The morn that warns th' approaching day,
Awakes me up to toil and woe:
I see the hours in long array,
That I must suffer, lingering, slow.
Full many a pang, and many a throe,
1 Keen recollection's direful train,
Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low,
Shall kiss the distant, western main.
And when my nightly couch I try,
Sore harassed out with care and grief, My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, Keep watchings with the nightly thief: Or, if I slumber, Fancy, chief,
Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright: E'en day, all bitter, brings relief
From such a horror-breathing night.
O thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway! Oft has thy silent marking glance
Observed us, fondly wandering, stray!
The time, unheeded, sped away,
While Love's luxurious pulse beat high,
Beneath thy silver gleaming ray,
To mark the mutual kindling eye.
Oh, scenes in strong remembrance set!
Scenes, never, never to return!
Scenes, if in stupor I forget,
Again I feel, again I burn!
From every joy and pleasure torn,
Life's weary vale I'll wander through;
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn
A faithless woman's broken vow.
WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, AS A NEW YEAR'S gift, JAN. 1, 1787.
AGAIN the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driven,
And you, though scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer heaven.
No gifts have I from 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 charged, perhaps too true;
But may, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you!
GONE TO THE WEST INDIES.
A' YE wha live by soups o' drink,
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,
A' ye wha live and never think,
Come mourn wi' me!
Our billie's gi'en us a' a jink,
An' owre the sea.
Lament him, a' ye rantin' core,
Wha dearly like a random splore,
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar
In social key;
For now he's ta'en anither shore,
An' owre the sea.
The bonnie lasses weel may miss him,
And in their dear petitions place him:
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him,
Wi' tearfu' ee;
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him
That's owre the sea.
O Fortune, they hae room to grumble !
Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bumble,
Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble,
'Twad been nae plea;
But he was gleg as ony wumble,
That's owre the sea.
Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear,
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;
"Twill make her poor auld heart, I fear,
In flinders flee;
He was her laureate mony a year,
That's owre the sea.
He saw misfortune's cauld nor'-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last,
So, took a berth afore the mast,
And owre the sea.
To tremble under Fortune's cummock,
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,
Wi' his proud, independent stomach
Could ill agree;
So, row't his hurdies in a hammock,
He ne'er was gi'en to great misguiding,
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding;
He dealt it free:
The muse was a' that he took pride in,
That's owre the sea.
Jamaica bodies use him weel,
An' hap him in a cozie biel:
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel,
He wad'na wranged the vera Deil,
That's owre the sea.
Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!
Your native soil was right ill-willie;
But may ye flourish like a lily,
I'll toast ye in my hind'most gillie,
Though owre the sea.
FAREWELL TO THE BRETHREN OF ST.
JAMES'S LODGE, TARBOLTON.
ADIEU! a heart-warm, fond adieu!
Dear brothers of the mystic tie!
Ye favoured, ye enlightened few,
Companions of my social joy!
Though I to foreign lands must hie,
Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba',
With melting heart, and brimful eye,
I'll mind you still, though far awa'.
Oft have I met your social band,
And spent the cheerful, festive night;
Oft honoured with supreme command,
Presided o'er the sons of light
And by that hieroglyphic bright,
Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write Those happy scenes when far awa'.
May freedom, harmony, and love,
Unite you in the grand design,
Beneath th' Omniscient Eye above,
The glorious Architect divine!
That you may keep th' unerring line,
Still rising by the plummet's law,
Till order bright completely shine,
Shall be my prayer when far awa'.
And you farewell! whose merits claim,
Justly, that highest badge to wear!
Heaven bless your honoured, noble name,
To Masonry and Scotia dear!
A last request permit me here,
When yearly ye assemble a',
One round, I ask it with a tear,
To him, the bard that's far awa'.
THE FAREWELL.
FAREWELL Old Scotia's bleak domains,
Far dearer than the torrid plains
Where rich bananas blow!
Farewell a mother's blessing dear!
A brother's sigh! a sister's tear!
My Jean's heart-rending throe!
Farewell, my Bess! though thou 'rt bereft
Of my parental care!
A faithful brother I have left,
My part in him thou 'lt share!
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