MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN.
USING on the roaring ocean
Which divides my love and me;
Wearying Heaven in warm devotion,
For his weal where'er he be.
Hope and fear's alternate billow
Yielding late to Nature's law;
Whispering spirits round my pillow
Talk of him that's far awa'.
Ye whom sorrow never wounded,
Ye who never shed a tear,
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded,
Gaudy Day to you is dear.
Gentle Night, do thou befriend me;
Downy Sleep, the curtain draw:
Spirits kind, again attend me-
Talk of him that's far awa'!
BLITHE WAS SHE.
BLITHE, blithe, and merry was she,
Blithe was she ben:
Blithe by the banks of Earn,
And blithe in Glenturit glen.
By Auchtertyre grows the aik,
On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;
But Phemie was a bonnier lass
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw.
Her looks were like a flower in May,
Her smile was like a simmer morn;
She tripped by the banks of Earn,
As light's a bird upon a thorn.
Her bonny face it was as meek
As ony lamb's upon a lea;
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet
As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e.
The Highland hills I've wander'd wide,
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been ;
But Phemie was the blithest lass
That ever trod the dewy green.
BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS.
HERE, braving angry Winter's storms,
The lofty Ochils rise,
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms
First blest my wondering eyes;
As one who, by some savage stream,
A lonely gem surveys,
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam
With art's most polish'd blaze.
Blest be the wild sequester'd shade,
And blest the day and hour,
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd,
When first I felt their pow'r !
The tyrant Death, with grim control,
May seize my fleeting breath;
But tearing Peggy from my soul
Must be a stronger death.
HE lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill; How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear, As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year! The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, And all the gay foppery of summer is flown: Apart let me wander, apart let me muse,
How quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pursues !
How long I have lived-but how much lived in vain ;
How little of life's scanty span may remain :
What aspects old Time, in his progress, has worn ;
What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn.
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd!
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how
pain'd!
This life's not worth having with all it can give-
For something beyond it poor man sure must live.
A ROSEBUD BY MY EARLY WALK.
ROSEBUD by my early walk,
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.
TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.
Within the bush, her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest,
The dew sat chilly on her breast
Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd,
Awake the early morning.
So thou, dear bird, young Jenny fair!
On trembling string, or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care
That tends thy early morning.
So thou, sweet rosebud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent's evening ray
That watch'd thy early morning
O TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.
Ye wadna been sae shy;
For lack o' gear ye lightly me,
But, trowth, I care na by.
90 TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.
Yestreen I met you on the moor,
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure:
Ye geck at me because I'm poor,
But feint a hair care I.
I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o' clink,
That ye can please me at a wink
Whene'er ye like to try.
But sorrow tak him that's sae mean,
Although his pouch o' coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean,
That looks sae proud and high.
Although a lad were e'er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt
Ye'll cast yer head anither airt,
And answer him fu' dry.
But if he hae the name o' gear,
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,
Though hardly he, for sense or lear,
Be better than the kye.
But Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice;
The deil a ane wad speir your price
Were ye as poor as I.
There lives a lass in yonder park,
I wadna gie her in her sark
For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark!
Ye need na look sae high.
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