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BERKELEY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIViRS4TY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
POEMS, 
 
 SENTIMENTAL, HDMOROUS, MD SATIRICAL. 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 THOMAS TERNENT, 
 
 COLDSTREAM NEWTOWN. 
 
 GALASHIELS: 
 PHINTED BY BROCKIE & JAMIESON. 
 
 MDCCCXLYI. 
 
LOAN STACK" 
 
PREFACE. ^0*H^ ^ 
 
 The following Poems, written at various periods, 
 are already pretty well known to the public 
 throughout the district in which the Author lived, 
 having mostly appeared in the newspapers of the 
 day, and in the Newcastle Magazine. They em- 
 brace a variety of subjects — sentimental, humour- 
 ous, and satirical, and have been greatly admired 
 by competent judges of poetry for native vigour, 
 smoothness of versification, and originality of 
 thought. A number of the Author's best pieces, 
 however, w^ere given by him to a gentleman, who 
 is since dead, and the manuscripts having never 
 been recovered, and no other copy being in exist- 
 ence, they, of course, cannot be given in the 
 present collection, which is published by Sub- 
 scription by the Author's Widow. Like most 
 posthumous works, the pieces now presented will 
 be found very imperfect ; but it is hoped that 
 that indulgence will be extended towards them 
 which is usually given in such cases. 
 
 709 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Elegy I. , . . .1 
 
 IT. . . . . 2 
 
 ITI- .... 6 
 
 JV. .... 7 
 
 V. .... 7 
 
 VI. . . . . 10 
 
 VII. . . . .12 
 
 VIII. - . . . 13 
 
 Verses on the Death of Sir John Marjoribanks, 
 
 Baronet, of Lees. . . .15 
 
 Verses in reply to a Drinking Song in the Newcastle 
 
 Magazine, ... 16 
 
 Epigram on a Sporting Parson, . .17 
 
 Epigram, .... 18 
 
 Elegy on the Death of a Valuable Old Mare, , 18 
 Elegy on the Death of Andrew the Steward, 21 
 
 Elegy on the Death of a Scold, . . 25 
 
 A Parody on the Beggar's Petition, . 27 
 
 Elegy on the Death of . .29 
 
 Scott o' the Mill, ... 31 
 
 A Parody on the Graves of a Household, . 32 
 
 Verses on the Inhabitants of Wark presenting Dr 
 
 Sligh with a Silver Cup, . . 34 
 
 Lines on the Death of Charles Marjoribanks, Esq. M.P. 36 
 
 A Parody on the Downfall of the Duke of W 38 
 
 An Ode for 1835, . . . .40 
 
 Song — A\r, Flowers of the Forest J . 42 
 
 On the Death of Mrs M.' Gavin, . .44 
 
 On the Death of William Pringle, Esq., Writer in 
 
 Coldstream, ... 46 
 
 On the Death of the Ettrick Shepherd, . 48 
 
 By a Friend of the Author's, on Visiting the Ruins 
 
 of Wark Castle, . . . 50 
 
 On the Death of my favourite Son James, . 62 
 
 Song, . , . , 56 
 
 Song— Air, Garb of Old Gaul, . . 68 
 
POEMS. 
 
 ELEGY I. 
 
 My joys now are over, my pleasures are past, 
 My dear little angel hath breathed her last ; 
 I sit by the cradle, where cold she is laid. 
 And weep at the changes the tyrant hath made. 
 Ah ! fled is that spirit, so gentle and wise. 
 And closed for ever are those pretty eyes ; 
 And pale is that face, once so pleasant to see, 
 And mute is that tongue that cried daddy to me ; 
 And pale are those lips, once so red and so soft. 
 Those lips that with rapture I've kissed so oft ; 
 And those little hands, that so busy would play. 
 Are motionless now, and as cold as the clay ; 
 And that purple stream, those veins that did fill. 
 Now stopt in its channel, is frozen and still. 
 How couldst thou, O tyrant ! how couldst thou 
 
 destroy, 
 The delight of her father, his hope, and his joy ? 
 My children around strive to ease my sad strain. 
 But to me consolation is offered in vain. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 ELEGY II, 
 
 Saint Giles* ehurch-yard in ruin lies, 
 The walls in fragments scattered round ; 
 
 There nettles dark, and thistles rise, 
 And hemlocks wave above the mound. 
 
 No monumental stone is seen 
 
 Inscribed here, with tales of woe ; 
 
 No tombs arise above the green, 
 To tell who silent lies below. 
 
 The humble sons of rustic toil, 
 
 In cold forgetfulness are laid ; 
 Here, mouldering in their native soil. 
 
 Are lost in dark oblivion's shade^ 
 
 But though the great may view with scorn 
 And proud disdain, those ruins wild ; 
 
 ril wander there both even and morn, 
 For there is laid my darling child. 
 
 And as devotion led afar 
 
 The pilgrim to the holy shrine ; 
 
 Affection, like the eastern star. 
 
 Shall guide my steps, sweet child; to thine. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 No nettles dark above thy grave, 
 Or thistles wild shall e'er be seen ; 
 
 But o'er thee fairest flowers shall wave, 
 To deck the rising turf so green. 
 
 There shall the early primrose grow, 
 The violet there its odour shed ; 
 
 The drooping lily bending low, 
 Shall wave above thy lonely bed. 
 
 The rustic hind that treads the ground 
 Where thou art wrapt in lasting sleep, 
 
 Shall pensive view the rising mound. 
 
 And o'er thy mouldering clay shall weep. 
 
 The village boys that careless roam, 
 Or bathe in Tweed's transparent wave, 
 
 As they come wandering slowly home, 
 Shall gaze and sigh upon thy grave. 
 
 Thy father, whose unceasing grief 
 No time impairs, nor rolling years. 
 
 To give his throbbing heart relief, 
 Thy dust shall water with his tears. 
 
