We meet to argue what we think,
We meet to cowe that horrid drink,
We meet to read, recite, an' sing,
An' mony a queer conceitie thing.
Noo, wurkin' men yersel's respec',
Nor leeve in ignorance an' neglec';
Ye've means, but want the wull to use them,
Ye whiles neglec', an' whiles abuse them;
Ye hae nae time for e'enin' classes;
Ye've time to drink, an' see the lassies-
Staun at hoose-en, or change-hoose door,
An' smoke, an' swear, an' raise a splore,
An' play at cards, or fecht wi' dougs,
An' whiles to "clout ilk ither's lugs;"
O wad ye no be muckle better,
To read a beuk, or write a letter?
Had ye the wull, wi' beuk an' pen,
Ye'd fin' the way to mak' ye men.
An' mithers, dae ye ken the poor'es,
The strength for gude or ill that's yours;
An' that the gabbin', todlin' things,
That's hingin' by yer apron strings,
Wull be a millstane roun' yer neck
To droon yer sauls, if ye neglec'
To win their hearts, an' train their min'
In a' that's virtuous, gude, an' kin'?
Your lassies, that ye tak' sic pride in,
Hae muckle need o' carefu' guidin';
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 to this wi' speed;
Her bonnie lassies bune a' ithers,
She bids you guard-O mithers! mithers!
NIGHT SCENE AT THE FALL OF
THE toils, the flames, the thunders of the siege
Arequench'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 turnedSee 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 peals 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 !
ON THE RUSSIAN WAR IN THE CRIMEA, 1854-55.
"There's a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough hew them as we will."-SHAKESPERE.
BEHOLD with awe, and high adoring wonder,
The levin 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 onward 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 soil'd and stain'd
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