Sing her thousand siller streams, And I, the meanest of the muse's train, Dear Scotia, tho' thy clime be cauld, Thou'rt foremost in the battle broil, To guide the plough or wield the spear; of Songs; but as the present publication will be embellished with his portrait it would be ridiculous not to insert a few of his pieces. We, therefore, intend to publish what we consider the happiest of his lyrical effusions, accompanied with short notices regarding them, extracted from original documents in the possession of some of his most intimate acquaintances, which, we are happy to state, through their kindness we shall be enabled to furnish; this will afford his admirers some idea of the manner and style of his Epistolary Writings, and which, we trust, will not be altogether unacceptable. See them in their native vales, With some merry roundelay. Dear Scotia, tho' thy nights be drear, By runkled hags and warlock men ; Carousing on the midnight wind, On some infernal errand bent, While darkness shrouds their black intent. But chiefly, BURNS, thy songs delight, To charm the weary winter night, Without a care unless for thee, Wha sang sae sweet and dee't sae soon, "Wat ye Thy Thy "Shepherdess on Afton braes," Are a' gane o'er sae sweetly tun'd, That e'en the storm, pleased with the sound, Fa's lown and sings with eerie slight, "O let me in this ae, ae night." Alas! our best, our dearest Bard, How poor, how great was his reward! Unaided he has fix'd his name, Immortal in the rolls of fame; Yet who can hear without a tear, Himself the while with sick'ning woes opprest, Fast hast'ning on to where the weary rest: For this let Scotia's bitter tears atone, She reck'd not half his worth till he was gone. Р CLIV. POOR NEGRO WOMAN, ULALEE. My cruel love to danger go, No think of pain he give to me; Too soon me fear like grief to know, As broke the heart of Ulalee! Poor negro woman, Ulalee. Poor soul, to see her hang her head Poor negro woman, Ulalee! My love be kill'd! how sweet he smil'd! Unless me see it in the child, Poor negro woman, Ulalee! My baby to my breast I fold, But little warmth, poor boy! have he, Poor negro woman, Ulalee! CLV. CALEDONIA.* Despite of every yoke she bears, That land is glory's still and theirs.-Byron. On Albyn's mist-clad hills of grey On Albyn's steeps of strength, unfurled The badge of proud supremacy. *We extract this excellent piece of poetry from the Kilmarnock Mirror, a work of taste and merit, published monthly. |