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For who would trust the seeming sighs
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes,
For pleasures past I do not grieve,
And now I'm in the world alone,
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves !
TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,
TURNED DOWN BY THE POET'S
Thy slender stem;
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonnie gem.
a Wee, little. b Stoure, dust, dirt.
Alas! it's no thy neebore sweet,
Wi' sprecklede breast,
When upward springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
O' clod or stane,
Adorns the histiek stibble field,
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Till she, like thee, all
c Neebor, neighbour.
And guileless trust,
Low i' the dust.
e Spreckled, spotted, speckled.
g Wa's, walls.
i Bield, shelter.
d Weet, rain, wetness.
Such is the fate of simple Bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er !
Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,
To mis'ry's brink,
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
He, ruin'd, sink!
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.
My name is Norval: on the Grampian hills
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
Hovered about the enemy, and marked
We fought and conquered. Ere a sword was drawn,
The shepherd's slothful life; and having heard
THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !
Did ye not hear it?-No; 'twas but the wind,
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet
But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! Arm! it is !—it is!—the cannon's opening roar !
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear:
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips-"The foe! they come, they come !"
And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose !