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JANUARY I, 1787.

AGAIN the silent wheels of time

Their annual round bave driv'n,
And you, though scarce in maiden prime,

Are so much nearer İleav'n.
No gifts have I froin 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 charg'd, perhaps, too true;
But may, dear maid, each lover prove

An Edwin still to you!


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.
Here wealth still swells the golden tide,

As busy trade his labour plies,
There architecture's noble pride

Bids elegance and splendour rise:
Here justice, from her native skies,

High wields her balance and her rod;
There learning, with his eagle eyes,

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 may their sources fail !

And never envy blot his name!
Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn;

Gay as the gilded suminer sky,
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,

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,
Have oft withstood assailing war,

And oft repelld th' invader shock.
With awe-struck thought and pitying tears,

I view that noble stately dome,
Where Scotia's kings of other years,

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,
Her heathy moors and winding vales ;
The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past unhappy loves !
Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with thos:-
The bursting tears my heart declare,
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.


Tune, ‘Gilderoy.'


thee, Eliza, I must go,
And from my native shore ;
The cruel fates between us throw

A boundless ocean's roar:
But boundless oceans, roaring wide,

Between my love and me,
They never, never can divide

My heart and soul from thee!
Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,

The maid that I adore!
A boding voice is in mine ear,

We part to meet no more!
But the last throb that leaves my heart,

While death stands victor by,
That throb, Eliza, is thy part,

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;
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low,
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
Here passes the 'squire on his brother-his horse;
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse;
But see you the Crown how it waves in the air,
There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care.
The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ;
For sweet consolation to church I did ily;
I found that old Solomon proved it fair,
That a big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care.
I once was persuaded a venture to make:
A letter informed me that all was to wreck ;-
But the pursy, old landlord just waddled up stairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.
Life's cares they are comforts,*-a maxim laid

By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the
And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair,
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of care.

black gowo;


Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow,
And honours masonic prepare for to throw;
May ev'ry true brother of the compass and square
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harrass'd with care.

Young's Night Thoughts.

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