But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither :
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we 'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.

R. Burns

CLVII

THE LAND O' THE LEAL

'M wearing awa', Jean,

W

I , Jean

I'm wearing awa'

To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, Jean, There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, The day is aye fair

In the land o' the leal.

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,
Your task 's ended noo, Jean,
And I 'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.
Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean,
She was baith guid and fair, Jean,
O we grudged her right sair

To the land o' the leal !

Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,
My soul langs to be free, Jean,
And angels wait on me

To the land o' the leal.
Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,
This warld's care is vain, Jean;
We'll meet and aye be sain
In the land o' the leal.

Lady Nairn

CLVIII

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON

COLLEGE

YE

E distant spires, ye antique towers

That crown the wat’ry glade,
Where grateful Science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade ;
And ye, that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights th’ expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way:

Ah happy hills ! ah pleasing shade!

Ah fields beloved in vain !
Where once my careless childhood stray'd,

A stranger yet to pain !
I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary bliss bestow,
As waving fresh their gladsome wing
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen

Full many a sprightly race
Disporting on thy margent green

The paths of pleasure trace ;
Who foremost now delight to cleave,
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which enthral ?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed

Or urge the flying ball ?
While some on earnest business bent

Their murmuring labours ply 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty :
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign
And unknown regions dare descry :
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind

And snatch a fearful joy.

a

Gay Hope is theirs by fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possest ;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast :
Theirs buxom Health, of rosy hue,
Wild Wit, Invention ever new,
And lively Cheer, of Vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light

That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom

The little victims play!

No sense have they of ills to come,

Nor care beyond to-day : Yet see how all around 'em wait The ministers of human fate And black Misfortune's baleful train ! Ah shew them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murderous band !

Ah, tell them they are men !

These shall the fury Passions tear,

The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind ;
Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth
That inly gnaws the secret heart,
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,

And Sorrow's piercing dart.

a

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,

Then whirl the wretch from high
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice

And grinning Infamy.
The stings of Falsehood those shall try,
And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,
That mocks the tear it forced to flow;
And keen Remorse with blood defiled,
And moody Madness laughing wild

Amid severest woe.

Lo, in the Vale of Years beneath

A griesly troop are seen, The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their Queen :

This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every labouring sinew strains,
Those in the deeper vitals rage :
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,

And slow-consuming Age.

To each his sufferings : all are men,

Condemn'd alike to groan ; The tender for another's pain,

Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise ! No more ; — where ignorance is bliss, ’T is folly to be wise.

T. Gray

CLIX

HYMN TO ADVERSITY

AUGHTER of Jove, relentless power,

Whose iron scourge and torturing hour

The bad affright, afflict the best !
Bound in thy adamantine chain
The proud are taught to taste of pain,

And purple tyrants vainly groan
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.

When first thy Sire to send on earth

Virtue, his darling child, design’d, To thee he gave the heavenly birth,

And bade to form her infant mind.