Poems on Several Occasions from 1793 to 1816

Front matter

POEMS.

POEMS

ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS,

Lines Written in the Album of the Picture Galleries, at Hamilton Palace

POEMS.

LINES

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF THE PICTURE GALLERIES, AT HAMILTON PALACE.

1793.

Stranger! of high renown, or humble fame, In this fair chronicle inscribe thy name, Assured that name shall live from age to age, At least unsullied in this candid page.

Then, Stranger! cast a rapid glance around, And view these walls with mimic nature crowned; Mimic, indeed! for All you here survey, The mighty monarch and the courtier gay, The peerless dame, the soldier frank and brave, Have shared one common destiny—the grave;

And still each trophied hall you glide along, Presents a bright but visionary throng.

No more shall every grace enchanting smile Around the charming figure of Argyle; Nor shall fair Coventry again impart Love's brightest flame to the beholder's heart. No more Gustavus, gallant, glorious Swede! Shalt thou thy native bands triumphant lead; Nor thou, great Hamilton! support his throne, Eager to share in dangers not thine own— Eager to guard, in fields of foreign fight, Religion's cause from Bigotry and Might.

That Monarch on the milk-white steed behold! How hard his fate!—betrayed, abandoned, sold; Traitors, turned judges, doom their king to bleed, Rebels and fanatics applaud the deed;

Whilst through the land a crimson torrent flows, And Honour mourns her darling son Montrose; Mourns for the loss of Wor'ster's fatal day, And Lanark's Lord laid breathless in the clay. He led his bands where raged the fiercest fight, And met his death-wound in his Prince's sight; He fell, like Falkland, with foreboding mind, Recalled from earth, and all to heaven resigned.

In vain the Iberian Tyrant grasps at Fame, Deceit, Revenge, and Murder blot his name; Armadas sunk or scattered by the storm, With Alva's acts of blood his life deform; And the fell poison of a despot's reign Hath long its dead'ning venom shed o'er Spain.

Here soft Madonnas bend, with aspect mild, In fond maternal rapture o'er the Child;

There Sainted Forms their meek adoring eyes Raise, with bright hope, to warm and glowing skies, Or seem to listen, while they ardent gaze, To seraph hymns of ecstacy and praise!

But see! where low the faithful Martyr bends, That shower of vengeful stones his sufferings ends, While, with fleet pinion, from his blest abode, Descends the Angel-messenger of God; Onward he flies-before him all is night, Behind him stream long tracks of golden light.

Not without cause the Jewish Prophet quakes, While savage clamour all the cavern shakes; His limbs convulsed, his face aghast with fear, Devout he prays, and Heaven inclines an ear; Secure he sits, though monsters roar around, And human carnage strews the ensanguined ground.

Lo! where proud Ilium's heaven-built walls arise, A mighty bulwark towering to the skies, The fair Andromache, o'erwhelmed with fears, Displays her tender Pledge, 'mid floods of tears; Conjures her hero, as he values Troy, His faithful wife, and blooming infant boy, For one short day to shun the field's alarms, And pass the night encircled in her arms: "Vain are thy fears," the softened warrior cries, Nature's last tribute quivering in his eyes; "Vain are thy words, for hark! the trumpet calls, And hostile Greece assails our hallowed walls; Glory commands—my wife, my son, adieu, I haste to conquer, bleed, or die for you."

Now, Stranger! mark what glowing walls display The bloom of spring, and heaven's cœrulean ray; Here may the eye of cultured taste explore The waving woodland, and the winding shore:

O'er the blue hills the lights and shadows fly, And varied tints amuse the gazing eye, Here beams the mountain's brow, and there the glade Rests in the purple of retiring shade; While down the verdant vale yon mimic rill Glides ever on—so beautiful, so still.

Nor should those lines the Graver's plates supply, Pass unregarded by the Stranger's eye: What though the artist may not match the blaze Of Titian's glowing tints and golden rays, Nor pour the current of the purple blood, Nor spread the foliage of the vernal wood, Yet in the faithful lineaments we trace Carracci's vigour, and Correggio's grace; There we approach Salvator's gloomy den, 'Mid giant cliffs, secluded far from men; There Veronese's stately domes surprise, And with ideal space delude the eyes; Whilst all the angel forms that Guido drew, The graver's imitative draughts renew.

