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The much-lov'd tow'r, that overlooks thy stream, Perchance may fall, and moulder to decay, And the fair halls may list the owlet's scream, That once replied to harp and roundelay. Upon the hearth, where now in flickering play The flames contend, the gloomy grass may grow; In sylvan bow'r, once graced by lady gay, A home and refuge the hill-fox may know, And where now mortals joy, spirits may shriek in wo
Yet I would love thee in thy misery,
Perhaps ev'n more than now-for dark distress
Hath been no beacon to me; nor the less
And oh! that I could all thy beauties tell, And give to air one minstrel song of thee, That I could consecrate the spot where dwell Those that I love, by note of harmony. Or that some worthier Poet would wake high The name that I in vain essay to raise, And swell with loftier cadence to the sky, With softer tones, but not with warmer praise, Than him whose wilding lyre awakes these lowly lays.
Alas! the hand is cold and bloodless now, That erst could sweep with fire a thrilling string, And gone the minstrel, whose seraphic flow Of music it's sweet warbling notes did fling On the lone ear, while winds were listening, And ruin'd tower, and tree, and cavern riv'n, Seem'd sooth'd, by the strange cadence whisperingInspir'd M Niel!* has sought his native heav'n! A gift how dear! but ah, how seldom giv'n!
* Hector M'Niel, Esq. Author of Will and Jean, &c.
Farewell Glenlara! yet, again farewell,
And press with joy thy emerald velvet plain,
11th February, 1819.
On the field of the brave where the patriot has bled,
The shades of the valiant are fled to afar,
Hope brightens his visage, and watches his eye,
who would not flee to the fields of the brave, O who would not envy the patriot his grave? Where laurels of freedom immortal shall bloom, Memorials for ages preserved in the tomb.
X. Y. Z
Yes, years yet unnumbered shall cherish his fame,
Till the cloud of eternity veils from the sight,
10th March, 1819.
In the Naval burying ground, Lemon-Valley, St. Helena, over the grave of the Carpenter of H. M. S. Bucephalus, who died 6th June, 1816.
What though on this sequestered dell
That tolls a requiem o'er the tomb?
What though no church 'mid scenes so drear,
The ashes of the just lie here,
And consecrate the hallowed ground.
Sin' Fortune seems to smile on thee, my ain dear Frien',
Or allow sweet Hope to dwine,
Whan I ken your best-wal'd wish is mine, my ain dear Frien'.
Whan ithers seek the busy thrang, my ain dear Frien',
An' laugh at fickle Fortune's lour, my ain dear Frien'.
The fause delight the wanton feels, my ain dear Frien';
Are wisdom's happier choice,
An' discontent gi'ęs nae annoys, my ain dear Frien'.
The sick'nin' pleasures o' the bowl, my ain dear Frien',
Abuses Nature's lot,
Nor kens the sweets in Frien'ship got, my ain dear Frien
The lover's happy wi' his lass, my ain dear Frien',
Like the raptures o' the mind,
In mutual Frien'ship firmly join'd, my ain dear Frien'.
Then let our souls in ane unite, my ain dear Frien',
And ever will remain,
Till death hath burst the tender chain, my ain dear Frien?
Extracts from New Publications.
Extracts from "Poems and Songs by the late Richard Gall. -Edin 1819. pp. 168. price 7s. 6d.
In the course of last month a small volume of "Poems and Songs by the late Richard Gall," has been given to the world ―This we consider an act of justice to the memory of departed genius, that thus the public may award the tribute of their admiration no longer to an unknown name. Some of his songs have been long known to us, and have obtained "a name and a remembrance" in the records of our Scottish minstrelsy, We need only mention "My only joe and dearie, O," an exquisite production, adapted to one of our finest airs; and "Farewell to Ayrshire," which has been generally ascribed to Burns. We open the volume at random and present our readers with two very fine Songs.
THE HAZLEWOOD WITCH.
For mony lang year I hae heard frae my grannie,
For I met a young witch, wi',twa bonny black een.
I thought o' the starns in a frosty night glancing, Whan a' the lift round them is cloudless and' blue; I looked again, an' my heart fell a dancing;
Whan I wad hae spoken she glamoured my mou'. O wae to her cantraips! for dumpish'd I wander;
At kirk or at market there's nought to be seen: For she dances afore me wherever I dander, ...The Hazlewood witch wi' the bonny black een.