Lapas attēli




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;
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear

Your humble Slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,

In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,

And drink my crystal tide.
The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts,

That thro' my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,

They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,

I'm scorching up so shallow,
They're left the whitening stanes amang,

In gasping death to wallow.
Last day I grat wi’ spite and teen,
As Poet B****

came by,
That, to a bard I should be seen

Wi' half my channel dry:
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,

Even as I was he shor'd me;
But had I in my glory been,
He, kneeling, wad ador'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;
The gowdspink, music's gayest child,

Shall sweetly join the choir :
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,

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;
And coward maukin sleep secure,

Low in her grassy form:
Here shall the shepherd make his seat,

To weave his crown of flow'rs;
Or find a sheltering safe retreat,

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 eye the smoking, dewy lawn,

And misty mountain, grey;
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,

Mild-chequering thro' the trees,
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream,

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,

My lowly banks o'erspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,

Their shadows' wat’ry bed!
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest

My craggy cliffs adorn;
And, for the little songster's nest,

The close embow'ring thorn.

So may old Scotia's darling hope,

Your little angel band,
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop

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 !”

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Why, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake? In
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why it's
At my presence thus you fly?, 10
Why disturb your social joys, u. but
Parent, filial, kindred ties?+ 13
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.

Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace:
Man, your proud, usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below;
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you


prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels.
But man, to whom alone is giv'n
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n,

Glories in his heart humane-
And creatures for his pleasure slain.

In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv'let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
All on Nature you depend,
And life's poor season peaceful spend.

Or, if man's superior might
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

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