O'er all the wide forest there's nought can compeer His darts, so well polish'd and bright, were a treasure With the light-bounding flocks of my Colin, my That the son of a king might have boasted with dear. My Colin, dear Colin, my Colin, my love, O where are thy herds that so loftily move? With branches so stately their proud heads are crown'd, pleasure. When the brave son of Murdoch so gracefully held them, Well pois'd and sure aim'd, never weapon excell'd them. With their motion so rapid the woods all resound. Now, dead to the honour and pride I inherit, Not the blow of a vassal could rouse my sad spirit! Where the birch-trees hang weeping o'er foun- Tho' insult or injury now should oppress me, tains so clear, At noon-day they're sleeping round Colin, my dear; O Colin, sweet Colin, my Colin, my joy, To yon waterfall's dashing I tune my sad strain, O Colin, my darling, my pleasure, my pride, While the flocks of rich shepherds are grazing so wide, Regardless I view them, unheeded the swains, Whose herds scatter'd round me adorn the green plains. Their offers I hear, and their plenty I see, But what are their wealth and their offers to me? While the light-bounding roes, and the wild mountain deer, Are the cattle of Colin, my hunter, my dear. MY SORROW, DEEP SORROW. My sorrow, deep sorrow, incessant returning, With their bold martial strain set each bosom a bounding, My sorrow, deep sorrow, incessant returning, Time still as it flies adds increase to my mourning. My protector is gone, and nought else can dis tress me. Deaf to my loud sorrows, and blind to my weeping, My aid, my support, in yon chapel lies sleeping, In that cold narrow bed he shall slumber for ever, Yet nought from my fancy his image can sever. He that shar'd the kind breast which my infancy nourish'd, Now hid in the earth, leaves no trace where he flourish'd. No obsequies fitting his pale corse adorning, To deck out thy grave, or with flow'rets to strew thee. My sorrow, deep sorrow, incessant returning, Time still as it flies adds increase to my mourning. THE HIGHLAND POOR. (FROM THE HIGHLANDERS.) Where yonder ridgy mountains bound the scene, The badge of Strathspey from yon pine by the Foe to her peace-it breaks the illusive dream fountain, Distinguished the hero when climbing the mountain, The plumes of the eagle gave wings to his arrow, And destruction fled wide from the bow bent so narrow; That, in their prime of manly bloom confest, Restored the long-lost warriors to her breast; And as they strove with smiles of filial love, Their widow'd parent's anguish to remove, Through her small casement broke the intrusive day, And chased the pleasing images away! Let those to wealth and proud distinction born, A boon precarious from indulgent Heaven; LINES WRITTEN ON HER EIGHTY. When all my earthly treasures fled, ANDREW SCOTT. BORN 1757 - DIED 1839. war. He then procured his discharge from the army, settled in his native parish, married, and, according to his own statement, for seventeen years abandoned the Muses, assiduously applying himself to manual labour to maintain his family. ANDREW SCOTT was born in the parish of to his native land on the conclusion of the Bowden, Roxburghshire, in the year 1757. He was of humble parentage, and, when very young, was employed as a cowherd. " At twelve years of age," he says, "when herding in the fields, I purchased a copy of the Gentle Shepherd,' and being charmed with the melody of the pastoral reed of Allan Ramsay, I began to attempt verses in the same manner." During the second year of the American war he enlisted in the 80th Regiment, and served in five campaigns, being with the army under Cornwallis when that general surrendered at Yorktown, Virginia. While cantoned with his regiment on Staten Island Scott composed 'Betsy Rosoe," and many other songs, all of which he says "perished in oblivion," except the one mentioned, and that on the "Oak Tree." These he used to sing to his comrades in camp, and preserved them until he returned | In 1805 Scott, following the advice of several friends, published by subscription a collection of his effusions. Three years afterwards a second edition, with some additions, appeared. In 1811 he published "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect" (Kelso); in 1821 he issued from Jedburgh another small volume, and five years later published his last work at Edinburgh, entitled "Poems on Various Subjects." Although he became known to Sir Walter Scott, John Gibson Lockhart, and other literary persons, who