Now, Stranger! turn thine eyes to yon alcove, Sacred to Paphian Venus, Queen of Love: There, while she stands in almost breathing stone, (Modest her gesture, tho' unbound her zone) Shouldst thou demand—Why still our looks we raise To that pale form with fond admiring gaze?— 'Tis ancient genius all the charm imparts, And sends the sense of beauty to our hearts.

Could living merit here obtain a place, Or female charms adorned with ease and grace, A finished taste to native talent joined, The gentlest manners, yet the firmest mind; Then might the fair Eliza justly claim That homage here reserved for ancient fame.

Epitaph on Alexander Stevenson, M.D.

EPITAPH ON ALEXANDER STEVENSON, M. D.

WRITTEN BY DESIRE OF A CLUB OF WHICH HE WAS A MEMBER.

Let hireling bards, on splendid marbles, tell How kings and heroes lived, or how they fell; To private worth this humble stone we raise, Inscribed by Friendship with no venal praise.

Profuse in bounty, and in feeling kind, Was He whose hallowed dust lies here enshrined; No lure could lead from Honour to depart, Mild were his manners, tender was his heart.

Joy and good humour filled his honest soul, When Mirth and Fancy sparkled round the bowl; And when dull Care sat brooding on the brim, The recreant fled his merriment and whim.

Friendship shall mourn, and Med'cine long deplore The heart that glows, the hand that heals, no more; Whilst every reader joins the general tear, For gentle, generous Stevenson lies here.

On Passing the Scotch Border After a Long Absence

ON PASSING THE SCOTCH BORDER AFTER A LONG ABSENCE.

1794.

Dear Scotia! to thy barren bounds, A wandering son returns: Though bleak thy hills, and keen thy blast, For thee his bosom burns.

To clearer skies and warmer climes The pilgrim needs must roam; He travelled far to please his eyes, But left his heart at home.

Returned at last, his eager steps To Glota's vale he bends; Sweet vale! the scene of youthful sports, The haunt of early friends:

Thy groves and streams, thy hills and dales, A southern sun despise, Illumed and gladdened by the rays That beam from Laura's eyes.

Visions of bliss, and dreams of love! He bade you all adieu; Wild were his visions—wild his hopes, But Laura proves them true.

On the Death of an Officer Killed in the West Indies

ON THE DEATH OF AN OFFICER KILLED IN THE WEST INDIES.

1796.

Fainting beneath West Indian skies, The gallant Soldier pants for breath; Wounded and bleeding, lo! he lies 'Mid war, and pestilence, and death.

Sad doubts distract his tortured mind; The shafts of sorrow pierce his heart, And cares for Her he leaves behind, With double poison tinge the dart.

For once the gallant soldier's fears O'ercome his weary struggling soul, Bedew his pallid cheek with tears, And urge his spirits to their goal. Dark mists o'ershade his languid eyes, Alas! the Gallant Soldier dies!

Verses sung at a meeting of Linlithgowshire Yeomanry

VERSES

SUNG AT A MEETING OF LINLITHGOWSHIRE YEOMANRY,

18TH JUNE 1798.

<>I. In this fortunate Isle, under Heaven's best smile, Every man may live free and contented; May safely recline in the shade of his vine, And each year find his produce augmented. If honest, though poor, we're of justice secure, Fair Freedom has nought to alarm her; The Peasant stands clear of the Prince and the Peer, And our King, my brave boys! is a Farmer.

<>II. How happy are we, who see Liberty's tree Grow and flourish, though not of our planting; Who under its arms, feel its blessings and charms, Nor think training and pruning are wanting.

Since we're blest with the fruit, let us nourish the root That repays us our due cultivation; Then up to the skies the Perennial shall rise, And its branches extend o'er the nation.

<>III. But since demagogues wild, to our monarchy mild Have assumed of Rebellion the armour, Their rage to restrain, and our rights to maintain, We appeal to the yeoman and farmer. Now let the roof ring, with a health to the King To Britannia! no foeman shall harm her; To our Soldiers so brave, to the Sons of the Wave, Not forgetting the yeoman and farmer.