 And though no bard in plaintive lays, 
 For thee his tuneful harp hath strung, 
 
POEMS. 
 
 Yet shall thy early worth, thy praise 
 Be, by thy mourning father, sung. 
 
 And though no pompous signs of woe 
 Are seen to glitter round for thee ; 
 
 No sable garb, no splendid show. 
 That oft conceals an inward glee : 
 
 The heaving sigh, convulsive start. 
 Shall softly o'er the bosom steal ; 
 
 The silent anguish of the heart 
 That none can but a parent feeh 
 
 And though no monumental stone 
 Transmit thy name to future years. 
 
 Thy pretty face, remember'd long. 
 Shall oft draw forth a flood of tears. 
 
 Thy father long shall wander here. 
 While grief doth in his bosom swell ; 
 
 And dimly through a falling tear. 
 Shall gaze upon thy lowly cell. 
 
 While memory ponders o'er the joys, 
 I found e're thou wer't laid so low; 
 
 And fancy all her power employs. 
 To bid the tears of sorrow flow. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 When the sweet budding vernal flower 
 Above thy death cold breast doth wave 
 
 I'll spend the sad and silent hour 
 In mourning by thy lonely grave. 
 
 And while the lowering winter storm 
 O'er nature spreads the deepest gloom, 
 
 ril muse upon thy lovely form 
 That moulders in the silent tomb. 
 
 But thou, inhabitant below, 
 
 For thee no mourning can avail ; 
 
 No heartfelt pangs of bitter woe, 
 Or cheeks of sorrow wan and pale. 
 
 But when death's cold insidious hand 
 Doth tear asunder nature's ties ; 
 
 Ah ! who can then his grief withstand, 
 Or yet repress the rising sighs. 
 
 Now bitter doth the north wind blow. 
 And fierce the furious tempest rave ; 
 
 The swift descending flakes of snow 
 Beat on thy newly closed grave. 
 
 Dark roll the clouds of night around. 
 And nature seems with me to mourn ; 
 
POEMS, 
 
 I now must leave the ri&ing mound 
 With aching heart, and home return. 
 
 My feet shall often lead this way. 
 
 With weary heart, and streaming eyes. 
 
 To mourn above the mould'ring clay. 
 Where cold in death my Agnes lies. 
 
 EtEGY III. 
 
 How sweet appears the rising day — 
 
 Birds sing on every tree ; 
 But songsters chanting on the spray 
 
 No more shall waken thee^ 
 
 Though cloudless is the summer sky. 
 Though flowers are springing fair ; 
 
 They never more shall glad thine eye. 
 Or deck thy flowing hair. 
 
 For thee no more the rose shall blow. 
 The snow-white lily wave ; 
 
 For thee no more the primrose grow :— 
 It grows upon thy grave. 
 
POEMS, 
 
 ' ELEGY IV. 
 
 Fatigued at night when I come home, 
 My lonely cot can glad no more ; 
 
 My restless fancy still doth roam, 
 And past afflictions ponder o'er. 
 
 My children fondly prattle round, 
 In playful mood about my knee ; 
 
 While I am wrapt in thought profound, 
 And round me neither hear nor see. 
 
 In black despair my thoughts do roll, 
 My breast with anguish sore oppressed ; 
 
 My sick'ned heart and weary soul. 
 Long with my child to be at rest. 
 
 ELEGY V. 
 
 Who was as sweet a pretty child, 
 As e'er upon a father smil'd ? 
 Who every anxious care beguiled ? 
 My Agnes ! 
 
 When I came wandering home at night, 
 Who filled me with a fond delight, 
 And made my weary heart beat light ? 
 My Agnes ! 
 
> POEMS. 
 
 Who round my neck her arms would place. 
 And clasp me in a fond embrace, 
 And in my bosom hide her face ? 
 
 My Agnes I 
 
 Upon her little stool who sat, 
 And sportive played with the cat, 
 And on her head would put my hat ? 
 My Agnes ! 
 
 In bed, who would not fall asleep, 
 But softly from the clothes would creep. 
 And by the curtain slyly peep ? 
 
 My Agnes I 
 
 Into her little hands, who took 
 And would attempt to read a book, 
 And did so sweetly on it look ? 
 
 My Agnes ! 
 
 Her looks so sweet, her temper mild. 
 Her pretty lips that ever smiFd, 
 Made all who knew her love my child — 
 My Agnes ! 
 
 But ah ! these scenes are now no more — 
 These happy, happy days are o'er — 
 The early death I now deplore 
 
 Of Agnes I 
 
POEMS. 
 
 Thy little brother comes with glee 
 At night to meet and welcome me, — 
 My heart is sad, I sigh for thee — 
 
 My Agnes ! 
 
 In vain for thee I look around, 
 But oh ! thou art not to be found ; 
 For silent now below the mound 
 
 Lies Agnes ! 
 
 When fell disease did on thee prey, 
 And pale thou in the cradle lay, 
 I watch'd by night and toil'd by day 
 For Agnes ! 
 
 And while the busy world slept, 
 
 O'er thee I nightly vigils kept. 
 
 For thee I prayed, for thee I wept — 
 
 My Agnes ! 
 
 A lock I cut out of thy hair. 
 That waved on thy face so fair, 
 ril keep it with a father's care — 
 
 My Agnes ! 
 
 Thy spirit pure above the skies 
 Shall teach my weary soul to rise, 
 And every earthly joy despise — 
 
 My Agnes ! 
 
10 POEMS. 
 
 For soon the final hour will come 
 When I myself am called home, 
 To moulder with thee in the tomb — 
 My Agnes ! 
 
 But endless years are yet in store, 
 For there remains a happy shore, 
 Where I shall meet, to part no more. 
 With Agnes ! 
 
 Farewell, farewell, my pretty dear, 
 I'll mourn thy loss from year to year, 
 And oft remember with a tear 
 
 My Agnes ! 
 
 ELEGY Y I. 
 
 No more thy banks with joy, oh Tweed, 
 1*11 rove, though spring's again returning ; 
 
 For now in dark and sable weed 
 I for my darling child go mourning. 
 
 No more thy banks with her I'll rove. 
 To pull the young and tender flower, 
 
 Or hear the pretty turtle-dove 
 
 Lamenting from her woody bower. 
 
POEMS. 11 
 
 Though fresh and fair the banks of Tweed 
 With Phoebus' rays so brightly shining ; 
 
 Though pleasant flowers adorn the mead 
 With fragrant woodbine artless twining : 
 
 Their beauties all unheeded He 
 
 To him whose heart is drown'd in sorrow ; 
 To him whose dim and weeping eye 
 
 Can hope no more for glad to-morrow. 
 
 Fair spring may pass unheeded by, 
 
 My heart no more with rapture glowing ; 
 
 For cold in death my child doth lie, 
 The hollow wind is o'er her blowing. 
 
 More happy fathers now may walk 
 
 These banks, their children round them smiling; 
 And with their artless tender talk 
 
 The passing hour with joy beguiling. 
 
 But now the dreary lone churchyard 
 My feet shall sad and silent wander, 
 
 Where I will oft with tears regard 
 The spot my darling moulders under. 
 
 But soon the hand of death will close 
 T hose eyes that now are red with weeping ; 
 
 And I shall find a long repose 
 
 With her that in the dust is sleeping. 
 
12 POEMS. 
 
 ELEGY VII. 
 
 As I wander the banks of the Tweed, 
 Not a primrose or cowslip is seen ; 
 
 Not a hare-bell appears on the mead, 
 Or a daisy to brighten the green. 
 
 No longer is heard in the grove 
 
 The song of the blackbird or thrush ; 
 
 Not a small bird is now seen to move 
 From the shelter it finds in the bush. 
 
 How dusky and black is the north ; 
 
 The clouds are condensing and lour ; 
 The hoarse-sounding tempest comes forth. 
 
 Along with the sharp cutting shower. 
 
 The tempest drives over the plain ; 
 
 The flocks that remain in the field 
 Run, cowering and drenched with the rain, 
 
 To the hawthorn hedges for beild. 
 
 The shades of the night gather round ; 
 
 The cottar fast homeward does hie, 
 While I muse o'er the damp rising mound 
 
 Beneath which my darling doth lie. 
 
POEMS. 13 
 
 How swift o'er the new-closed grave 
 The cold bitter tempest doth blow ; 
 
 But though loudly the winter winds rave, 
 They disturb not the mansions below. 
 
 Receive me, ye dwellings of peace. 
 Where adversity's winds never blow ; 
 
 Where the storms of life ever cease, 
 
 And the heart no misfortunes can know. 
 
 ELEOY YIII. 
 
 Why do tears down your cheeks run so fast. 
 Or why wear you these garments of woe ? 
 
 Alas ! my sweet child, so gentle and mild, 
 Now in the cold grave lieth low. 
 
 O ! fair, fair indeed, was her face. 
 Too good she was, long to be here. 
 
 Aye so good and so wise, she gladdened mine eyes, 
 But now they are dim with a tear. 
 
 Yet nature's fair charms still may please. 
 
 See the landscape is smiling around ; 
 At nature's fair charms my heart never warms, 
 
 For my darling lies cold in the ground. 
 
14 POEMS. 
 
 How sweet is the song of the lark ; 
 
 See the flowers how they spring on the lee ; 
 O, the birds they may sing, and the flowers they 
 may spring, 
 
 But no pleasure they give unto me. 
 
 Then in wine you may drown your grief, 
 And remember your sorrow no more ; 
 
 Can wine bring relief to a heart full of grief, 
 Or a bosom with anguish that's tore ? 
 
 You still have three children behind ; 
 
 Their smile may yet gladden your eye ; 
 Fve three children behind, fair, tender, and kind. 
 
 But her loss, oh, they ne'er can supply. 
 
 But your child joins the angels on high ; 
 
 She's relieved from sickness and pain ; 
 Yes, she's happy on high, but still I must sigh, 
 
 For her face I will ne'er see again. 
 
 May the fairest of flowers deck her grave ; 
 
 In bloom may they ever appear ; 
 And all that pass by, while they gaze may they sigh, 
 
 And o'er her cold grave drop a tear. 
 
POEMS. 15 
 
 VERSES 
 
 DEATH OF SIR JOHN MARJORIBANKS, 
 BARONET, OF LEES. 
 
 From Scotia's heard a dismal wail 
 To Eastern India's distant shore ; 
 
 The sound is borne on every gale, 
 That good Sir John is now no more. 
 
 Ever the widow's son shall weep 
 For him who bade his fortune rise ; 
 
 Who sent him smiling o'er the deep, 
 To flourish under Eastern skies. 
 
 Ah, who will now his place supply. 
 To those by poverty oppressed ? 
 
 Cold is that heart, and dim that eye, 
 That saw and pitied the distress'd. 
 
 Long may the poor his loss deplore, 
 For who will now their cause defend ? 
 
 That powerful voice is heard no more. 
 That did the wretched oft befriend. 
 
16 POEMS. 
 
 The noblest structures, by his hand, 
 
 Edina's palaces can show, ' 
 That, long as monuments shall stand. 
 
 Of him who now is mouldVirig low. 
 
 His favourite son, with loud applause. 
 He saw to instant honour rise — 
 
 A patriot in his country's cause, 
 iVnd then for ever closed his eyes. 
 
 The feelings of his kindred dear. 
 
 What tongue can tell that piteous tale ? 
 
 Enough ; let fall a silent tear. 
 