afforded him countenance and assistance, he remained in the condition of an agricultural labourer and bethral or church- | an admirable portrait of him, now in the possesofficer until his death, which occurred May 22, sion of his son, was painted by a distinguished 1839. His remains were interred in the church- artist, Mr. George Watson, to whom the poet yard of his native parish. Scott's appearance wrote a poetical address, published in the was highly intellectual and prepossessing; and volume issued in 1811. MARRIAGE OF THE TWEED AND TEVIOT. In days of yore the princely flowing Tweed Of all the watery nymphs toward the sea The nearing naiads, with tumultuous joy, She beats her north, still nearing more and more; RURAL CONTENT, OR THE MUIRLAND FARMER. I'm now a gude farmer, I've acres o' land, An' my heart aye loups light when I'm viewin' o't, An' I ha'e servants at my command, An' twa dainty cowts for the plowin' o't. My farm is a snug ane, lies high on a muir, The muir-cocks an' plivers aft skirl at my door, An' whan the sky low'rs I'm aye sure o' a show'r To moisten my land for the plowin' o't. Leeze me on the mailin that's fa'n to my share, It taks sax muckle bowes for the sawin' o't: I've sax braid acres for pasture, an' mair, An' a dainty bit bog for the mawin' o't. An' on its green banks, on the gay simmer days, To rank amang farmers I hae muckle pride, In blue worset boots that my auld mither span I've aft been fu' vanty sin' I was a man, Nor e'er slip their fine silken hands in the pocks, Nor foul their black shoon wi' the plowin' o't: But now they're flung by, an' I've bought cor- For, pleas'd wi' the little that fortune has lent, dovan, And my wifie ne'er grudged me a shillin' o't. Sae now, whan to kirk or to market I gae, Last towmond I sell'd off four bowes o' guid bore, I had sic gude luck at the sellin' o't. Now hairst-time is ower, an' a fig for the laird, Or bauld ragin' winter, wi' hail, snaw, or sleet, An' on the douf days, when loud hurricanes blaw, The peat-stack, and turf-stack our Phoebus shall be, Till day close the scoul o' its angry e'e, An' we'll rest in gude hopes o' the plowin' o't. SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING. An' whan the year smiles, an' the laverocks sing, Then we'll ply the blythe hours at the sawin' o't. An' whan the birds sing on the sweet simmer morn, My new crap I'll keek at the growin' o't; Whan hares niffer love 'mang the green brairdit corn, An' dew-drops the tender blade showin' o't, On my brick o' fallow my labours I'll ply, An' view on their pasture my twa bonny kye, Till hairst-time again circle round us wi' joy, Wi' the fruits o' the sawin' an' plowin' o't. Nor need I to envy our braw gentle folks, Wha fash na their thumbs wi' the sawin' o't, The seasons row round us in rural content; We've ay milk an' meal, an' our laird gets his rent, An' I whistle an' sing at the plowin' o't. SYMON AND JANET.1 Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather, Whar muircocks and plivers are rife, For mony lang towmond thegither, There lived an auld man and his wife. About the affairs o' the nation The twasome they seldom were mute; Bonaparte, the French, and invasion, Did saur in their wizens like soot. In winter, when deep are the gutters, And night's gloomy canopy spread, Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie, And lowsin' his buttons for bed. Auld Janet, his wife, out a-gazin', To lock in the door was her care; She seein' our signals a-blazin', Came runnin' in, rivin' her hair. "O Symon, the Frenchmen are landit! Gae look, man, and slip on your shoon; Our signals I see them extendit, Like red risin' blaze o' the moon!" "What plague, the French landit!" que' Symon, And clash gaed his pipe to the wa', "Faith, then there's be loadin' and primin'," Quo' he, if they're landit ava. "Our youngest son's in the militia, Our eldest grandson's volunteer; O' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o', I too in the ranks shall appear." His waistcoat pouch fill'd he wi' pouther, And bang'd down his rusty auld gun; His bullets he put in the other, That he for the purpose had run. Then humpled he out in a hurry, While Janet his courage bewails, And cried out, "Dear Symon be wary!" And teughly she hang by his tails. "Let be wi' your kindness," quo' Symon, "Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares, For now to be ruled by a woman Nae laurels shall crown my gray hairs." 1 Written in 1803, during the alarm occasioned by a threatened French invasion of England.-ED. |