Charades

CHARADES.

<>I. Westphalian climes produce my first, In genuine taste and flavour; My next is dealt to all mankind, Without respect or favour; The fops of France proclaim my third To each surrounding nation: My whole declares a lady's name, Whose virtues grace her station.

<>II. My first with dread the pilgrim views, If through Arabian wilds he wander; My next the timid virgin woos, Without the fear of venomed slander; My whole is used in every clime, An emblem of the flight of time.

<>III. The point from which the zephyr blows, And Phoebus sinks to soft repose; What oft invades the path of duty, The rose's bane, yet still a beauty, Proclaim the groves we view with pride, Embellishing the banks of Clyde.

<>IV. My first was oft in triumphs seen, Though now a rustic rude machine; My second clouds the sun of life Betwixt the husband and the wife; My whole in various tints displayed, For slumber serves the Persian maid.

To the Duke of Hamilton, the Petition of his House of Kinneil, on the Timber being ordered to be cut down

TO THE

DUKE OF HAMILTON,

THE PETITION OF HIS HOUSE OF KINNEIL, ON THE TIMBER BEING ORDERED TO BE CUT DOWN.

Recall, O Hamilton! the harsh command, Nor deal destruction from thy princely band; Let not mine ancient groves and forests tall, Beneath the unrelenting woodman fall; Let not stern Warrender thy bosom steel, But spare the verdant honours of Kinneil.

And here the fabling Muse might sing to Thee Of beauteous nymphs, who dwell in every tree, Of Fauns, of Dryads, and of Sylvan Gods, Leaving the shelter of their loved abodes, And lives enshrined which with their plants are o'er, And Echo's sweet responses heard no more.

But dreams like these no longer must intrude, By Fancy figured in some sportive mood; For when such near—such real ills surprise, Severer thoughts, and darker prospects rise.

Shall nought defend me when the tempest lowers, But every blast besiege my battered towers? Shall Eurus whistle bleak around my walls, And Boreas riot in my festive halls? These halls, alas! which thou hast never seen, Where Regal Arran ruled for Scotia's Queen; While she, unconscious of impending fate, And free from all the cumbrous cares of state, Led the gay dance, or joined the choral strain, Youth, Love, and Pleasure sporting in her train.

My threatened ills, O Hamilton! avert, Let not vile lucre tempt thy generous heart; Forbid the dire, the desolating stroke, Spare the broad Sycamore and Royal Oak,

The giant Ash, smooth Beech, and spreading Lime, The Walnut fragrant from Iberia's clime, Mine ancient Holly, and the Larix new, The silver Birch and melancholy Yew, The Poplar pale that quivers in the wind, And the dark Alder, precious for its rind, The Willow, emblem of departed joy, The Hazel copse, that hides the truant boy, The Chestnut rare, the Elm's umbrageous size, And the trim Pine aspiring to the skies:— Long may they grace my turrets and my plains, Charm every eye, and heal my poet's pains.

Song. The Year That's Awa'

SONG.

THE YEAR THAT'S AWA'.

DECEMBER 1798.

O here's to the year that's awa': Let us drink it in strong and in sma'; And here's to ilk bonnie young lassie wi' looed, In the days of the year that's awa'.

O here's to the Soger wha bled, To the Sailor wha bravely did fa'; Their fame is alive, tho' their spirits have fled On the wings of the year that's awa'.

O here's to the Friend we can trust, Whan the storms of adversity blaw; May he join in our song, and lie nearest our heart, Nor depart like the year that's awa'.

Indifference

INDIFFERENCE.

To thee, Indifference! many a strain Hath many a Nymph addressed in vain;— Cowley, Munro, and Greville: These songsters praise thy latent charms, Affect to lure thee to their arms, Yet wish thee at the devil!

Ladies will scribble and invoke, But not to thee their altars smoke, Where doves are ever cooing; How can they court thy placid form, Who to a calm prefer a storm, Especially of wooing.

The chilling tenor of thy life Suits not with widow, maid, or wife, If I have skill in woman;

And sure I am, thou callous elf! To judge of others by myself, Thou art beloved of no man.

