INVOCATION

TO THE SHADE OF

ROBERT TANNAHILL,

THE

UNFORTUNATE BARD OF RENFREWSHIRE.

COMPOSED IN THE WOOD OF SKERMALIE.

Friend to the wretch whom every friend forsakes,

I woo thee, Death! Life, and its joys,

I leave to those that prize them

PORTEUS.

THE grey stone on the dead man's breast,

Dear in rememb'rance is to me; Reclined on which, we wont to rest,

And muse on life's uncertainty.

"Twas there by thee a vow was made, To which I witness was alone,

If first beneath the green turf laid,

Death's secrets thou wouldst soon make

known.

Tall waves the wild flower o'er thee now;
"Tis midnight, Robin, come away—
Come, and fulfil thy sacred vow,
Whilst in this lonely wild I stray.

If from each congregated grief

Death can the wretched mortal free, Why should he turn from such relief, And fear so much to follow thee?

LINES

FOR THE

ALBUM AT HAILY, NEAR LARGS.

ADDRESSED TO

A. HAMILTON, ESQ.

WHEN in the sun's departing ray
The midge has flutter'd life away,
And evening veiled the pleasant scene
Of mountain tarn, and islet green,
Seen fairer far on ev'ry hand

Than Fancy figures Fairy Land;
While down by Arran's rocky side
The waning moon hangs o'er the Clyde,
And fast along the starry sky

The snowy clouds in clusters fly,

I often lean, to list the oar

Plied gently far along the shore;
To see the sea-dog's shining head
Rising above his briny bed,

And mark him turn his rolling eye
To where he hears the sea-gulls cry,
As if that sound, so wild and drear,
Was sweetest music in his ear.

But when the sea, in sad turmoil,
Breaks o'er the rocks of Cumbry's Isle,
Oft has it pain'd my feeling core,
To see poor Morris* far from shore,
In leaky coble, thin and light,
Vaulting the rolling mountain's height;
Then pitching headlong down the steep,
Till hid behind the wat'ry heap,

It seem'd as water demons there
Waged war with spirits of the air.
When dark the sky, and thunder-peal
Loud roar'd o'er Larga's battle vale,

* The ferryman between Largs and the Isle of Cumbray.

It seem'd to me as if the slain

Had ris'n in wrath to fight again.

To this sad fight, though long ago,

Our independence still we owe;

Since which, we've seen no foeman dare

To tread the sacred shire of Ayr.