 And o'er their sorrows draw a veil. 
 
 V^EESES IN EEPLY TO A DRINKING SONG 
 
 IN TH2 
 
 NEWCASTLE MAGAZINE. 
 
 I PITY the wretches who always are drinking. 
 
 With nought but the j oys of this life in their eye ; 
 Who spend the fleet moments without ever think- 
 ing, 
 Or preparing themselves for the hour they must 
 die. 
 
POEMS. 17 
 
 The drunkard may quaff off his cups without 
 measure — 
 May pay no regard to his Maker on high ; 
 But ah ! he'll repent of each sensual pleasure, 
 When the dread hour approaches in which he 
 must die. . 
 
 The profligate rake may exult in deceiving, 
 Though he cause the fond heart of the virgin 
 to sigh ; 
 But his oft-vaunted success will fill him with 
 grieving. 
 When the dread hour approaches in which he 
 must die. 
 
 The sceptic may laugh at the thought of devotion, 
 May doubt of that Being who rules in the sky ; 
 
 But what is his breast ? — like the troubled ocean, 
 When the dread hour approaches in which he 
 • must die. 
 
 EPIGRAM ON A SPORTING PARSON. 
 
 In yonder mansion lives good parson Fun, 
 Where, sportsman like, he keeps his dog and gun ; 
 Though not to shoot at Folly as it flies. 
 But ducks and wild geese, living, as they rise. 
 
18 POEMS^.. 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 My works I sent the gentry round, 
 Who read them, called them clever ;-. 
 
 But then, confound it, still I found 
 Myself as poor as ever. 
 
 O, surely these are iron times, 
 When none will genius cherish ; 
 
 For though they're pleased with the rhymes. 
 They let the rhymer iDcrish. 
 
 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A VALUABLK 
 OLD MARE. 
 
 Now Jessy's dead, a noble mare. 
 As e'er was bought wi' warld's gear. 
 She hasna' left her marrow near 
 
 The banks o' Tweed ; 
 Nae wonder Ralph lets fa' a tear, 
 
 For Jessy's dead. 
 
 Nae mair when Johnny touts his horn^ 
 Will Ralph come down t(» gie her corn. 
 Or rub her legs at e'en or morn, 
 
 Or clap her head ; 
 Her loss, puir chiel', he'll ever mourn j: 
 
 She's cauld an' dead. 
 
POEMS. 19 
 
 Nae mair again, in plough or cart, 
 She'll wag her tail wi' merry heart, 
 Or on the road by others dart, 
 
 An' tak' the lead, 
 Or, snoring at a bogle, start — 
 
 She's cauld an' dead. 
 
 On Sunday she'll nae mair rin out. 
 To caper, flisk, and fling about ; 
 Or show her legs sae yauld an' stout. 
 
 Or wond'rous speed ; 
 Her spunk o' life is now gane out, 
 
 Auld Jessy's dead. 
 
 For what she's done I'm sure that they 
 Might laid her banes amang the clay ; 
 But, O hard fate, it makes me wae, 
 
 For cursed greed 
 Made them her verra skin to flay. 
 
 When she was dead. 
 
 Her puir auld banes they stripped bare. 
 And harl'd afF baith skin an' hair. 
 Her verra shoon they didna spare ; 
 
 Syne by the Tweed, 
 They laid her on her hindmost lair, 
 
 Baith cauld an' dead. 
 
20 POEMS. 
 
 It filled my heart ae day I saw 
 The hungry dogs rive out her maw ; 
 And ae confounded corbie craw 
 
 Sat on her head, 
 An' picked out her een an' a'; 
 
 She's cauld an' dead. 
 
 The sow was lost, and Andrew ran 
 An' speer'd for her at ilka man ; 
 Till meeting Nelly wi' the can 
 
 Come up thrae Tweed, 
 Says she, " It is your only plan, 
 
 To search the dead." 
 
 Watch gae a bark, out lap the sow, 
 
 " O dear," says Andrew, " there she's now." 
 
 Auld Jessy's banes the brute ran through, 
 
 Wi' bluidy head ; 
 For slily she had filled her mou', 
 
 Upon the dead. 
 
 Take warning, sirs, by Jessy's fate ; 
 Think when you serve the rich an' great. 
 How little they regard your state ; 
 
 For when you need. 
 They'll leave you to your wretched fate. 
 
 An' never heed. 
 
POEMS. 21 
 
 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ANDREW 
 THE STEWARD. 
 
 What's happened now, O lack a-day ! 
 To tell it, sirs, my heart is wae ; 
 It's baith gard me and mony mae 
 
 E'en shed a tear ; 
 And faith i'ts near hand gard us pray, 
 
 Through perfect fear. 
 
 The passing bell, wi' solemn sound, 
 
 Alarms ilka bodie round ; 
 
 The doleful knell does some confound, 
 
 Wi* dread an' awe ; 
 While some wi' sorrow near hand drown'd, 
 
 A tear let fa'. 
 
 But still the proverb's true, I find. 
 That out o' sight is out o* mind. 
 The dearest friends we leave behind. 
 
 But seldom cry ; 
 Their grief, guid faith, is like the wind, 
 
 It whistles bye. 
 
22 POEMS. 
 
 Our steward's dead, lie's left us a', 
 Wha's word sae often stood for law. 
 He ruled ance aboon us a', ' 
 
 And eared for nane ; 
 But now, alas ! he lies fu' law. 
 
 He's dead an' gane. 
 
 Puir man, he in a winter morn. 
 Wad rise fu' blythe an' blaw the horn, 
 Then step awa the horse to corn, 
 
 Wi' easy care ; 
 But now awa' he's thra us torn. 
 
 To Lord kens where. 
 
 I've seen him on the broomie knowe. 
 When turnips folk began to howe. 
 Behind them waddle through an' through, 
 
 Wi' staff in hand ; 
 But he's for ever left them now, 
 
 Without command. 
 
