When o'er the swamp he cast his Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine, Its tendrils in infancy curl'd, 'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine, Whose lifeblood enlivens the world. Though thy form, that was fashion'd as light as a fay's, Has assumed a proportion more round, And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze, Looks soberly now on the ground; Enough, after absence to meet me again, Thy steps still with ecstasy move; Enough, that those dear sober glances retain For me the kind language of love. THE BOLD DRAGOON. (1812.) 'TWAS a Maréchal of France, and he fain would honour gain, And he long'd to take a passing glance at Portugal from Spain; With his flying guns, this gallant gay, And boasted corps d'arméeOhe fear'd not our dragoons, with their long swords, boldly riding, Whack, fal de ral, &c. To Campo Mayor come, he had quietly sat down, Он saу not, my love, with that Just a fricassee to pick, while his mortified air, That your spring-time of pleasure is flown, Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair For those raptures that still are thine own. soldiers sack'd the town, When, 'twas peste! morbleu ! mon General, Hear the English bugle-call! And behold the light dragoons, with their long swords, boldly riding, Whack, fal de ral, &c. Right about went horse and foot, artillery and all, And, as the devil leaves a house, they tumbled through the wall; They took no time to seek the door, But, best foot set before O they ran from our dragoons, with their long swords, boldly riding, Whack, fal de ral, &c. ON THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE. (Pub. 1814.) 'O TELL me, Harper, wherefore flow Thy wayward notes of wail and woe, Far down the desert of Glencoe, Where none may list their melody? Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly, Those valiant men of France they had Or to the dun-deer glancing by, scarcely fled a mile, When on their flank there sous'd at Ne'er minded one to ten, Three hundred British lads they made three thousand reel, Their hearts were made of English oak, And Beresford them led; Then here's a health to Wellington, to The eagles that to fight he brings grey, Not this deep dell, that shrouds from day, Could screen from treach'rous cruelty. 'Their flag was furl'd, and mute their The very household dogs were dumb, His blithest notes the piper plied, To tend her kindly housewifery. The hand that mingled in the meal At midnight arm'd it with the brand, Their red and fearful blazonry. 'Then woman's shriek was heard in The Austrian vine, the Prussian pine vain, Nor infancy's unpitied plain, More than the warrior's groan, could gain Respite from ruthless butchery! The winter wind that whistled shrill, The snows that night that cloked the hill, Though wild and pitiless, had still Farmorethan Southern clemency. 'Long have my harp's best notes been gone, Few are its strings, and faint their tone, They can but sound in desert lone Their grey-hair'd master's misery. Were each grey hair a minstrel string Each chord should imprecations fling, Till startled Scotland loud should ring, "Revenge for blood and treachery!" FOR A' THAT AN' A' THAT. (1814.) A New Song to an Old Tune. THOUGH right be aft put down by strength, As mony a day we saw that, The true and leilfu' cause at length Shall bear the grie for a' that. For a' that an' a' that, Guns, guillotines, and a' that, We'll twine her in a friendly knot For Blucher's sake, hurra that, The Spanish olive, too, shall join, And bloom in peace for a' that. Stout Russia's hemp, so surely twined, Around our wreath we 'll draw that, And he that would the cord unbind Shall have it for his gra-vat! Or, if to choke sae puir a sot, Your pity scorn to thraw that, Where he may sit and claw that. Have won the day, an' a' that! A coward plot her rats had got Their father's flag to gnaw that: Atlantic winds shall blaw that, And Yankee loon, beware your croun, There's kames in hand to claw that! For on the land, or on the sea, Where'er the breezes blaw that, The British flag shall bear the grie, And win the day for a' that! SONG FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND. (1814.) O, DREAD was the time, and more dreadful the omen, When the brave on Marengo lay slaughter'd in vain. And beholding broad Europe bow'd down by her foemen, Pitt closed in his anguish the map of her reign! Not the fate of broad Europe could And to sounds the most dear to bend his brave spirit To take for his country the safety of shame; paternal affection, The shout of his people applauding his SON; O, then in her triumph remember his By his firmness unmoved in success again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure, The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid, He may die ere his children shall reap To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote in their gladness, But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim; And their jubilee-shout shall be soften'd with sadness, While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name. Though anxious and timeless his life was expended, In toils for our country preserved by his care, Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations ascended, To light the long darkness of doubt and despair; The storms he endured in our Britain's December, The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ercame, In her glory's rich harvest shall Britain remember, And hallow the goblet that flows to his name. the bright treasure, The wisdom that plann'd, and the zeal that obey'd. Fill Wellington's cup till it beam like his glory, Forget not our own brave Dalhousie and Græme; A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their story, And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame. PHAROS' LOQUITUR. (1814.) FAR in the bosom of the deep, A ruddy gem of changeful light, Nor forget His grey head, who, all And scorns to strike his timorous sail. dark in affliction, Is deaf to the tale of our victories won, ADDRESS TO RANALD MACDONALD OF STAFFA. (1814) STAFFA, Sprung from high Macdonald, Here, by each stormy peak and desert shore, The hardy islesman tugs the daring oar, Practised alike his venturous course to keep Through the white breakers or the pathless deep, By ceaseless peril and by toil to gain A wretched pittance from the niggard main. And when the worn-out drudge old ocean leaves What comfort greets him, and what hut receives? From her true minstrel, health to fair Lady! the worst your presence ere Buccleuch! has cheer'd Health from the isles, where dewy When want and sorrow fled as you Her chaplet with the tints that Twi- Were to a Zetlander as the high dome Of proud Drumlanrig to my humble home. light leaves; Where late the sun scarce vanish'd from the sight, And his bright pathway graced the short-lived night, Though darker now as autumn's shades extend, The north winds whistle and the mists ascend! Here rise no groves, and here no gardens blow, Here even the hardy heath scarce dares to grow; But rocks on rocks, in mist and storm array'd, Stretch far to sea their giant colonnade, |