Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers, Shall birdie charm, or flow'ret smile; Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle! MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. WE A DIRGE. HEN chill November's surly blast I spied a man whose aged step Seemed weary, worn with care; His face was furrowed o'er with years, And hoary was his hair. "Young stranger, whither wanderest thou? Began the reverend sage: "Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or haply, prest with cares and woes, To wander forth, with me, to mourn The miseries of man. "The sun that overhangs yon moors, Outspreading far and wide, Where hundreds labour to support A haughty lordling's pride: That man was made to mourn. "Oh, man! while in thy early years, Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, "Look not alone on youthful prime, Supported is his right: But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn; Then Age and Want-oh ill-matched pair!— Shew man was made to mourn. "A few seem favourites of fate, In Pleasure's lap carest; Yet think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest. But, oh! what crowds in every land, Through weary life this lesson learn 66 Many and sharp the numerous ills More pointed still we make ourselves And man, whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! "See yonder poor, o'erlaboured wight, To give him leave to toil; "If I'm designed yon lordling's slave By Nature's law designed Why was an independent wish If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn? Or why has man the will and power "Yet let not this too much, my son, Disturb thy youthful breast; This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the last! The poor, oppressed, honest man, Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense "Oh, Death! the poor man's dearest friend The kindest and the best! Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, But, oh! a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn! THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. "Let not ambition mock their useful toil, The short and simple annals of the poor."- GRAY. MY loved, my honoured, much-respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end; My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise. To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween! November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh, The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hame ward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Th' expectant wee things, toddlin', stacher through To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee. His wee bit ingle, blinking bonnily, His clean hearthstane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, And makes him quite forget his labour and his toil. Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown, |