 For many a w^eary summer day, 
 When folk were thrang o' tedding hay. 
 Afore them a' he led the way, 
 
 An' held them bizzie ; 
 Now he lies cauld amang the clay, 
 
 Ayont auld Lizzie. 
 
POEMS. 23 
 
 Fve seen him on the harvest rig, 
 Upon the auld mare sit fu' trig ; 
 O then, poor man, he looked big, 
 
 O'er a' the band. 
 For neist the ehiel' that wore the wig, 
 
 He bore command. 
 
 Ae day, the last that e'er he saw, 
 He took a rumlin* in his maw, 
 An' then began to bouk an' thraw, 
 
 An' took nae dinner ; 
 Till death at last e'en laid him law. 
 
 Poor helpless sinner. 
 
 Then Bettj^she began to greet ; 
 Nae doubt she reason had to freet ; 
 For when a man forsakes his meat, 
 
 It is a sign 
 His life at last to end the heat 
 
 He must resign. 
 
 Wha wished him ill, may ill befa'. 
 
 For he wished ill to nane ava } 
 
 Though whiles, indeed, he'd erousely craw. 
 
 An' look fu' sour. 
 Yet this was only after a', 
 
 To show his power. 
 
24 POEMS. 
 
 He now lies eauld beneath the sod, 
 Nae better than a lump o' clod ; 
 But, sirs, remember that's the road 
 
 We've a' to gang, 
 However we may think it odd. 
 
 E'er it be lang. 
 
 Yet, when the trumpet's awfu' sound. 
 Shall rend the skies an' shake the, ground. 
 And every wicked man confound, 
 
 Wi' dread and fear. 
 He then may rise and look around, 
 
 Amang us here. 
 
 Where he will gang upon t^at day. 
 Is rather hard for me to say ; 
 But yet I hope he'll wing his way 
 
 To scenes above. 
 Where God his grandeur doth display. 
 And endless love. 
 
POEMS. 25 
 
 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A SCOLD. 
 
 I PLAINLY see the rich and great, 
 The simple clown, the bauld or blate, 
 Maun in their turn submit to fate, 
 
 Without remeid, 
 For lo ! auld tinkler ■ — , 
 
 Lies cauld an' dead. 
 
 O wow she had a wicked tongue, 
 That neither spared auld nor young ; 
 A w^arse ane sure was never hung 
 
 Within a head ; 
 For monie a year it loudly rung, 
 
 But now she's dead. 
 
 Aye, aye, she's dead, at last she's quiet, 
 Na mair she'll make another riot. 
 Or chatter like a noisy pyet 
 
 Aboon our head ; 
 I'm sure the town's a gainer by it, 
 
 Now whan she's dead. 
 
26 POEMS, 
 
 For whae was free frae Mary's clash, 
 Or whae were they she didna' fash, 
 Her verra bairns she did them lash, 
 
 'Twas sad indeed, 
 But now nae mair she'll curse an' clash — 
 
 She's cauld an' dead. 
 
 Aye brawly could she curse and swear. 
 And dearly loved to domineer ; 
 'Twas really dangerous to be near 
 
 Her cursed head, 
 And harder still her tongue to bear, 
 
 But now she's dead. 
 
 Now, sirs, it makes my heart right sore, 
 
 To think that folk o' fourscore 
 
 Should think about their death no more 
 
 Then crossing Tweed, 
 Till they in endless torments roar. 
 
 Without remeid. 
 
 But heaven to some, I plainly find. 
 Gives not a pious godly mind ; 
 For Mary never was inclined 
 
 To pray or read. 
 And to her faults was always blind. 
 
 And now she's dead. 
 
POEMS. 27 
 
 A PARODY ON THE BEGGAR'S PETITION. 
 
 Occasioned by the second contest between Mr Bell and Mr 
 LiDDELL to represent the County of Northumberland in Parlia- 
 ment in 1826. 
 
 Pity the sorrows of a wretched man, 
 
 Who madly followed blind ambition's call, 
 
 Whose credit's dwindled to the shortest span ; 
 Oh, give your vote, and heaven will bliss you all. 
 
 These whiskers large my dignity bespeak, 
 The simpering smile, the supple courtier's 
 grace ; 
 
 The freemen's votes I lowly bend to seek. 
 Do all proclaim me of the venal race. 
 
 Yon house where England's rights are bought and 
 sold. 
 
 Hath tempting baits the needy to allure ; 
 For there each placeman's name is fair enrolled, 
 
 And ah ! how charming is a sinecure. 
 
 Oh, give your votes, and let me now begone ; 
 
 Hard press my foes around each freeman's door ; 
 Fain would I have a pension from the throne, 
 
 For I am proud, but miserably poor. 
 
28 POEMS. 
 
 Had you but seen the shower of tears I shed ; 
 
 Did you but know the money I have spent, 
 The bands of hungry freemen I have fed, 
 
 You would not wonder at my sad lament. 
 
 But who his fortune in a poll can tell, 
 Fool that I was such an attempt to try; 
 
 Had you opposed this confounded Bell, 
 You might been beaten too as well as L 
 
 An ample fortune once, indeed, was mine, 
 Alas ! that fortune did not long endure ; 
 
 I fondly hoped I in a court might shine, 
 And fixed my heart upon a sinecure. 
 
 My fortune vanished in the last contest. 
 And down to dust my haughty spirit fell ; 
 
 For, to my sorrow it must be confess'd, 
 
 I could not stand against that tongueless Bell. 
 
 My friends attempt to buoy me up once more. 
 With flatt'ring hopes that I may better speed ; 
 
 But if Fm beaten as I was before, 
 Alas ! I shall be miserable indeed. 
 
