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Fate oft tears the bosom chords

That nature finest strung;
So Isabella's heart was form’d,

And so tbat heart was rung.
Dread Omnipotence, alone,

Can heal the wound he gave;
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes

To scenes beyond the grave.
Virtue's blossoms there shall blow,

And fear no withering blast;
There Isabella's spotless worth

Shall bappy be at last.

ON SCARING

SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH-TURIT;

A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF

A

OUGHTERTYRE.
W

HY, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your watry haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties ?
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free :
Peaceful keep your dimnpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave:
Or, beneath the shelt'ring rock,
Bid the surging billows shock.
Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.
Man, your proud usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below:
Plumes himself in freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels :
But man, to whom alone is giv'n
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n,
Glories in his heart humane,
And creatures for his pleasure slain:
In these savage liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv'let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
All on nature you depend,
And life's poor season peaceful spend.
Or, if mau's superior might
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borue,
Man, with all his pow'rs, you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs ;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF

THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I trace : O’er many a winding dale and painful steep, Th’ abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, My savage journey, curious, I pursue, Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. The meeting clifts each deep sunk glen divides, The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides; Th’ outstretching lake, imbosom’d’mong the bills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills;

The Tay meandering sweet in infant pride,
The palace rising on its verdant side ;
The lawns wood-fring’d, in Nature's native taste;
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste;
The arches striding o'er the new-boro stream;
The village, glittering in the noon-tide bean

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell
Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell :
Tbe sweeping theatre of hanging woods ;
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods-

Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,
And look through nature with creative fire;
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd,
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild;
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds ;
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her

scan,
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL,

STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR

LOCH-NESS.

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ;
Till fall he dashes on the rocky mounds,
Where through a shapeless breach his stream resounds.
As high in air the bursting torrents flow,
Asdeep recoiling surges foam below,
Prone down the rock the whitening-sheet descends,
And viewless Echo's ear, astonish’d, rends.
Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show rs,
The hoary cavern, wide-resounding, low'rs.

Still through the gap the struggling river toils,
And stiil, below, the horrid cauldron boils.

THE WHISTLE.

A BALLAD.

AS the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curious, I shall bere give it. In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James VI. there came over also a Danish Geutleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Wbistle, which, at the commeucement of the orgies, he laid on the table, and whoever was last able to blow it, every body else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories, without a single defeat, at the Courts of Copen. hagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany; and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that name; who, after three days and three nights hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table,

And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill, Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddle of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's.-On Friday, the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars Carse, the Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie, of Maxwelton; Robert Riddle, Esq.ofGlenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddle, who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had continued ; and Alexapder Fergusson, Esq. of Craigdarrock, likewise descended of the great Şir Robert; which last gentleman carried off the hard won honours of the field.

WNNNN

I

SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North,
Was brought to the court of our good Scotish king,
And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.

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Old Loda* still rueing the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall-
* This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er,
And drink them to hell, Sir, or ne'er see me more !”
Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell ;
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill.
Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the scaur,
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war,
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea,
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.
Tbus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain’d,
Which now in his house has for ages remain’d;
Till three noble chieftaios, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again have renew’d.
Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw,
Craigdarrock, so famous for wit, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel, so skilled in old coins,
And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines.
Craigdarrock began, with a tongue smoothe as oil,
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret, try which was the man.
By the gods of the ancients! (Glenriddel replies)
Before I surrender so glorious a prize,
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, +
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er.'
Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,
But he ne'er turn’d his back on bis foemor his friend,
Says 'Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,
And, knee-deep in claret, he'd die, ere he'd yield.'
To the board of Gledriddel our heroes repair,
Se noted for drowning of sorrow and care ;

. See Ossian's Caric-thura.

+ A chieftain of the M.Leod fatnily, who kept a horn of a quart measure in his hall, which those who aspired to a connection with his clan were compelled to drink off at a draughry io proof of their belonging to his doughty race.

See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides.

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