn out a sermon.
Ye'll try the world soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye. For care and trouble set your thought,
E'en when your end's attained; And a' your views may come to naught, Where every nerve is strained.
Wi' his proud, independent stomach
Could ill agree; So row't his hurdies in a hammock,
An' owre the sea.
He dealt it free:
That's owre the sea.
And fu'o' glee;
That's owre the sea.
. Though owre the sea.
ON A SCOTCH BARD GONE TO THE WEST
TO A HAGGIS.
A’YE wha live by soups o’drink,
Come mourn wi' me! Our billie's gien us a'a jink,
An' owre the sea. Lament him, a’ye rantin core, Wha dearly like a random-splore, Nae mair he'll join the merry-roar,
In social key; For now he's ta’en anither shore,
An’owre the sea. • The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him; The widows, wives, an'a' may bless him,
Wi' tearfu' e'e ; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him
That's owre the sea. O fortune, they hae room to grumble ! Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bummle, Wha can do naught but fyke and fumble,
'Twad been nae plea; But he was gleg as ony wumble,
That's owre the sea. Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, An' stain them wi’ the saut, saut tear; "Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,
In flinders flee ;
That's owre the sea.
Ill may she be!
An' owre the sea.
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin race ! Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.
In time o' need,
Like amber bead.
Like onie ditch;
Warm-reekin, rich! Then horn for horn they stretch an’strive, Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive, Till a'their weel-swall’d kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Wi' perfect sconner,
On sic a dinner ?
His nieve a nit;
O how unfit!