I love my Peggy's angel air,
Her face so truly heavenly fair,
Her native grace, so void of art,
But I adore my Peggy's heart.

The lily's hue, the rose's dye,
The kindling lustre of an eye;
Who but owns their magic sway!
Who but knows they all decay!

The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
The generous purpose nobly dear,
The gentle look that rage disarms—
These are all Immortal charms.

THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER Tune-" Morag."

LOUD blaw the frosty breezes,

The snaws the mountains cover;

Like winter on me seizes,

Since my young Highland rover Far wanders nations over. Where'er he go, where'er he stray, May heaven be his warden; Return him safe to fair Strathspey, And bonie Castle-Gordon!

The trees now naked groaning,
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging,

The birdies dowie moaning,

Shall a' be blythely singing, And every flower be springing; Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, When by his mighty Warden My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey, And bonie Castle-Gordon.

BIRTHDAY ODE FOR 31ST DECEMBER, 17871

AFAR the illustrious Exile roams,

Whom kingdoms on this day should hail;
An inmate in the casual shed,

On transient pity's bounty fed,

Haunted by busy memory's bitter tale!
Beasts of the forest have their savage homes,
But He, who should imperial purple wear,
Owns not the lap of earth where rests his royal head!
His wretched refuge, dark despair,

While ravening wrongs and woes pursue,
And distant far the faithful few
Who would his sorrows share.

False flatterer, Hope, away!

Nor think to lure us as in days of yore:
We solemnize this sorrowing natal day,

To prove our loyal truth-we can no more,
And owning Heaven's mysterious sway,
Submissive, low adore.

Ye honored, mighty Dead,

Who nobly perished in the glorious cause,
Your KING, your Country, and her laws,
From great DUNDEE, who smiling Victory led,
And fell a Martyr in her arms,

(What breast of northern ice but warms!)

To bold BALMERINO'S undying name,

Whose soul of fire, lighted at Heaven's high flame,

Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim: Not unrevenged your fate shall lie,

It only lags, the fatal hour,

Your blood shall, with incessant cry,

Awake at last, th' unsparing Power;

As from the cliff, with thundering course,
The snowy ruin smokes along

With doubling speed and gathering force,

1 The last birthday of Prince Charles Edward.

Till deep it, crushing, whelms the cottage in the vale;
So Vengeance' arm, ensanguin'd, strong,
Shall with resistless might assail,

Usurping Brunswick's pride shall lay,

And STEWART'S wrongs and yours, with tenfold weight repay.

PERDITION, baleful child of night!

Rise and revenge the injured right
Of STEWART's royal race:

Lead on the unmuzzled hounds of hell,
Till all the frighted echoes tell

The blood-notes of the chase!
Full on the quarry point their view,
Full on the base usurping crew,

The tools of faction, and the nation's curse!
Hark how the cry grows on the wind;
They leave the lagging gale behind,
Their savage fury, pitiless, they pour;
With murdering eyes already they devour;
See Brunswick spent, a wretched prey,
His life one poor despairing day,

Where each avenging hour still ushers in a worse!
Such havock, howling all abroad,

Their utter ruin bring,

The base apostates to their GOD,
Or rebels to their KING.

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ., OF ARNISTON

Late Lord President of the Court of Session.

LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks

Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains;
Beneath the blast the leafless forests groan;
The hollow caves return a hollow moan.

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves,
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,

Sad to your sympathetic glooms I fly;
Where, to the whistling blast and water's roar,
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.

O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,
Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway'd her rod:
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow,
She sank, abandon'd to the wildest woe.

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,
Now, gay in hope, explore the paths of men:
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise,
And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes;
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:
Mark Ruffian Violence, distained with crimes,
Rousing elate in these degenerate times,
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:
While subtle Litigation's pliant tongue

The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong:
Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale,
And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours the unpitied wail!

Ye dark waste hills, ye brown unsightly plains,
Congenial scenes, ye soothe my mournful strains:
Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign;
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,
To mourn the woes my country must endure—
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.