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WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE PARLOUR OF

THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH.

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O’er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th’ abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious, I

pursue,
Till fam’d Breadalbane opens to my view.-
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides :
Th’ outstretching lake embosom’d ʼmong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ;
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride,
The palace rising on his verdant side;
The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste;
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste;
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream;
The village, glittering in the noon-tide beam-

* * * * * * *

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell;
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods;
Th’ incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods-

* * * * * * *

Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,
And look through nature with creative fire;

Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd,
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild;
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds:
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her

scan,
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.

***

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STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NĒSS.

mossy floods;

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods slim
The roaring Fyers pours

his Till full be dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream re

sounds. As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show'rs, The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs. Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils," And still below the horrid cauldron boils : N

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ON THE

BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD,

PORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY

DISTRESS.

Sweet Flow’ret, pledge o' meikle love,

And ward o'mony a pray'r,
What heart o'stane wad thou na move,

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!
November hirples o'er the lea,

Chill, on thy lovely form;
And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree,

Should shield thee frae the storm.

May He who gies the rain to pour,

And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving show'r,

The bitter frost and snaw!
May He, the friend of woe and want,

Who heals life's various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother plant,

And heal her cruel wounds! But late she flourish

rooted fast,
Fair on the summer morn:
Now feebly bends she in the blast,

Unshelter'd and forlorn.
Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,

Unscath'd by ruffian hand!
And from thee many a parent stem

Arise to deck our land.

THE WHISTLE.

A BALLAD.

As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curious, I shall here

give it.- In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle, which at the commencement of the orgies he laid on the table, and whoever was last able to blow it, every body else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany; and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority.—After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that name; who, after three days and three nights, hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table,

And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's.-On Friday, the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse the Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had continued; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craig. darroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried off the hard-won honours of the field.

I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the north,
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king,
And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.

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