 Pity the sorrows of a wretched man, 
 
 Who madly followed blind ambition's call ; 
 
POEMS. 29 
 
 Whose credit's dwindled to the shortest span, 
 Oh ! give your votes, and Heaven will bless 
 you all. 
 
 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF . 
 
 O, Death ! O, Death ! ye cruel loon, 
 Ye neither spare the king nor clown, 
 O* men o' great an sma renown, 
 
 Ye nick the thread ; 
 For now, alas, auld , 
 
 Lies cauld and dead. 
 
 Nae mair the thistle tops he'll maw, 
 
 Or in the harvest step awa. 
 
 To set on end the stooks that fa', 
 
 Or stacks to head, 
 Or harrow after them that saw ; 
 
 Auld Archie's dead. 
 
 Nae mair at night wi' , 
 
 He'll crack about the Church an' State, 
 Or speak o' Providence and fate, 
 * Or Calvin's Creed, 
 
 He now hath entered Death's dark gate; 
 Auld Archie's dead. 
 
30 POEMS. 
 
 O wow, he was a souple chiel, 
 And brawly could he dance a reel, 
 I've seen him caper toe an' heel 
 
 We unco speed, 
 But now nae mair he'll canty squeel ; 
 
 Auld Archie's dead. 
 
 At Hansel-Monday in a ring, 
 Nae mair he'll ever loup and fling, 
 Or up a^ain the ceiling spring, 
 
 Aboon our head ; 
 Auld Nell her lugs may waefu' hing, 
 
 For Archie's dead. 
 
 Ah, wae's my heart for puir auld Nell, 
 Will dowie sit and blaw hersel'. 
 Or wond'rous feats o' Archie tell. 
 
 And shake her head- 
 How he was aye sae teugh and fell ; 
 
 But now he's dead. 
 
 And, Willie, ye in grief may rave. 
 And drap a tear aboon his grave, 
 , To you a faithfu' teughing slave. 
 He was indeed ; 
 His service weel a tear may crave. 
 
 Now when he's dead. 
 
POEMS. 31 
 
 SCOTT O' THE MILL. 
 
 Scott o' the Mill is the " wail o' guid men/' 
 He beats "auld Rob Morris that lived in the glen \' 
 Nae mortal that kend him e'er wished him ill, 
 For a' body liked this Scott o' the Mill. 
 
 Scott o' the Mill, if the poor wanted hay. 
 Though they hadna' the cash he never said nay ; 
 And though in his debt, he wad' credit them still ; 
 Sae a' body liked this Scott o' the Mill. 
 
 Scott o' the Mill, if the poor wanted corn. 
 He was ready to ser' them baith e'ening and 
 
 morn ; 
 Did they want but a cap, that cap he would fill, 
 He was sae obliging, this Scott o' the Mill. 
 
 Scott o' the Mill was a friend in a pinch, 
 In the hour o' distress he never wad flinch ; 
 But his friendship caus'd him to pay mony a bill ; 
 Deil tak them that cheated this Scott o' the Mill. 
 
 Scott o' the Mill, he could tell a good tale. 
 At cracking a joke, he never did fail ; 
 At night when auld cronies met owre a gill, 
 O, wha was sae canty as Scott o' the Mill. 
 
32 POEMS. 
 
 But time ends our pleasures, he's now left us a', 
 There's nathing but sighing, for " Willie's awa ;" 
 
 And , his successor, his place winna fill, 
 
 Na, faith, he will ne'er be Hke Scott o' the Mill. 
 
 A PARODY 
 
 GBATES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 
 
 They drank together side by side, 
 And filled the house with glee ; 
 
 Now they are sever'd far and wide. 
 Though not by mount or sea. 
 
 The same good liquor flew at night, 
 
 To each besotted brow, 
 Till they had lost both tongue and sight ; 
 
 Where are these drunkards now ? 
 
 One of them, sore by sleep oppress'd, 
 
 On barley straw is laid ; 
 The pigs all know his place of rest. 
 
 Beneath a farmer's shade. 
 
/ 
 
 POEMS, 33 
 
 The fields, the lone green fields, have one. 
 
 He lies where lie the sheep ; 
 Though cold his bed, yet there is none 
 
 To wake him from his sleep. 
 
 And one of them, too drunk to walk, 
 
 By neighbours home was led ; 
 He put his nightcap on his head. 
 
 And stagger'd into bed. 
 
 And one attempting oft to rise, 
 'Twas vain, he could not stand ; 
 
 So by the fire he snoring lies, 
 The drunkest of that band. 
 
 And these are they who spent the night 
 
 With such a flow of soul. 
 Who sat and sung with such delight. 
 
 Around a cheering bowl. 
 
 Whose folly made the landlord smile, 
 And filled the house with mirth ; 
 
 Alas, for grog, if this is all. 
 And nothing else on earth ! 
 
34 roEMS. 
 
 VEKSES 
 
 ON THE 
 
 INHABITANTS OF WARK PRESENTING DR 
 SLIGH WITH A SILVER CUP, 
 
 FOR His EXERTIONS DURING THE TIME THE CHOLERA 
 RAGED THERE, IN 1832. 
 
 The conqueror is hail'd from far, 
 
 And with a wreath of laurel crowned, 
 
 While shouts of joy attend his car, 
 
 And countless thousands gaze around — 
 
 Unmindful of the widow^'s groan, 
 The hapless father's struggling sigh, 
 
 The wretched orphan's piteous moan. 
 That's left in want to pine or die. 
 
 O, it is surely nobler far. 
 
 One precious valued life to save. 
 
 Than by the murd'rous trade of war 
 To bring a thousand to the grave. 
 
 The laurel that is round thy brow. 
 Drew no sad tears from misery's eyes ; 
 
 Tlie honours that attend thee now, 
 From noblest deeds in perils rise. 
 
