"I brocht ye up in the grenewode "Ken'd to mysel alane :
"Aft have I by thy craddle sitten,
"And fondly sein thee sleip;
"But now I maun gae 'bout thy grave
"A mother's teirs to weip."
Again she kiss'd his bluidy cheik,
Again his bluidy chin;
"O better I looed my son Maurice, "Than a my kyth and kin!”
Awa, awa, ye ill woman,
• An ill dethe may ye die !
• Gin I had ken'd he was your son He had neir bein slayne by me.'
"Obraid me not, my lord Barnard ! "Obraid me not for shame! "Wi that sam speir, O perce my heart, And save me frae my pain!
"Since naething but Child Maurice heid "Thy jealous rage cold quell "Let that same hand now tak her lyfe, "That neir to thee did ill.
"To me nae after days nor nichts
"Will eir be saft or kind:
"I'll fill the air with heavy sichs,
"And greit till I be blind."
• Eneuch of bluid by me's been spilt, • Seek not your dethe frae me ;
I'd rather far it had been mysel,
Than either him or thee.
Wi hopeless wae I hear your plaint,
Sair, sair, I rue the deid.-
• That eir this cursed hand of mine
Sold gar his body bleid!
Dry up your teirs, my winsome dame, They neir can heal the wound;
Ye see his heid upon the speir,
His heart's bluid on the ground.
I curse the hand that did the deid,
The heart that thocht the ill,
The feet that bare me wi sic speid,
The comely youth to kill.
'I'll aye lament for Child Maurice
As gin he war my ain;
I'll neir forget the dreiry day
• On which the youth was slain.'
IN antient times, when Britain's trade was arms,
And the lov'd music of her youth, alarms;
A godlike race sustain'd fair England's fame :
Who has not heard of gallant PIERCY's name?
Ay, and of DOUGLAS? Such illustrious foes
In rival Rome and Carthage never rose!
From age to age bright shone the British fire,
And every hero was a hero's sire.
When powerful fate decreed one warrior's doom,
Up sprung the phanix from his parent's tomb.
But whilst those generous rivals fought and fell,
Those generous rivals lov'd each other well:
Tho' many a bloody field was lost and
won,
Nothing in hate, in honour all was done.
When PIERCY wrong'd, defy'd his prince or peers,
Fast came the DOUGLAS with his Scottish spears;
And, when proud DOUGLAS made his King his foe,
For DOUGLAS, PIERCY bent his English bow.
Expell'd their native homes by adverse fate,
They knock'd alternate at each other's gate:
Then blaz'd the castle, at the midnight hour,
For him whose arms had shook its firmest tow'r.
This night a DOUGLAS your protection claims ; A wife! a mother! Pity's softest names:
The story of her woes indulgent hear,
And grant your suppliant all she begs, a tear.
In confidence she begs; and hopes to find
Each English breast, like noble PIERCY's, kind.
PROLOGUE.
SPOKEN AT EDINBURGH.
IN days of classic fame, when Persia's Lord
Oppos'd his millions to the Grecian sword,
Flourish'd the state of Athens, small her store,
Rugged her soil, and rocky was her shore,
Like Caledonia's: yet she gain'd a name
That stands unrival'd in the rolls of fame.
Such proud pre-eminence not valour gave,
(For who than Sparta's dauntless sons more brave?)
But learning, and the love of every art,
That virgin Pallas and the Muse impart.
Above the rest the Tragic Muse admir'd
Each Attic breast with noblest passions fir'd.
In peace their poets with their heroes shar'd
Glory, the hero's, and the bard's reward.
The Tragic Muse each glorious record kept,
And, o'er the kings she conquer'd, Athens wept*.
Here let me cease, impatient for the scene,
To you I need not praise the Tragic Queen:
Oft has this audience soft compassion shown
To woes of heroes, heroes not their own.
*See the PERSAI of schylus.
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