Cold, comfortless, and hardened creature, Inanimate of mind and feature, To Hope an utter stranger; Pity ne'er glistened in thine eye, And Mercy never beamed from high, Thy quiet to endanger.

The songs of mirth, the strains of joy, The zest of wit, and humours toy, All petrify before thee; Thy visage withers Friendship's power, And deals dismay in Venus' bower,— Indifference, I abhor thee!

Epitaph on Douglas, Duke of Hamilton

EPITAPH

ON

DOUGLAS, DUKE OF HAMILTON.

1799.

Here lies reposed, beneath this sculptured stone, All that remains of princely Hamilton; All that remains of beauty, strength, and health, Graced by high lineage, and the gifts of wealth.

Exulting Nature, when the child was born, Lavished her stores the favourite to adorn; And as the beauteous boy to manhood sprung, Knit every joint, and every sinew strung; Gave grace to motion, to exertion ease, A mien unrivalled, and a power to please.

She crowned him with Perception's brightest beam, She bathed his heart in Friendship's sacred stream;

O'er his fine form her radiant mantle threw, And with his strength her choicest talents grew: Oh! gifts neglected—talents misemployed, Favours contemned, and fortune unenjoyed.

At this sad shrine the moralist may find A theme well suited to engage his mind; And the rash youth who runs his wild career, May tremble at the lesson taught him here; While baffled Nature kneels desponding by, And hails the shade of Douglas with a sigh.

Fragment of a Northern Tale Versified

FRAGMENT OF A NORTHERN TALE VERSIFIED.

Where Harold with the golden hair, O'er Lochlin spreads his high commands, And, throned on Mercy, rules the tribes Subdued by his victorious bands,

Vast Gormal rears his head abrupt, Enveloped by a wreath of snow, His brow superior to the storm That rages on his sides below;

While from his skirts the troubled streams, White issuing, seek the downward plain, Where the deep torrent sweeps along, And bears the Torneo to the main.

Gray on the banks, and far from men, Mid the dim mists a tower appears, Which pines half sheltered from the blasts Of dark and long forgotten years.

To this abode fierce Sigurd fled, Oppressed by fate, and Harold's sword, When Lula's warriors fell in blood, Or sought the sea, and left their lord.

The ancient Chief indignant sat, And thought to brave Misfortune's power; Alas, vain thought! her baleful draught Empoisoned every passing hour.

For when the days of other years In memory moved the warrior's mind, High beat his heart, and with his glave He wounded Harold in the wind.

His warlike son in battle fell Amid the wreck of Lula's throne, Nor lived to see a father's flight— A father's ruin, and his own.

One daughter, last of all his race, Remained to bless her sire's decline, Survived to cheer the cares of age, Sole prop of Sigurd's setting line:

For still the bright-eyed Fithon's charms Around the hero lustre threw; White was her arm as Gormal's snow, Her breast of as transparent hue.

Like stars emerging from the deep, Appeared her ever radiant eyes, Chasing the vapours of the night, By beams of splendour from the skies.

Nor Odin did the maid forget, For she was good as she was fair; Her form was faultless, and her soul Was blessed by Heaven's peculiar care.

Majestic was her stately step, Adoring heroes shrunk in fear; Yet in the pride of all her charms, She met the mourner with a tear.

But transient darkness filled her mind, She sought the Wild with hound and horn, When the pale light on Lula's wave, Announced the near approach of morn.

Nor all alone the Maiden went, Two noble youths her course pursued; The one with ardour sought her love, Abashed with awe the other sued.

For though "beyond the solar road," In Lula, Love had broke the gloom, And, like the Muse, his radiance shed, As in the climes where myrtles bloom.

Winter

WINTER.

WRITTEN AT KINNEIL. 1ST NOVEMBER 1800.

Who beats so rudely at my humble door, Demanding entrance with tremendous roar? What Form gigantic, wrapped in mist and snow, Proclaims disease, and poverty, and woe? 'Tis Winter, ruler of the savage North, Who vengeful drives his clouds and tempests forth! One foot he rests on Zembla—one he laves In the wild warfare of the Polar waves; Or borne by blasts impetuous through the skies, O'er the bleak land, and howling surge he dies:

On to the Alps, or some Sierra, bends His course, and to their snow-clad peaks descends— The struggling moon and stars refuse to shed Their light, and Nature trembles at his tread.

