'Ye scattered birds that faintly sing,
The relics of the vernal quire!

Ye woods that shed on a' the winds
The honours of the agèd year!
A few short months, and glad and gay,
Again ye 'll charm the ear and ee;
But nocht in all revolving time
Can gladness bring again to me.

'I am a bending, agèd tree,

That long has stood the wind and rain; But now has come a cruel blast,

And my last hald of earth is gane:
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, unpitied, unrelieved,

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 flower 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 agèd ken,

On forward wing for ever fled.

'Awake thy last sad voice, my harp! The voice of woe and wild despair! Awake, resound thy latest lay,

Then sleep in silence evermair! And thou, my last, best, only friend, That 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, involved me round
Though oft I turned 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.

'Oh, 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!
Oh, had 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 crown
That on his head an hour has been;
The mother may forget the child

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

And a' that thou hast done for me!'

LINES

SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, OF WHITEFOORD, WITH THE FOREGOING POEM.

THOU, Who thy honour as thy God rever'st,
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st,
To thee this votive offering I impart,

The tearful tribute of a broken heart.

The friend thou valuedst, I the patron loved;
His worth, his honour, all the world approved:
We'll mourn till we, too, go as he has gone,

And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown.

TO THE MEMORY OF PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD STUART.

FALSE flatterer, Hope, away!

Nor think to lure us as in days of yore;
We solemnize this sorrowing natal day
To prove our loyal truth; we can no more;
And owning Heaven's mysterious sway,
Submissive low adore.

Ye honoured mighty dead!

Who nobly perished in the glorious cause,
Your king, your country, and her laws!

From great Dundee, who smiling Victory led,
And fell a martyr in her arms

(What breast of northern ice but warms?)

To bold Balmerino's undying name,

Whose soul of fire, lighted at heaven's high flame, Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes

Nor unavenged your fate shall be,
It only lags the fatal hour;
Your blood shall with incessant cry
Awake at last th' unsparing power;
As from the cliff, with thundering course,
The snowy ruin smokes along,

With doubling speed and gathering force,
Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the vale!

So vengeance

TO A HAGGIS.

FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin' race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill

In time o' need,

While through your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;

And then, oh, what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin', rich!

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive,
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel swalled kytes belyve

Are bent like drums:

Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve,
Bethankit hums.

Is there that o'er his French ragoût,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassée wad mak her spew

Wi' perfect sconner,

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a withered rash,
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;

Through bloody flood or field to dash,
Oh, how unfit!

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,

The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He'll mak it whissle;

An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thristle.

Ye Powers, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae stinking ware

That jaups in luggies;

But if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,

Gie her a haggis.