POEMS, 35 
 
 When pest'lence hover'd in the air, 
 And death was borne on every blast, 
 
 When every face was black desjjair, 
 And even the boldest stood aghast, — 
 
 Thou in that fearful hour stood'st forth, 
 To stay the lowly peasant's doom, 
 
 Both tender years and humble worth, 
 To rescue from an early tomb. 
 
 These are the deeds that now have spread 
 A brighter halo round thy name. 
 
 Than his, who, trampling o'er the dead, 
 Doth wade thro' blood to wealth and fame. 
 
 The mother, once with terror wild, 
 Though tears of joy now fill her eye, 
 
 Shall teach lior little infant child. 
 To lisp and bless the name of Sligh. 
 
 Accept this token of regard. 
 
 By poor but grateful people given, 
 
 Until you meet your great reward, 
 
 From the just hand of bounteous Heaven. 
 
36 POEMS. 
 
 LINES 
 
 DEATH OF CHARLES MARJORIBANKS^ 
 ESQ., M,P. 
 
 TvE seen the evening star so bright, 
 Amid-the gloom its beams display, 
 
 But vanish e'er the morning light 
 And all its beauty pass away. 
 
 Thus human honours soon decay, 
 
 Thus mortal hopes do pass, how soon ; 
 
 Untiuiely falls his country's stay, 
 For Scotia's sun hath set at noon. 
 
 Where are the shouts that rent the aii-. 
 The merry band that played before ? 
 
 Where now the decorated chair^ 
 Or where the hero which it bore ? 
 
 Where is the splendour now of power. 
 The shouts of joy, the noisy mirth^ 
 
 The glory of the patriot's hour ? 
 Consigned for ever to the earth I 
 
POEMS. 37 
 
 A numerous train again appears, 
 
 But ah ! they move both sad and slow, 
 
 A sable garb each mourner wears, 
 In all the solemn pomp of woe. 
 
 The silent crowd now gaze around, 
 The rustic hind forgets his home ; 
 
 While all are rapt in thought profound, 
 To see him carried to the tomb. 
 
 That head so late with honour crown'd, 
 Receives a different homage now ; 
 
 The dreary grave, the rising mound. 
 Conceal that lately laurel'd brow. 
 
 That heart so warm in freedom's cause. 
 
 And charity, is still and cold ; 
 That tongue whose sound drew forth ap- 
 plause, 
 
 Is silent now beneath the mould. 
 
 Marjoribanks, the poor shall weep 
 Thy loss, the Patriot long deplore ; 
 
 And still thy memory sacred keep. 
 Till liberty shall be no more. 
 
38 POEMS, 
 
 A PARODY ON THE DOWNFALL OF THE 
 DUKE OF W . 
 
 Not a sigh was heard, nor seen was a tear, 
 When he fell from his lofty station ; 
 
 But in every city and town you might hear 
 The exulting shouts of the nation. 
 
 We brought him down from his lofty height, 
 Though his minions around him w^ere clinging 
 
 Defeated the despot, asserted our right, 
 While the knell of the Tories was ringing. 
 
 Not an innocent spot appeared on his breast. 
 As black as the devil we found him ; 
 
 And he lay like a spirit of darkness distressed. 
 With the sons of corruption around him. 
 
 Long and loud were the shouts we made. 
 We show'd not a symi^tom of sorrow ; 
 
 But indignantly spoke of a country betrayed, 
 And joyfully thought of to-morrow. 
 
POEMS. 39 
 
 Wo thought, as we wrench'd from the tyrant 
 his power, 
 
 Of the bright days of freedom returning ; 
 Not a cloud of corruption to darken the hour, 
 
 While our day-star was brilliantly burning. 
 
 Loudly they'll curse the villain that's gone, 
 And with all their burdens upbraid him ; 
 
 But nothing he'll reck, but let them curse on, 
 If liis pension is regularly paid him. 
 
 When the brave sons of freedom surrounded the 
 throne, 
 
 Our foes thought it time for retiring ; 
 And we heard the last and struggling groan 
 
 Of some wretched Tory expiring. 
 
 His laurels are blasted, no longer liis fame 
 
 Shall e'er be renowned in story ; 
 The annals of Europe shall blacken his name, 
 
 For he's left without honour or glory. 
 
40 POEM^. 
 
 AN ODE FOR 1835. 
 
 Britons arise, assert your right, 
 Come in all your warlike might. 
 From his lofty towering height 
 
 Bring down the foe of liberty^ 
 
 Think upon the days of old, 
 When the mighty barons bold. 
 The haughty tyrant's power controll'd — 
 The standard raised of liberty. 
 
 Where is CromwelFs spirit now. 
 Where that bold undaunted brow. 
 Where the heart that once did glow, 
 With the flame of liberty ? 
 
 Where that strong and powerful hand 
 That oft hath grasp'd the bloody brand ? 
 Despots shook in every land, 
 
 Albion alone was free ! 
 
 Call him not usurper — no, 
 For he laid usurpers low ; 
 His foe was also England's foe. 
 
 And the foe of Hberty. 
 
POEMS. 41 
 
 Must we like the Afric groan, 
 Must we put his fetters on ? 
 No, the king upon the throne, 
 
 Lives but to govern the free. 
 
 Must we leave our children dear. 
 Such a servile badge to wear ? 
 Haste, asunder let us tear 
 
 The galling chains of slavery. 
 
 Must we to that despot bow ? 
 
 See the lowly peasant now. 
 
 With weary hands and dusty brow. 
 
 Toil to support his luxury. 
 
 Did not honour still await, 
 And titles, to the base ingrate. 
 Did we not exalt his state ? 
 
 And our reward is slavery. 
 
 Is the heart of England cold, 
 Are the sons of Scotia sold. 
 Must green Erin needs be told. 
 
 To defend her liberty ? 
 