He comes, with barbarous splendour, to invade This last retreat of Autumn's auburn shade; And o'er the tarnished leaf already throws His crisping hoar-frost and his feathery snows; He spreads his argent mantle o'er the fields, And shallow brooks his sparkling crystal shields. But though his frozen armour bright appears, It shines encrusted with the poor man's tears. His withering frown the faded year deforms, And Nature sickens as he points the storms: Care, Cold, and Hunger triumph in his van, And all his train are enemies to man; Bleak Devastation tracks his chariot wheels, And shrivelled Famine courses at his heels, Disease with Dearth strides onward hand in hand, And speeds malignant arrows round the land;

And see! pale Death the sad procession close, At once the sum and solace of our woes.

O ye! who live in Fortune's kind caress, And to bestow the envied power possess, Your hearts let Pity move with aspect, bland, And melting Charity unfold your hand; Unbar the bolt of meek Misfortune's door, And spare the mite which heaps your countless store. So shall the rigour of stern Winter's reign Attempt the ravage of our land in vain: Hushed are the wails of Want and pale Distress— Your acts of love, the season's wrongs redress. Such timeful aid shall gratitude inspire, Hope shall relume the cottar's evening fire, And while his soul expands in pious prayer, In which his humble household claim a share, All kneel in thanks—son, daughter, husband, wife, To Heaven and you, for happiness and life.

To the Last Century

TO THE LAST CENTURY.

1st January 1801.

Fareweel, thou auld and wizen'd wicht! I'm glad thou'rt fairly out o' sicht, For mony a towmont, day and nicht, Thou'st grieved me sair, And left me in a sorry plicht, Wi' dool and care:

Wi' mony a mote hast mixed my tow, In mony a tulzie brak my pow, And wi' mislucks, an unco scrow, Hast gart me girn, While winning, withered Wirrycow! Thy reveled pirn.

But haith! I didna thole my lane, For at mischief thou ay wast fain,

And mony a chiel hast thou gart grane, And hizzy braw, Chirting their marrow frae the bane Wi' iron paw.

Philosophers o' feckless breed, Threped fernyear that thou wast dead; But trusting to Sir Isaac's creed, Thou, till the streen, Didst neither bow thy liard head, Nor close thine een.

May thy young Billy, now the Laird, Treat us wi' something like regard, Nor skelp us out o' his kail-yard, This gey wee while: For trowth we're no that weel prepared To loup the stile.

Spring

SPRING.

1801.

Again grim Winter seeks the polar zone, To rear mid arctic cliffs his ice-built throne: And loosed, at length, the streams from crystal chains, With liquid murmurs wind through smiling plains. Fair Spring with balmy breath revives the bowers, And strews on Nature's lap the laughing flowers; She bids them open to celestial dyes, And o'er the meads in glittering glory rise.

At this soft season of the genial breeze, Of shining vales, and gay reviving trees, When some sweet air had curled the limpid brook, And from the flowers their mingled fragrance shook, Oft I the din of strife and war's alarms Inglorious shunned, to gaze on Nature's charms— Oft essayed to tune my harmless strain, Nor in the ear of Friendship tuned in vain.

To the Right Hon. Henry Dundas

TO THE

RIGHT HON. HENRY DUNDAS,

GROUSE-SHOOTING IN THE HIGHLANDS, AFTER RETIRING FROM OFFICE IN

1801.

From public toil, and cares, and strife, Welcome once more to private life, In Scotia's rude domain; Here court repose, content, and ease, Inhale the health-inspiring breeze, Nor dream of France and Spain.

Let those who hold the helm of State, Consume their nights in dire debate, Their days in factious jars; O'er "Ways and Means" incessant pore, To raise reluctant millions more— The food for future wars.

Even Peace on their devoted heads, No balmy dew of comfort sheds, But Discord flaps her wings; For who shall fix each adverse claim, Untouched his wisdom and his fame By Censure's venomed stings?

