A WINTER NIGHT.

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pityless storm!
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these ?-

SHAKSPEARE.

WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r; When Phabus gies a short-liv'd glow'r Far south the lift, Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, Or whirling drift:

Ae night the storm the steeples rock'd, Poor labour sweet in sleep was lock'd, While burns, wi' snawy wreeths up-chock'd, Wild-eddying swirl,

Or thro' the mining outlet bock'd,

Down headlong hurl.

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle,

O' winter war, And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, That, in the merry months o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o' thee? Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, An' close thy e'e?

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd,
Lone from your savage homes exil'd,
The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd,
My heart forgets,

While pityless the tempest wild
Sore on you beats.

Now Phabe, in her midnight reign Dark muffl'd, view'd the dreary plain, Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, Rose in my soul,

When on my ear this plaintive strain, Slow, solemn, stole

"Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust. And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost! Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows! Not all your rage, as now united, shows

More hard unkindness, unrelenting, Vengeful malice, unrepenting,

Than heav'n illumin'd man on brother man be. stows!

See stern oppression's iron grip,

Or mad ambition's gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Wo, want, and murder o'er a land! Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pamper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side, The parasite empoisoning her ear,

With all the servile wretches in the rear, Looks o'er proud property, extended wide; And eyes the simple rustic hind,

Whose toil upholds the glittring show, A creature of another kind,

Some coarser substance, unrefin'd.

Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, be

low;

Where, where is love's fond, tender throe,
With lordly honour's lofty brow,

The pow'rs you proudly own?
Is there, beneath love's noble name,
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,
To bless himself alone!
Mark maiden-innocence a prey

To love-pretending snares,
This boasted honour turns away
Shunning soft pity's rising sway,
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs!
Perhaps, this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest,
She strains your infant to her joyless breast,
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock-
ing blast!

Oh ye! who sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,

Whom friends and fortune quite disown! Ill-satisfy'd keen nature's clam'rous call, Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep,

While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall,
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap!
Think on the dungeon's grim confine,
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine!
Guilt, erring man, relenting view '
But shall thy lega rage pursue
The wretch, already crushed low
By cruel fortune's underserved blow?
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress,
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!

WHILE winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw,
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,
And hing us owre the ingle,
I set me down to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,
In hamely westlin jingle.
While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the great folks' gift,
That live sae bien an' snug:
I tent less, and want less
Their roomy fire-side;
But hanker and canker,
To see their cursed pride.
II.

It's hardly in a body's pow'r,
To keep, at times, frae being sour,
To see how things are shar'd;
How best o' chiels are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,
And ken na how to wair't:

But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head
Tho' we hae little gear,
We're fit to win our daily bread,
As lang's we're hale and fier:
"Mair spier na', nor fear na,"t
Auld age ne'er mind a feg,
The last o't, the warst o't,
Is only for to beg.

III.

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,
When banes are craz'd and bluid is thin,

Is, doubtless, great distress!

Yet then content could make us blest;
Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.

The honest heart that's free frae a'
Intended fraud or guile,
However fortune kick the ba',
Has ay some cause to smile,
And mind still, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma';
Nae mair then, we'll care then,
Nae farther can we fa'.

David Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, and author of a volume of Poems in the Scottish dialect. E ↑ Ramsay.

IV.

What tho', like commoners of air,
We wander out, we know not where,
But either house or hall?

Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.

In days when daisies deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle clear,
With honest joy our hearts will bound,
To see the coming year:

On braes when we please, then,
We'll sit an' sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till❜t,
And sing 't when we hae done.

V.

It's no in titles nor in rank;
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,
To purchase peace and rest;
It's no in makin muckle mair:
It's no in books; it's no in lear,
To make us truly blest:
If happiness hae not her seat

And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest;

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could make us happy lang;
The heart ay's the part ay,

That makes us right or wrang.

VI.

Think ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge and drive thro' wet and dry
Wi' never-ceasing toil;

Think ye, are we less blest than they
Wha scarcely tent us in their way,
As hardly worth their while?
Alas! how aft in haughty mood,
God's creatures they oppress!
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid,
They riot in excess!

Baith careless, and fearless
Of either heav'n or hell'
Esteeming, and deeming
It's a' an idle tale!

VII.

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce;
Nor make our scanty pleasures less,
By pining at our state;
And, even should misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some,
An's thankfu' for them yet.
They gie the wit of age to youth;
They let us ken oursel:
They make us see the naked truth,
The real guid and ill.

Tho' losses, and crosses,

Be lessons right severe,

There's wit there, ye'll get there,

Ye'll find nae other where.

VIII.

But tent me Davie, ace o' hearts!

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, And flatt'ry I detest)

This life has joys for you and I;
And joys that riches ne'er could buy;
And joys the very best.
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart,
The lover an' the frien';

Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!

It warms me, it charms me,
To mention but her name:

It heats me, it beets me,

And sets me a' on flame!

IX.

O' all ye pow'rs who rule above!
O Thou, whose very self art love!

Thou know'st my words sincere!
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart,
Or my more dear, immortal part,
Is not more fondly dear!
When heart-corroding care and grief
Deprive my soul of rest,
Her dear idea brings relief
And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, All-seeing,
O hear my fervent pray'r;
Still take her, and make her
Thy most peculiar care!

X.

All hail, ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love, the friendly tear,
The sympathetic glow;

Long since, this world's thorny ways
Had number'd out my weary days,
Had it not been for you!

Fate still has bless'd me with a friend,
In every care and ill;

And oft a more endearing band,
A tie more tender still.

It lightens, it brightens
The tenebrific scene,
To meet with, and greet with
My Davie or my Jean.

XI.

O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin rank and file,
Amaist before I ken!

The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phœbus and the famous Nine
Were glowrin owre my pen.

My spaviet Pegasus will limp,

Till ance he's fairly het;

And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,
An' rin an unco fit:

But least then, the beast then,
Should rue this hasty ride,
I'll light now, and dight now
His sweaty wizen'd hide.

THE LAMENT,

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR.

Alas! how oft does Goodness wound itself, And sweet Affection prove the spring of wo! HOME.

I.

O THOU pale orb, that silent shines, While care-untroubled mortals sleep! Thou seest a wretch that inly pines,

And wanders here to wail and weep! With wo I nightly vigils keep,

Beneath thy wan unwarming beam; And mourn, in lamentation deep, How life and love are all a dream.

II.

I joyless view thy rays adorn

The faintly-marked distant hill: I joyless view thy trembling horn, Reflected in the gurgling rill: My fondly-fluttering heart, be still! Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance cease! Ah! must the agonizing thrill

For ever bar returning peace!

III.

No idly-feign'd poetic pains,

My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim, No shepherd's pipe-Arcadian strains; No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : The plighted faith; the mutual flame; The oft attested pow'rs above : The promis'd Father's tender name: These were the pledges of my love!

IV.

Encircled in her clasping arms,
How have the raptur'd moments flown
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms,
For her dear sake, and hers alone'