Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.

"My patriot son fills an untimely grave!"

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried; "Low lies the hand oft was stretch'd to save, Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride.

"A weeping country joins a widow's tear; The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; The drooping arts surround their patron's bier; And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh!

"I saw my sons resume their ancient fire; I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow: But ah! how hope is born but to expire!

Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.

"My patriot falls: but shall he lie unsung, While empty greatness saves a worthless name?

No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages hear his growing fame.

"And I will join a mother's tender cares, Thro' future times to make his virtues last; That distant years may boast of other Blairs!"-- She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast.

Impromptu On Carron Iron Works

We cam na here to view your warks, In hopes to be mair wise, But only, lest we gang to h.e.l.l, It may be nae surprise: But when we tirl'd at your door Your porter dought na hear us; Sae may, shou'd we to h.e.l.l's yetts come, Your billy Satan sair us!

To Miss Ferrier

Enclosing the Elegy on Sir J. H. Blair.

Nae heathen name shall I prefix, Frae Pindus or Parna.s.sus; Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks, For rhyme-inspiring la.s.ses.

Jove's tunefu' dochters three times three Made Homer deep their debtor; But, gien the body half an e'e, 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 sense doited.

Do what I dought to set her free, My saul lay in the mire; Ye turned a neuk--I saw your e'e-- She took the wing like fire!

The mournfu' sang I here enclose, In grat.i.tude I send you, And pray, in rhyme as weel as prose, A' gude things may attend you!

Written By Somebody On The Window

Of an Inn at Stirling, on seeing the Royal Palace in ruin.

Here Stuarts once in glory reigned, And laws for Scotland's weal ordained; But now unroof'd their palace stands, Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands; Fallen indeed, and to the earth Whence groveling reptiles take their birth.

The injured Stuart line is gone, A race outlandish fills their throne; An idiot race, to honour lost; Who know them best despise them most.

The Poet's Reply To The Threat Of A Censorious Critic

My imprudent lines were answered, very petulantly, by somebody, I believe, a Rev. Mr. Hamilton. In a MS., where I met the answer, I wrote below:--

With Esop's lion, Burns says: Sore I feel Each other's scorn, but d.a.m.n that a.s.s' heel!

The Libeller's Self-Reproof^1

Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name Shall no longer appear in the records of Fame; Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible, Says, the more 'tis a truth, sir, the more 'tis a libel!

Verses Written With A Pencil

Over the Chimney--piece 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, Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,

[Footnote 1: These are rhymes of dubious authenticity.--Lang.]

My savage journey, curious, I pursue, Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.-- The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, The woods wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides; Th' outstretching lake, imbosomed 'mong the hills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills; The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, The palace rising on his verdant side, The lawns wood-fring'd 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 wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell; The sweeping theatre of hanging woods, Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods--

Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, And look through Nature with creative fire; Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil'd, Misfortunes lighten'd steps might wander wild; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds: Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan, And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.

Song--The Birks Of Aberfeldy

Tune--"The Birks of Abergeldie."

Chorus.--Bonie la.s.sie, will ye go, Will ye go, will ye go, Bonie la.s.sie, will ye go To the birks of Aberfeldy!

Now Simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlets plays; Come let us spend the lightsome days, In the birks of Aberfeldy.

Bonie la.s.sie, &c.

While o'er their heads the hazels hing, The little birdies blythely sing, Or lightly flit on wanton wing, In the birks of Aberfeldy.

Bonie la.s.sie, &c.