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Farewell tbe glen sae busby, 0!
Farewell the plain sae rusby, 0!
To other lands 1 now must go
To sing my bighland lassie, 0. *


* This is an early production, and seems to have been written on Highland Mary.



On Mrs. --'s birth day, 4th Nov. 1793.

OLD winter with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferred ;
What have I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe ?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night's horrid car drags, dreary, slow :
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning.

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Now Jove for once be mighty civil,
To counterbalance all this evil ;
Give me, and I've no more to say,
Give me Maria's natal day!
That brilliant gift will so enrich me,
Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match me;
'Tis done! says Jove ; so ends my story,
And winter once rejoic'd in glory.



OH wert thou in the cauld blast,

On yonder lea, on yonder lea My plaidie to the angry airt,

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee: Or did misfortune's bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom,

To share it a' to share it a'.

Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desart were a paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. Or were I monarch o’the globe,

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign; The brightest jewel in my crown,

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.




With Books which the Bard presented her.

THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair,
And with them take the poet's prayer ;
That fate

in her fairest

With every kindliest, best presage,
Of future bliss, enroll thy name :
With native worth, and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution still aware
Of ill—but chief, man's felon snare;
All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind
These be thy guardian and reward ;
So prays thy faithful friend, the bard.

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Written on the 25th January, 1793, the birth-day of the Author, on hearing a tbrush sing in a

morning walk.

SING on sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,

Sing on sweet bird, I listen to thy strain,

See aged winter ’mid his surly reign,
At thy blithe carol clears his furrowed brow.

So in lone poverty's dominion drear,

Sits meek content with light unanxious heart,

Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.

I thank thee, author of this opening day!

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come thou child of poverty and care,
The mite high heaven bestowed, that mite with thee

I'll share.


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