Fecks but my pen has skelp'd alang,
I've whistled out an unco sang
'Bout folk I ha' na been amang
Twa days as yet ;
But, faith, the farther that I gang The mair ye'll get.
Sae sharpen up your lugs, for soon
I'll tread the hazelly braes o' Doon,
See Mungo's well, and set my shoon
Where i' the dark
Bauld Tammie keek'd, the drunken loon,
At cutty sark.
And I shall tread the hallowed bourne
Where Wallace blew his bugle-horn
O'er Edward's banner, stained and torn.
What Yankee bluid
But feels its free pulse leap and burn
Where Wallace stood!
But pouk my pen! I find I'm droppin My braw Scots style to English loppin; I fear amaist that ye'll be hoppin
If so, I e'en must think o' stopping,
And sae, gude night.
EVE o'er our path is stealing fast;
Yon quivering splendours are the last
The sun will fling, to tremble o'er
The waves that kiss the opposing shore;
His latest glories fringe the height
Behind us, with their golden light.
The mountain's mirror'd outline fades
Amid the fast extending shades;
Its shaggy bulk, in sterner pride,
Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide;
For the great stream a bulwark meet
That laves its rock-encumbered feet.
River and Mountain! though to song
Not yet, perchance, your names belong;
Those who have loved your evening hues
Will ask not the recording Muse,
What antique tales she can relate,
Your banks and steeps to consecrate.
Yet should the stranger ask, what lore
Of by-gone days, this winding shore,
Yon cliffs and fir-clad steeps could tell,
If vocal made by Fancy's spell,—
The varying legend might rehearse
Fit themes for high, romantic verse.
O'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sod
Oft hath the stalworth warrior trod;
Or peer'd, with hunter's gaze, to mark
The progress of the glancing bark.
Spoils, strangely won on distant waves,
Have lurked in yon obstructed caves.
When the great strife for Freedom rose
Here scouted oft her friends and foes,
Alternate, through the changeful war,
And beacon-fires flashed bright and far;
And here, when Freedom's strife was won,
Fell, in sad feud, her favoured son ;-
Her son, the second of the band,
The Romans of the rescued land.
Where round yon cape the banks ascend,
Long shall the pilgrim's footsteps bend;
There, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh,
There, tears shall dim the patriot's eye.
There last he stood. Before his sight
Flowed the fair river, free and bright;
The rising Mart, and Isles, and Bay,
Before him in their glory lay,-
Scenes of his love and of his fame,—
The instant ere the death-shot came.
LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK NOTE.
THOU fragile thing
That with a breath I could destroy,
What mighty train of care and joy
Do ye not bring?
By thee comes public bane or good;
The wheels of state, without thee, would
Stop in an hour.
Tower, dome, and arch,
Thou spreadest o'er the desert waste,
Thou guid'st the path of war, and stay'st
The army's march.
The spreading seas
For thee unnumbered squadrons bear,
Ruler of earth, and sea, and air
When bended knees
Are bowed in prayer,
Although to heaven is given each word,
Thy influence in the heart, unheard,
Fly! minion, fly!
Thine errand is unfinished yet
The boon I covet,—to forget!
Thou canst not buy.
OUR Western land can boast no lovelier spot.
The hills which in their ancient grandeur stand,
Piled to the frowning clouds, the bulwarks seem
Of this wild scene, resolved that none but Heaven
Shall look upon its beauty. Round their breast
A curtained fringe depends, of golden mist,
Touched by the slanting sunbeams; while below
The silent river, with majestic sweep,
Pursues his shadowed way, his glassy face
Unbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swan
To float in pride, or dip his ruffled wing.
Talk ye of solitude?—It is not here.
Nor silence.-Low, deep murmurs are abroad.
Those towering hills hold converse with the sky
That smiles upon their summits;—and the wind
Which stirs their wooded sides, whispers of life,
And bears the burthen sweet from leaf to leaf,
Bidding the stately forest boughs look bright,
And nod to greet his coming!—And the brook,
That with its silvery gleam comes leaping down
From the hill-side, has, too, a tale to tell ;
The wild bird's music mingles with its chime ;-
And gay young flowers, that blossom in its path,
Send forth their perfume as an added gift.
The river utters, too, a solemn voice,
And tells of deeds long past, in ages gone,
When not a sound was heard along his shores,
Save the wild tread of savage feet, or shriek
Of some expiring captive, and no bark
E'er cleft his gloomy waters. Now, his waves
Are vocal often with the hunter's song;-
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