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TO MISS LOGAN,
WITH BEATTIE'S FOEMS AS A NEW YEAR'S GIFT,
JANUARY I, 1787.
AGAIN the silent wheels of time
Their annual round bave driv'n,
Are so much nearer İleav'n.
The infant year to hail;
In Edwin's simple tale.
Is charg'd, perhaps, too true;
An Edwin still to you!
ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.
EDINA! Scotia’s darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and tow'rs,
Sat legislation's sov'reign pow’rs !
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.
As busy trade his labour plies,
Bids elegance and splendour rise:
High wields her balance and her rod;
Secks science in her coy abode.
Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,
With open arms the stranger hail ; Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind,
Above the narrow rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail,
Or modest merit's silent claim ;
And never envy blot his name!
Gay as the gilded suminer sky,
Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy! Fair Burnet* strikes th' adoring eye,
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine; I see the sire of love on high,
And own his work indeed divine ! There, watching high the least alarms,
Tby rough rude fortress gleams afar: Like some bold vet’ran, grey in arms,
And mark'd with many a seamy scar. The pond'rous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock,
And oft repelld th' invader shock.
I view that noble stately dome,
Fam'd heroes, had their royal home : Alas, how chang'd the times to come!
Their royal name low in the dust! Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam !
Though rigid law cries out, ''twas just !' Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore, Through hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore; Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore,
Haply my sires have left their shed, The lovely and accomplished daughter of Lory Monboddo. And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar,
Bold following where your fathers led. Edina! Scotia's darling seat !
All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet
Sat legislation's sov'reign pow’rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade,
Tune, .Roslin Castle.' THE gloomy night is gathering fast, Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, Yon murkey cloud is foul with rain, I see it driving o'er the plain; The hunter now has left the moor, The scatter'd coveys meet secure, While here I wander, prest with care, Along the lonely banks of Ayr. The autumn mourns her ripening corn By early winter's ravage torn ; Across her placid azure sky, She sees the scowling tempest ily: Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, I think apon the stormy wave, Where many a danger I must dare, Far from the bonpie banks of Ayr. 'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 'Tis not that fatal deadly shore; Though death in ev'ry shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear; But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc'd with many a wound ; These bled afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.
Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales,
thee, Eliza, I must go,
A boundless ocean's roar:
Between my love and me,
My heart and soul from thee!
The maid that I adore!
We part to meet no more!
While death stands victor by,
And thine that latest sigh !
Tune, Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern let's fy.' No churchman am I for to rail and to write, No statesman or soldier to plot or to light, No sly man of business contriving a snare, For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care.
The peer I don't envy, I give hiin his bow;
A STANZA ADDED IN A MASONS' LODGE.
Young's Night Thoughts.