And would you ask me to resign Go, bid the hero who has run Thro' fields of death to gather fame, The ribband shall its freedom lose- upon my bosom live, Or clasp me in a close embrace; Retrieve its doom, and take its place. MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS Tune-"Failte na Miosg." FAREWELL to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. Chorus. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, Farewell to the mountains, high-cover'd with snow, THE WHISTLE-A BALLAD I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, Was brought to the court of our good Scottish King, Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, The god of the bottle sends down from his hall"The Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er, And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!" Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd; Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, "By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel replies, "Before I surrender so glorious a prize, I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er." Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, So noted for drowning of sorrow and care; But, for wine and for welcome, not more known to fame, Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame. A bard was selected to witness the fray, And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. The dinner being over, the claret they ply, And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy; In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set, Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er: Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night, Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; Next uprose our Bard, like a prophet in drink:- "Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, Shall heroes and patriots ever produce: So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!" TO MARY IN HEAVEN THOU ling'ring star, with lessening ray, My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where, by the winding Ayr, we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past, Thy image at our last embrace, Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild-woods, thickening green; Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, My Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy blissful place of rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? EPISTLE TO DR. BLACKLOCK ELLISLAND, 21st Oct., 1789. Wow, but your letter made me vauntie! Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye! The ill-thief blaw the Heron south! I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, And bade nae better. But aiblins, honest Master Heron And holy study; And tired o' sauls to waste his lear on, But what d'ye think, my trusty fere, Ye'll now disdain me! And then my fifty pounds a year Ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies, That strang necessity supreme is ’Mang sons o men. I hae a wife and twa wee laddies; They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies; |