XX.
O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil
Be bless'd with health and peace, and sweet

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.

V. “ Look not alone on youthful prime,

Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,

Supported is his right:
But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn,
Then age and want, О ill match'd pair !

Show man was made to mourn.

XXI.
O Thou ! who pour’d the patriotic tide

That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted

VI. “ A few seem favourites of fate,

In pleasure's lap carest; Yet, think, not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly blest. But, 0! what crowds in every land

Are wretched and forlorn ; Through weary life this lesson learn,

That man was made to mourn.

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 !

VII.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

A DIRGE.

I.
W'Hen chill November's surly blast

Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wander'd forth

Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man, whose aged step
Seem'd weary,

worn with care ;
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

II. “ Young stranger, whither wanderest thou ?”

Began the reverend sage ;
« Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

Or youthful pleasure's rage ;
Or haply, press'd with cares and woes,

Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man !

III.
“ The sun that overhangs yon moors,

Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labour to support

A haughty lordling's pride ;
I've seen yon weary winter sun

Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proofs,

That man was made to mourn.

“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 ?
If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty or scorn?
Or why has man the will and power
To make his fellow mourn?

X.
" Yet let not this too much, my son,

Disturb thy youthful breast :
This partial view of human kind

Is surely not the last !
The poor, oppressed, honest man,

Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that 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 !”

IV. “O man ! while in thy early years,

How prodigal of time ! Mispending all thy precious hours,

Thy glorious youthful prime ! Alternate follies take the sway ;

Licentious passions burn ; Which tenfold force gives nature's law,

That man was made to mourn.

A PRAYER

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH.
O thou Great Being! what thou art

Surpasses me to know:
Yet sure I am, that known to thee

Are all thy works below.
Thy creature here before thee stands,

All wretched and distrest;
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul,

Obey thy high behest.
Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act

From cruelty or wrath !
O free my weary eyes from tears,

Or close them fast in death!
But if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design;
Then man my soul with firm resolves

To bear and not repine!

THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINE

TIETH PSALM.
O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend

Of all the human race !
Whose strong right hand has ever been

Their stay and dwelling place!
Before the mountains heaved their heads

Beneath thy forming hand,
Before this ponderous globe itself

Arose at thy command :
That power which raised and still upholds

This universal frame,
From countless, unbeginning time

Was ever still the same.
Those mighty periods of years

Which seem to us so vast,
Appear no more before thy sight

Than yesterday that's past.
Thou givest the word : Thy creature, man,

Is to existence brought:
Again thou say'st, “ Ye sons of men,

Return ye into naught !"
Thou layest them, with all their cares,

In everlasting sleep ;
As with a flood thou takest them off

With overwhelming sweep.
They flourish like the morning flower,

In beauty's pride array’d;
But long ere night cut down it lies

All wither'd and decay'd.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet ! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi’spreckled breast.
When upward-springing, blythe to greet

The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth

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 ;
But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies !
Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet floweret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid

Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd !
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

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, Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven,

He, ruin'd, sink! E’en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate That fate is thine-no distant date; Stern ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight

Shall be thy doom !

TO RUIN.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL,

1786.
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.

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 !
With stern-resolved, despairing eye,

I see each aimed dart;
For one has cut my dearest tie,

And quivers in my heart.

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 !
No more I shrink appallid, afraid;
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,

To close this scene of care !
When shall my soul, in silent peace,

Resign life's joy less day;
My weary heart its throbbing cease,
Cold mouldering in the clay?
No fear more, no tear more,

To stain my lifeless face;
Enclasped, and grasped

Within thy cold embrace !

TO MISS LWITH BEATTIE'S POEMS AS A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT,

JANUARY 1, 1787.

AGAIN the silent wheels of time

Their annual round have driven,
And you, though scarce in maiden prime,

Are so much nearer heaven.
No gifts have I from Indian coasts

The infant year to hail;
I send you more than India boasts,

In Edwin's simple tale.
Our sex with guile and faithless love

Is charged, perhaps, too true;
But may, dear maid, each lover prove

An Edwin still to you !

III.
I'll no say, men are villains a';

The real, harden'd wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,

Are to a few restricked :
But och! mankind are unco weak,

An' little to be trusted;
If self the wavering balance shake,
It's rarely right adjusted !

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 ;
A man may hae an honest heart,

Though poortith hourly stare him ;
A man may tak a neebor's part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

V.
Aye free, aff han' your story tell,

When wi'a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel

Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can

Frae critical dissection ;
But keek through every other man,
Wi’sharpen'd, slee inspection.

VI.
The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love,

Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th' illicit rove,

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.

VIII.
The fear o'hell's a hangman's whip,

To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,

Let that aye be your border;
Its slightest touches, instant pause-

Debar a' side pretences ;
And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences.

IX.
The great Creator to revere

Must sure become the creature;
But still the preaching cant forbear,

And e'en the rigid feature;
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,

Be complaisance extended ;
An atheist's laugh's a poor exchange

For Deity offended!

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

MAY, 1786.

I. I Lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend,

A something to have sent you,
Though it should serve nae other end

Than just a kind memento;
But how the subject theme may gang

Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

II.
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.

A'YE wha live by soups o' drink,
A'ye wha live by crambo-clink,
A’ye wha live and never think,

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.

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.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill

In time o' need,
While through your pores the dews distil

Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic labour dight,
An'cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright

Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,

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;
Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve,

Bethankit hums.
Is there that o'er his French ragout,
Or olio that would staw a sow,
Or fricasee wad make her spew

Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view

On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip lash,

His nieve a nit;
Through bloody food or field to dash,

O how unfit!

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; He was her laureate monie a year,

That's owre the sea.

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west Lang mustering up a bitter blast; A jillet brak his heart at last,

Ill may she be! So took a birth afore the mast,

An' owre the sea. To tremble under fortune's cummock, On scarce a bellyfu'o' drummock,