And I will join a mother's tender cares,
Through future times to make his virtues last; That distant years may boast of other Blairs!'She said, and vanished with the sleeping blast.
ENCLOSING THE ELEGY ON SIR J. H. BLAIR.
NAE heathen name shall I prefix
Frae Pindus or Parnassus;
Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks,
For rhyme-inspiring lasses.
Jove's tunefu' dochters three times three
Made Homer deep their debtor;
But, gi'en the body half an ee,
Nine Ferriers wad done better!
Last day my mind was in a bog,
Down George's Street I stoited;
A creeping, cauld, prosaic fog
My very senses doited.
Do what I dought to set her free,
My saul lay in the mire ;
Ye turned a neuk-I saw your ee--
She took the wing like fire!
The mournfu' sang I here enclose,
In gratitude I send you;
And wish and pray, in rhyme sincere,
A' guid things may attend you.
WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNEYPIECE
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,
The abodes of coveyed grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious, I
pursue,
Till famed Breadalbane opens to my view,—
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild-scattered, clothe their ample sides;
The outstretching lake, embosomed 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills:
The Tay, meandering sweet in infant pride,
The palace, rising on its verdant side;
The lawns, wood-fringed in Nature's native taste;
The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste;
The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream;
The village, glittering in the noontide beam-
Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell:
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods!
The incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods.
Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre,
And look through Nature with creative fire;
Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconciled,
Misfortune's lightened steps might wander wild;
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds;
Here heart-struck Grief might heavenward stretch her
injured Worth forget and pardon man.
THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR
TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOL.
MY LORD, I know your noble ear
Woe ne'er assails in vain ;
Emboldened thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.
The lightly jumping glowering trouts,
That through my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I'm scorching up to shallow,
They're left the whitening stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow.
Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,
As Poet Burns came by,
That, to a bard I should be seen
Wi' half my channel dry:
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
E'en as I was he shored me;
But had I in my glory been,
He, kneeling, wad adored me.
Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin;
There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o'er a linn:
Enjoying large each spring and well
As Nature gave them me,
I am, although I say't mysel',
Worth gaun a mile to see.
Would then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes,
He'll shade my banks wi' towering trees,
And bonnie spreading bushes;
Delighted doubly then, my Lord,
You'll wander on my banks,
And listen mony a grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.
The sober laverock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire;
The gowdspink, music's gayest child,
Shall sweetly join the choir:
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,
The mavis mild and mellow;
The robin pensive autumn cheer,
In all her locks of yellow.
This, too, a covert shall ensure,
To shield them from the storm;
And coward maukin sleep secure,
Low in her grassy form:
Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
To weave his crown of flowers;
Or find a sheltering safe retreat,
From prone descending showers.
And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair;
Despising worlds with all their wealth
As empty, idle care:
The flowers shall vie in all their charms
The hour of heaven to grace,
And birks extend their fragrant arms
To screen the dear embrace.
Here haply too, at vernal dawn,
Some musing bard may stray,
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn,
And misty mountain grey:
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,
Mild-chequering through the trees,
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream,
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
My lowly banks o'erspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,
Their shadows' watery bed!
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest,
My craggy cliffs adorn;
And, for the little songsters' nest,
The close embow'ring thorn.
So may old Scotia's darling hope,
Your little angel band,
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop
Their honoured native land!
So may through Albion's farthest ken,
To social flowing glasses,
The grace be-'Athol's honest men,
And Athol's bonnie lasses!'
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