No more by the banks of the streamlet we 'll

wander, [wave; And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the No more shall my arms cling with fondness around

her [grave. For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast,

I haste with the storm to a far distant shore; Where, unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.

LAMENT,

FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN.

THE wind blew hollow fraez the hills,
By fits the sun's departing beam
Look'd on the fading yellow woods
That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream:
Beneath a craigy steep, a Bard,

Laden with years and meiklea pain,

In loud lament bewail'd his lord,

Whom death had all untimely taen.b

He lean'd him to an ancient aik,c

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years;

His locks were bleached white wi' time,
His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears!
And as he touch'd his trembling harp,
And as he tun'd his doleful sang,
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves,
To echo bore the notes alang.

'Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing,
The reliques of the vernal choir!
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds
The honours of the aged year!

z From

a Much.

b Taken.

c Oak.

H

A few short months, and glad and gay,
Again ye 'll charm the ear and e'e,
But nocht in all revolving time
Can gladness bring again to me.

I am a bending aged tree,

That long has stood the wind and rain But now has come a cruel blast,

And my last halde of earth is gane. Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; But I maun lie before the storm, And ithers plant them in my room. 'I 've seen sae monie changefu' years, On earth I am a stranger grown; I wander in the ways of men, Alike unknowing and unknown: Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, I bear alane my lade o' care, For silent, low, on beds of dust, Lie a' that would my sorrows share.

And last (the sum of a' my griefs !) My noble master lies in clay; The flow'r amang our barons bold, His country's pride, his country's stay: weary being now I pine,

In

For a' the life of life is dead,
And hope has left my aged ken,
On forward wing for ever fled.

Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!
The voice of woe and wild despair!
Awake! resound thy latest lay,
Then sleep in silence evermair!
And thou, my last, best, only friend,
That fillest an untimely tomb,

Accept this tribute from the Bard

Thou brought from Fortune's mirkest gloom.

In poverty's low barren vale,

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round; Tho' oft I turn'd the wistful eye,

Nae ray of fame was to be found:
Thou found'st me like the morning sun
That melts the fogs in limpid air,
The friendless Bard and rustic song,
Became alike thy fostering care.
Oh! why has worth so short a date?
While villains ripen grey with time!
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great,
Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime?
Why did I live to see that day?

A day to me so full of woe!
Oh! had I met the mortal shaft
Which laid my benefactor low!
The bridegroom may forget the bride
Was made his wedded wife yestreen;
The monarch may forget the crown
That on his head an hour has been;
The mother may forget the child

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee;
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,
And a' that thou hast done for me!'g

LINES

Sent to Sir John Whitefoord, of Whitefoord, Bart.,
with the foregoing Poem.

THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'st,

Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly
To thee this votive offering I impart,
The tearful tribute of a broken heart.

[fear'st,

The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd;
His worth, his honour, all the world appror'd.

Darkest.

See Note, page 126.

We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown.

LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS,
On the approach of Spring.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea:

Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies;

But nocht can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
A loft on dewy wing;

The merle,h in his noontide bow'r,
Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis mild, wi' many a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest:
In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn 's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae:
The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their sweets amang;
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,
Maunk lie in prison strang.1

I was the Queen o' bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been;
Fu'm lightly raise I in the morn,
As blythe lay down at e'en :

The Blackbird.

Strong.

i The Thrush.

& Must.

m Full.

And I'm the Sov'reign of Scotland,

And monie a traitor there: Yet here I lie in foreign bands,

And never-ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman,

My sister and my fae,

Grim Vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword
That through thy soul shall gae:

The weeping blood in woman's breast
Was never known to thee;

Nor th' balm that drops on wounds of woe

Frae woman's pitying e'e.

My son! my son! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine;

And may those pleasures gild thy reign,
That ne'er wad blink" on mine!

God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,

Or turn their hearts to thee;

And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, Remember him for me!

Oh! soon, to me, may summer-suns

Nae mair light up the morn!

Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds

Wave o'er the yellow corn!

And in the narrow house o' death

Let winter round me rave;

And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, Bloom on my peaceful grave!

Would shine.

No more.