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HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER
O TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.
Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but
their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.
My Lord, I know your noble ear
Woe ne'er assails in vain;
Your humble Slave complain,
In flaming summer-pride,
And drink my crystal tide.
That thro' my waters play,
They near the margin stray;
I'm scorching up so shallow,
In gasping death to wallow.
Wi' half my channel dry:
Even as I was he shor'd me;
Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin; There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o'er a linn: Enjoying large each spring and well
As Nature gave them me, I am, altho' I say't mysel,
Worth gaun a mile to see.
Would then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes, He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees,
And bonnie spreading bushes. Delighted doubly then, my Lord,
You'll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.
The sober laverock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire;
Shall sweetly join the choir :
The mavis mild and mellow; The robin pensive autumn cheer,
In all her locks of yellow:
This too, a covert shall ensure,
To shield them from the storm;
Low in her grassy form:
To weave his crown of flow'rs;
From prone descending show'rs.
And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds with all their wealth
As empty, idle care: The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms
The hour of heav'n to grace, And birks extend their fragrant arms,
To screen the dear embrace.
Here haply too, at vernal dawn,
Some musing bard may stray,
And misty mountain, grey;
Mild-chequering thro' the trees,
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
My lowly banks o'erspread,
Their shadows' wat’ry bed!
My craggy cliffs adorn;
The close embow'ring thorn.
So may old Scotia's darling hope,
Your little angel band,
Their honour'd native land!
thro' Albion's farthest ken, To social-flowing glasses, The grace be—“ Athole's honest men,
And Athole's bonnie lasses !”
418,111 ? ui ITO!
A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OUGHTERTYRE.
Why, ye tenants of the lake,
Conscious, blushing for our race,
The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Glories in his heart humane-
In these savage, liquid plains,
Or, if man's superior might