And singing, lone, the lingering hours, Here wealth still swells the golden tide, Thy sons, Edina! social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to Sorrow's wail, Or modest Merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name! Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptured thrill of joy! Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine; I see the Sire of Love on high, And own his work indeed divine! There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; Like some bold veteran, gray in arms, And marked with many a seamy scar. With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Haply, my sires have left their shed, Edina! Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat Legislation's sovereign powers! From marking wildly-scattered flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I strayed, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honoured shade. ODE ON THE CHEVALIER'S BIRTHDAY. FALSE flatterer, Hope, away! Nor think to lure us as in days of yore; We solemnise 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, From great Dundee who smiling victory led, (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 claim. Nor unavenged your fate shall be, With doubling speed and gathering force, Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the vale! TO MISS LOGAN WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS: AS A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT, JANUARY 1, 1787. A GAIN 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 I send you more than India boasts Our sex with guile and faithless love 7 BONNIE DOON. YE flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care! Thou 'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause luve was true. Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, For sae I sat, and sae I sang, Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose Frae aff its thorny tree, And my fause luver staw the rose, THE GUDEWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE TO BURNS. MY cantie, witty, rhyming ploughman, I hafflins doubt it is na true, man, That ye between the stilts was bred, Wi' ploughmen schooled, wi' ploughmen fed; I doubt it sair, ye 've drawn your knowledge Either frae grammar-school or college. Guid troth, your saul and body baith War better fed, I'd gie my aith, Than theirs who sup sour milk and parritch, Could tell gif Homer was a Greek? |