Adieu too, to you too,
My Smith, my bosom frien';
When kindly you mind me,
Oh, then befriend my Jean!
What bursting anguish tears my heart!
From thee, my Jeanie, must I part!
Thou, weeping, answerest, 'No!'
Alas! misfortune stares my face,
And points to ruin and disgrace,
I for thy sake must go!
Thee, Hamilton and Aiken dear,
A grateful, warm adieu !
I, with a much indebted tear,
Shall still remember you!
All hail then, the gale then,
Wafts me from thee, dear shore!
It rustles and whistles-
I'll never see thee more!
FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE.
SCENES of woe and scenes of pleasure, Scenes that former thoughts renew, Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, Now a sad and last adieu !
Bonny Doon, sae sweet and gloamin',
Fare thee weel before I gang!
Bonny Doon, whare early roaming,
First I weaved the rustic sang!
Bowers, adieu, where Love, decoying,
First inthralled this heart o' mine,
There the saftest sweets enjoying-
Sweets that Mem'ry ne'er shall tyne !
Friends, so near my bosom ever,
Ye hae rendered moments dear;
But, alas! when forced to sever,
Then the stroke, oh, how severe !
Friends, that parting tear reserve it,
Though 'tis doubly dear to me!
Could I think I did deserve it,
How much happier would I be !
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew,
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now a sad and last adieu!
VERSES TO AN OLD SWEETHEART AFTER HER MARRIAGE.
WRITTEN IN A COPY OF HIS POEMS.
ONCE fondly loved, and still remembered dear!
Sweet early object of my youthful vows!
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,—
Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows.
And when you read the simple, artless rhymes,
One friendly sigh for him-he asks no more-
Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes,
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic's roar.
LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE.
WAE worth thy power, thou cursèd leaf!
Fell source o' a' my woe and grief!
For lack o' thee I've lost my lass!
For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass!
I see the children of affliction
Unaided, through thy cursed restriction.
I've seen th' oppressor's cruel smile,
Amid his hapless victim's spoil,
And, for thy potence vainly wished
To crush the villain in the dust.
For lack o' thee, I leave this much-loved shore,
Never, perhaps, to greet auld Scotland more!
VERSES WRITTEN UNDER VIOLENT
ACCEPT the gift a friend sincere
Wad on thy worth be pressin';
Remembrance oft may start a tear,
But oh! that tenderness forbear,
Though 'twad my sorrows lessen.
My morning raise sae clear and fair,
I thought sair storms wad never
Bedew the scene; but grief and care
In wildest fury hae made bare
My peace, my hope for ever!
You think I'm glad; oh, I pay weel
For a' the joy I borrow,
In solitude-then, then I feel
I canna to myself conceal
My deeply ranklin' sorrow.
Farewell! within thy bosom free
A sigh may whiles awaken;
A tear may wet thy laughin' ee,
For Scotia's son-ance gay like thee,
Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken!
OPPRESSED with grief, oppressed with care,
A burden more than I can bear,
I sit me down and sigh:
O life! thou art a galling load,
Along a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such as I!
Dim backward as I cast my view,
What sickening scenes appear!
What sorrows yet may pierce me through,
Too justly I may fear!
Still caring, despairing,
Must be my bitter doom;
My woes here shall close ne'er,
But with the closing tomb!
Happy, ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard!
Even when the wishèd end's denied,
Yet while the busy means are plyed,
They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandoned wight,
Unfitted with an aim,
Meet every sad returning night
And joyless morn the same;
You, bustling and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I, listless, yet restless,
Find every prospect vain.
How blest the Solitary's lot,
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,
Within the humble cell,
The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gathered fruits,
Beside his crystal well!
Or, haply, to his evening thought,
By unfrequented stream,
The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint collected dream;
While praising, and raising
His thoughts to heaven on high,
As wandering, meandering,
He views the solemn sky.
Than I, no lonely hermit placed
Where never human footstep traced,
Less fit to play the part,
The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop, and just to move,
With self-respecting art:
But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,
Which I too keenly taste,
The Solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be blest!
He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here must cry here,
At perfidy ingrate!
Oh! enviable, early days,
When dancing, thoughtless, Pleasure's maze,
To care, to guilt unknown!
How ill exchanged for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes,
Of others, or my own!
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