Far from the Senate and the Throne, From Budget, Tax, Investment, Loan, Impeachment, Expedition, Peace shall your heather pillow bind, And War no more disturb your mind, Nor projects of ambition.

The social, free, and joyous hour, Unknown to pomp, remote from power, Awaits you in the wild; Friendship shall lead you by the hand, And Caledonia's arms expand To clasp her patriot child.

Should warfare still your thoughts engage, To moorland scenes confine your rage, In mimic camp arrayed; Unheard the trumpet and the drum, Nor French nor Indian tyrants come Your quiet to invade.

The laurels won at Aboukir Were moistened by a nation's tear, Though Britain's noblest prize; But where you urge the gay campaign, No tears the cheek of Friendship stain— No Abercrombie dies!

Song

SONG.

At true Luve's bidding, wilt thou gae, To yonder holme sae lee, lassie, Whare Avon wimples roun' the brae, And live wi' luve and me, lassie?

I canna gang, I darena gang, I'm rede o' luve and thee, laddie; My Minnie's gear is a' gane wrang, She downa tocher me, laddie.

The diamonds in thy bonny een, Are wealth eneuch for me, lassie, And Grandeur, busked in silken sheen, Shall envy you and me, lassie.

My een subdued by passing years, For gowd ye'd gladly gie, laddie, And let their diamonds melt in tears, For loss o' luve and thee, laddie.

Tho' gowd the greedy packman guides, It ne'er had weight wi' me, lassie; In nature's glen, whare pleasance bides, Frae thoughts o' pelf we're free, lassie.

O! lead me to your leesome bour, Whare Avon glides sae fine, laddie, And lang may Luve appreive the hour, That links my fate to thine, laddie.

Song for the Anniversary of a Club

SONG

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY OF A CLUB.

1802.

Again we meet in social glee, Though fifty years be o'er, And press around the flowing bowl, To drain its juice once more; Whilst Friendship hovering round the board, Applauds the festive vein, And whispers every joyous soul,— "Come—fill your glass again."

Though Time, with rude resistless step, Hath marched our phalanx through, And claimed from those we loved so well, The debt to Nature due; Why should we mourn o'er life's decline, Or why perplex the brain? For hark! those guardian spirits cry,— "Fill high the glass again,"

To your remembrance, Brethren dear! The goblet charged behold, You've gone the way we all must take, The timid and the bold; But ere the slippery path we tread, Let none that's here disdain To seize what courage wine can give, And fill the glass again.

Long may we quaff the circling bowl, In mirthful mood below; And may we meet what time we part, Such friends where'er we go: In youth, in manhood, and in age, Whose hearts unchanged remain, Who wisely prize the present joy, And crown the cup again.

Song

SONG.

Ye're no sae vera kind, my lad, As bygane days ye've been; Your tryst wi' me ye didna haud, Beside thon burn the streen. Whan first ye bade me to the glen, To tell the luve ye bore me, I mind fu' weel, my lad, that then, Ye cam a while afore me.

The King of the Cats

THE KING OF THE CATS.

The night was tempestuous, and dreary, and dark, With long travel a stranger was tired, When he saw, o'er the wild, a faint glimmering spark, And eagerly bending his course to the mark, He arrived at the object desired.

A time-fretted chapel illumined he spied, Whence wailings came sad to the ear, The traveller he gazed, and had like to have died, When he saw such a sight as all fancy defied, And appalled him with wonder and fear.

An assemblage of cats was convened round a fire, Where the corse of a Tabby was laid, In full state, and arrayed in funereal attire, With all the proud symbols which monarchs require, For a posthumous piece of parade.

The stranger escaped from so horrid a sight, And found shelter at Lennox's board; But his host, on beholding his terrified plight, Would needs be informed of the cause of his fright, When good wine had his courage restored.

His story he told to the wonder of all, When a four-footed catcher of rats, Who lay stroking his face on the hearth of the hall, To the chimney-top flew with this horrible squall— "Then by hell! I am King of the Cats."

Epitaph on Mrs Elizabeth Stewart

EPITAPH ON MRS ELIZABETH STEWART.

