EXTEMPORE VERSES, IN IMITATION OF THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD, A bonnie wee cloud flew up the lift, Wi' a lightsome glancin' motion, As pure and as white as the snaw in the drift, Their robes were a' o' the dazzling sheen, Display'd to mortal vision: They were wove by the Fairy Queen in her bower, Between the moon and the mountain ridge, They rowed on their blissful path, Till they rose to the realms abune the stars, And stretching away frae my straining sight, I arose frae the side of the mountain wan, In its autumn mantle clad, And a wish through my moody musings ran That my grass green grave were spread, These spirits' lot in Paradise! THE PARTING EMBRACE. TO AURA. "Tis winter on these naked hills, I wander through the wint'ry mist, I trace by night the trackless snow— Still thy warm cheek to mine is prest, Still those dear arms around me grow! The impetuous torrent foams and boils, My shuddering steed in fear recoils, As red the lightning flashes by. But vain the terrors of the storm, My soul to pierce, my heart to chill; Around me glides thy radiant form, Thy last embrace enfolds me still! Not for the wealth of every sphere THE OLD FISHER'S SONG. The merry morn is waking to the throstle's roundelay, As cheerily he wends his way by greenwood, hill, and strath. Hurrah! the streams are up, and from their mountain holds so green Come rapid down, in foamy falls, with black'ning pools between; The breeze sweeps thro' the alder's bough, and curls the wave beneath, Where the sullen trout leaps fiercely out and plunges on his death. The brown drake wing,* my foremost fly, the heckle deadly black, The hare's ear gray to sweep the pool, the blae wing on his back; * Commonly called a "Professor Wilson," either from its deadliness, (the Professor being a most enthusiastic and skilful fisher) or because he invented, or is partial to it. Then, oh! for Coquet's moorland stream in the merry month of May, And the deadliest hand with any man between the Tyne and Tay! Let others toil for fame or power, and crouch to rank and wealth, Give me the angler's gentle sport, the angler's ruddy health; To meet the sun upon the loch, with a bosom light and free, And sink to rest when the glowing west drops down the distant sea! SONG, "HOW WEAK ARE WORDS.” How weak are words to speak the soul The transports wild that on me roll Entrance my heart, yet mock revealing. Oh! I have sought each term of love, And words of fond endearment utter'd; Invoked the rosy powers above, And passion's warmest whisperings mutter'd. But vain, oh! vain, such art as this, The tones alone such love impart Are burning sighs by kisses broken; Then let me clasp thee to my heart, And feel the bliss can ne'er be spoken! |