He saw himself a rustic still,
By labour fastened to the hill;
There Nature oft repaid his toil
Where man before ne'er turn'd the soil;
And in the bog he still display'd
Such strength, that jeering neighbours said,
He wish'd, before the judgment-day,
This earth in slices burnt away.
But as the deer bounds o'er the height,
And soon escapes the traveller's sight,
The peasant, on his native spot,
Is seen a little and forgot.
That strength or wisdom cannot save
From the oblivion of the grave,
One proof poor Mungo will be more
To many millions gone before;
Which, like a mirror, holds to view
What sages say severely true:
Life, like the moon through parted cloud,
Just peeps through Death's eternal shroud.
This little tale, by Matron told,
In grief was heard by young and old;
Whilst charged with snuff, poor Mungo's mill
Was handed round with right good will.
Old Trusty, still a faithful beast
To him, for fifteen years at least,
With feelings worthy of his kind,
Creeps from his wad, though almost blind;
And as he steals the death-bed round,
He smells the corse, and snuffs the ground,
And seemingly, to say Awake,'
The winding sheet will gently shake;
At last he lifts his visage grey,
And yowls anon the night away.
How soon the peasant rose and fell
Could many friends as freely tell,
Who, seated round the silent bier,
Let fall Affection's saltest tear.
Yon maid, who by his mother's side
Stood when she first was made a bride,
Who saw, in church, his father bow
When he took on the Christian vow;
And yon old hind, who taught him how
The run-rig of his sire to plow,
To wind a flail, to wield a hook,
To bind a sheaf, to build a stook,
Seem most to weep, and most to sob,
And most to check the rising throb;
But had poor Mona viewed the scene,
The saddest there she would have been ;
But happily she went before,
And now they've met to part no more.
That Mungo's worth may long be known,
His handywork to all is shewn :
A thatching pin first pass'd, we see;
A distaff next, of wicken tree;
A weight to winnow on the hill,
With platter, glaiks, and quern mill;
Next round a wicker basket goes,
Design'd to hold an infant's clothes;
At last is shewn, to raise a laugh,
The bellman's bust on Mungo's staff.
As if the silent midnight hour
Had o'er their conversation power,
Of fairies and of fiends they tell,
Which haunt the dingle and the dell;
And eke, of Benshies weeping seen
By cots where death has often been;
And of the circle, noted wide,
Where things unearthly still reside.
Laird Ronald took the friendly care
To bid the Pedlar thus beware:-
"Nightly trav❜ller, if thy way
Lead thee o'er yon mountain grey,
Tread not on the beaten path
Leading to the blasted heath,
Lest some wild wanchancy thing
Lure thee to yon haunted ring,
Where the phantoms of the dead
Labyrinthian dances lead;
Which unhallow'd sight, they say,
Takes the senses quite away.
"When the stormy wind and hail,
With the gloom of night prevail,
Seated by the winter fire,
Has thy hoary headed-sire
Ne'er, with reverential awe,
Told thee what he heard or saw
In yon unfrequented dell
Where a Druid once did dwell?
Let wild Fancy, in thy view,
Raise this scene, and think it true.
"When the gaudy rising sun
Gilds the clouded horizon,
Vapours, rising from the ground,
Hang embodied o'er yon mound.
Here old chronicles do say
A fierce demon lurks by day;
But when the incumbent gloom,
Emblem of the silent tomb,
Shades from sight of mortal eye
The blue concave of the sky,
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