1803.

For beauty, and for youth, let others weep, Laid by the shaft of Death in life's last sleep; Though neither youth nor beauty slumber here, Yet age and virtue claim a parting tear,— The spot to consecrate where Wisdom lies, Wit without malice, truth without disguise.

Here rests Religion, void of vain pretence, Founded on reason, and matured by sense, With every Christian attribute adorned, By all who knew, and felt its influence, mourned.

Blessed be the heart that heaves the generous sigh, Sacred the drop that springs from Sorrow's eye; Yet Reason shall our selfish grief restrain, And check the tear which flows, alas! in vain.

Far now removed from scenes of sighs and tears, Thy holy spirit dwells in heavenly spheres, Welcomed by Angels to their bright abode, Pure as themselves, and reconciled to God.

Song for a Meeting of the Friends of the Right Hon. H. Dundas

SONG

FOR A MEETING OF THE FRIENDS OF THE RIGHT HON. H. DUNDAS.

Here's a health to the man who is honest and free, Whose principles public and private agree, Whose conduct, no factious proceedings deform, Collected alike in the sunshine and storm.

Who called by our Sovereign his councils to guide, Has the skill or in war, or in peace to preside; And when Treason parades in the guise of Reform, The danger detects, and disperses the storm.

When Fame shall emblazon the deeds of our isle, And record the exploits of the Ganges and Nile,

To the theme of our song she'll her duty perform, "Whose wisdom and vigour directed the storm."

Let the roof with a chorus of gratitude ring, To the Friend of the State, of his Country, and King; The Friend of his friends without fashion or form, The Friend of the Pilot who weathered the storm.

To Lady Jemima Hope

TO LADY JEMIMA HOPE,

ON RECEIVING FROM HER A BRIDE'S FAVOUR.

Bright as silver's the ribbon, and white is the glove, Those symbols so soft of the Goddess of Love; Those emblems unstained, and unsullied by art, Like the Giver resplendent, and pure as her heart.

To the tumults of Love I have long been a stranger, For Time has forbid him my peace to endanger, And Hymen, at length, from his bondage set free, Presents the mild chalice of friendship to me.

When thy love has received the soft touches of time, And Friendship approaches with aspect sublime, O! dash not regardless the cup to the ground, For there, the true cordial of life shall be found.

Adieu to Kinneil

ADIEU TO KINNEIL.

Farewell, ye hospitable walls and towers! Long may ye grace the banks of Fortha's tide; Ye venerable groves! ye shady bowers! Long may ye bloom by winding Avon's side.

May every blossom, bathed in morning dew, Give more delightful fragrance to the gale, And may the Sun impart his brightest hue, To every flower that blows in Avon's vale.

May every fountain, wandering rill, and stream, Glide purer crystal, as the current flows, And should a minstrel on their margin dream, Lull him, ye liquid murmurs! in repose.

May the rude pipe, and village carol gay, With more melodious music charm the ear, And may the vocal chorus from the spray, Breathe sweeter strains—though I no more shall hear.

Oft may your gates at Friendship's call unclose, Still on misfortune may your influence shine, Your shades give shelter to another's woes, And soothe his sorrows, as they softened mine.

On the Prospect of Invasion

ON THE PROSPECT OF INVASION.

1804.

Heard you that martial trump, my son, While hunting o'er the hill— Heard you the brazen blast, my boy, That blew so loud and shrill?"

I heard the breath of war, my Sire, When hunting on the hill— I heard the bugle-horn that blew Three blasts so loud and shrill."

The first, my boy, was for your King, The next your native land; The last was sounded for a home That ne'er knew spoiler's hand.

Saw you, my son, the beacon's blaze, Of Scotia's foes the dread— Saw you the flame of battle rise On hill and mountain head?

Repeated from the ramparts high Of Castle, Fort, and Tower— Repeated in the peaceful vale, Prepared for Danger's hour."

"I saw, my sire, the signal's blaze, And as it flashed on high, The flame of freedom fired my heart, And kindled in my eye.

I saw the peaceful valleys shine With war's refulgent arms; And heard the mellow flageolet Give voice to war's alarms."