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Fu' lightly rase I in the morn,

As blythe lay down at e'en :
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 wet a sword

That thro' thy soul shall gae :
The weeping blood in woman's breast

Was never known to thee;
Nor th’ balm that draps on wounds of wae

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!
O! soon to me may summer-subs

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!

LAMENT

FOR

JAMES EARL OF GLENCAIRN THE wind blew hollow frae the bills,

By fits the sun's departing beam Look'd on the fading yellow woods

Tbat wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream •

Beneath a craigy steep, a bard,

Laden with years and meikle pain, In loud lament bewail'd his lord,

Whom death had all untimely ta’en. He lean'd him to an ancient aik,

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years; His locks were bleached white with 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 through their caves,

To echo bore the notes alang.

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• Ye scatter'd birds, that faintly sing

The relics of the vernal quire !
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds

The honours of the aged year!
A few short months, and glad and gay,

Again ye'll charm the ear and e’e;
But nought 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 hald of earth is gape : 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 mony changefu' years,

On earth I am a stranger grown; I wander in the ways

of

men, Alike unknowing and unknown: Unheard, uppitied, 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 flowers amang our barons bold,

His country's pride, his country's stay; In weary being now I pine,

For a' the life of life' is dead, And hope has left my aged ken,

On forward wing for ever ied.

Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!

The voice of woe and wild despair! Awake, resound thy latest lay,

Then sleep in silence ever mair! And thou, my last, best, only friend,

Tbat 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, involvd me round; Though oft 1 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.

• O! why has worth so short a date,

While villains ripen grey with time? Must thou, the noble generous great,

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime! Why did I live to see that day

A day to me so full of woe? O! bad 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 crowa

That on his head an hour has seen ; The mother may forget the child

That smiles sae sweetly on her knce But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,

And a' that thou hast done for me!'

TAM O' SHANTER.

A TALE

Of Browogis and of Bogilis full is this buke.

GAWIN DOUGLAS.

WHEN chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy-neebors neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
Ap' folk begin to tak the gate ;
While we sit bousing at the pappy,
An' gettin fou and unco happy,
We thiok oa on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sets our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm,

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonnie lasses.)

O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise,
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was nae sober,
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou bad siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on,
That at the L-d's house ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied, that late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon ;
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld hunted kirk.

Ab, gentle dames ! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises !

But to our tale : Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right:
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, souter Johnny,
llis ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ;
Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.

The night drave on wi’ sangs an' clatter;
And ay the ale was growing better;
The landlady and Tam grew gracious;
Wi’ favours, secret, sweet, and precious :
The souter tauld his queerest stories :
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus :
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drowo'd himself amang the nappy;
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing’d their way wi' pleasure :
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow-falls in the river,
A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place ;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.-
Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride ;
That hour, o’night's black arch the key stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ;

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