Mislippent sair they've been, I ween—
They gang ower muckle oot at e'en;
An' fallows are grown sae misleart,
The glaikit things micht weel be feart,
For aften dule an' burnin' shame
Comes poisonin' mony a puir man's hame,
An' gars ye greet, an' rage, an' flyte,
An' the puir faither maist gang gyte;
An' puir aul' Scotlan' hings her heid
An' bids ye leuk tae this wi' speed;
Her bonnie lassocks, bune a' ithers,
She bids you guard-O mithers! mithers!
THE POWER AND BEAUTY OF SCOTTISH
WAKE every chord, strike every string,
Diffuse harmonious raptures round;
Ye foreign songsters warbling breathe
The sweetest strains of vocal sound.
Then, Scotia, pour thy native lays,
All tender, simple, wildly sweet,
Thy martial, mournful, lively airs,
Where Beauty, Power, and Pathos meet.
More rich, more sweet, more thrilling far
Than German or Italian song;
Wake, Scotia, wake thy mountain lyre,
And roll the inspiring tide along.
Oh! roll the glorious tide of song,
Soft gushing o'er the melting heart,
Till patriot Ardour, Mirth, and Love,
Their warmest, brightest powers impart.
When heart-warm tears eclipse thine eyes,
When struggling raptures thrill thy breast,
Be Scotia's peerless powers of song,
In all their native charms, confessed.
NIGHT SCENE AT THE FALL OF
THE toils, the flames, the thunders of the siege
Are quench'd and hush'd. Night shrouds in funeral pall
The fallen fortress, and her shattered mounds—
Each rent and ruined fort, and crumbling wall.
Like leaves in Autumn, drenched in pools of blood,
Lie dead and dying; groans of anguish blend
With smothered shrieks and moans; death-laden sighs
Of long-drawn agony to Heaven ascend.
By the doomed city's suicidal fires
I see their ghastly features upward turned— See fixed and lustreless the glazing eye,
That late with all the warrior's ardour burned.
Not with my ears-I listen with my heart,
And hear ten thousand wailing voices rise, And shrieks and sobs, and bursts of wildest woe, From hearts bereft and lorn, assail the skies.
For them the festal cannon boom in vain,
And joy-bells ring their peal from sea to sea,
And mimic rockets blaze through midnight skies,
And banners flaunt from hall, and tower, and tree.
Be hushed, sad weepers, for your loved ones fell,
As warriors still should fall, in Freedom's cause; For her they stormed the fort, and scaled the breach, Victorious died, and earned a world's applause.
The Rubicon is passed. Pause not, go on
To conquest fresh, and newer fields of fame:
Ye brave Allies, may no dark influence mar
The united glories of your arms and name!
And yon gigantic idol of the North,
Whose mighty limbs of mingled iron and clay Are trembling-tottering, soon will prostrate fall, A crumbling mass of ruin and decay.
ON THE RUSSIAN WAR IN THE CRIMEA,
"There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them as we will.”—SHAKSPERE.
BEHOLD with awe, and high adoring wonder,
The living car of Heaven, on wheels of thunder,
Flame and reverberate through the Eastern skies,
Weak-sighted mortals, veil your dazzled eyes!
Seek not to scan-attempt not to foreshow,
By fancies vain, Heaven's vast designs below.
The living wheels, instinct with spirit eyes,
Roll onwards to their goal, let this suffice
The curious mind and still the anxious soul.
We see a part, but not the mighty whole.
The mad ambition, and the wrath of man,
Controlled, subjected to the sovereign plan
Of an omniscient Providence, shall work
Its ends by grasping Russ, and feeble Turk,
By siege and storm, by battle height and plain,
By lakes of blood and festering hills of slain,
By allied nations rousing Europe broad-
These are His tools, the mighty worker-God.
And thou, my country, what hast thou attained?
Some dear-bought triumphs. Ah! how soiled and stained,
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