 Shade of Hampden I invoke. 
 Shades of all who spurned the yoke ; 
 Do you frown or do you mock, 
 
 At our base degeneracy ? 
 
42 POEMS. 
 
 Hark, that triumph in the air ! 
 ^Tis our fathers' spirits there ; 
 They exult while we declare 
 
 We'll live or die with liberty ! 
 
 Let fair freedom's banners wave — 
 Onward, onward, Britons brave. 
 Liberty, or else a grave. 
 
 Death, cold death, or liberty ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Air — Flowers of the Forest. 
 
 O, I HAVE seen a-shining, 
 
 And gentry combining, 
 And our braw Tories their grandeur display, 
 
 With horses a-prancing, 
 
 At routes and at dancing ; 
 But our braw Tories are gane to decay. 
 
 O, I have seen them boozing, 
 
 And deeply carousing, 
 With full flowing bowls, till the dawning of day 
 
 But now they're a-sighing, 
 
 i\s if they were dying, 
 For our braw Tories are gane to decay. 
 
POEMS. 43 
 
 Nae mair at Elections, 
 
 With subtle objections. 
 And purses well lined, well e'er won the day ; 
 
 Reformers are jibing, 
 
 They'll be nae mair bribing, 
 For our braw Tories are gane to decay. 
 
 O, dool to Sir Francis, 
 
 May blackest mischances 
 Take him and his party, wi' a' their fair play ; 
 
 The priest, wi' his gabbing. 
 
 Has set us a-sabbing, 
 And our braw Tories are gane to decay. 
 
 O, dool for -, 
 
 And a' bastard bairns, 
 The nation nae langer their pensions will pay ; 
 
 Of corruption nae fencing, 
 
 But saving, retrenching. 
 Since our braw Tories are gane to decay. 
 
 In pulpits their graces 
 
 Will ne'er show their faces. 
 Or kneel on their cushions, as bishops, to pray ; 
 
 A place or a pension 
 
 They'll nae man dare mention, 
 Since our braw Tories are gane to decay. 
 
44 POEMS. 
 
 O, dool to reforming, 
 
 In vain we are storming, 
 Had bribery availed they had ne'er won the day ; 
 
 We have naething but curses, 
 
 And lang empty purses, 
 Since our braw Tories are gane to decay. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MRS M^GAVIN. 
 
 I've seen the Hly in its bloom. 
 And gazed upon the lovely form ; 
 
 A moment after mourned its doom, 
 O'erturned by a vernal storm. 
 
 Thus fall the tender flowers of earth, 
 And thus the lovely pass away — 
 
 The fairest forms of mortal birth. 
 But bloom to wither and decay. 
 
 How soon thy nuptial joys are gone ! 
 
 Who can behold thy fate unmoved. 
 Thou who so late in beauty shone — 
 
 So young, so lovely, and beloved ! 
 
POEMS. 45 
 
 What sighs and lamentations deep, 
 Are heard around thy sable bier ; 
 
 And many an eye unused to weep, 
 For thee lets fall a silent tear. 
 
 And that pale one, who late did seem 
 The happiest mortal here below, 
 
 Hath waked from his blissful dream, 
 To feel the keenest pangs of woe. 
 
 Where is that soft bewitching grace, 
 Of which thou w^ert so justly proud ? 
 
 Ah, pale is now that beauteous face, 
 And wrapt for ever in a shroud. 
 
 Long, long thy youthful eyes shall weep. 
 Thy lonely heart lament in vain ; 
 
 While dreams and soft delusions sweep 
 Across and mock thy fevered brain. 
 
 Thou man of God, with patience bend 
 To Him who gave the mortal blow, 
 
 And in thy joy behold the end, 
 The end of every bliss below. 
 
 And ye who reared the tender flower. 
 Who smiled to hear her gentle voice, 
 
46 POEMS. 
 
 What tongue can cheer, what magic power 
 Shall bid your hearts again rejoice ! 
 
 Cold, cold her fragile form lies, 
 
 Now in Death's dreary dark domain ; 
 
 No phoenix from her dust can rise, 
 To bid you e'er be glad again. 
 
 But to the sick and weary heart. 
 One cheering ray of hope is given. 
 
 That though on earth we all must part, 
 We meet to part no more in heaven. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM PRINGLE, 
 ESQ., WRITER IN COLDSTREAM. 
 
 The wicked falls — no heart is sore 
 
 When 'midst his crimes he's swept away ; 
 
 No tearful eye is running o'er, 
 
 When he's consigned to silent clay. 
 
 But when the good and virtuous die, 
 At gentle nature's plaintive call, 
 
 Tlie silent tear, the heaving sigh. 
 Is seen, is heard, and felt by all. 
 
POEMS. 47 
 
 And, Pringle, since the chilly dews 
 Of death have stood upon thy brow, 
 
 The tribute of a willing Muse, 
 To thee can be no flattery now. 
 
 No crafty action, mean or vile, 
 
 Thy tongue or pen did e'er employ ; 
 
 No subtle lawyer's cunning wile, 
 Who flatters only to destroy. 
 
 In peace thy ashes now decay, 
 No censures on thy conduct fall ; 
 
 Thy honest heart, thy upright way, 
 And public worth, are owned by all. 
 
 How mild, how calm and firm you stood, 
 • 'Mid party rage and passion's sway ; 
 But to the virtuous and the good. 
 
 Each kindred heart must homage pay. 
 
 That homage to thy dust w^as shown, 
 By rich and poor, both high and low ; 
 
 No party spirit then Avas known — 
 All, all was hushed in silent w^oe. 
 
 And, Pringle, still thy name shall live, 
 'Mid every change, through rolling years — 
 Thy grateful memory long survive, 
 Embalmed wuth fair virtue's tears. 
 
48 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 ON THE 
 DEATH OF THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. 
 
 The Rural Bard lies fast asleep, 
 
 Whose harp has charm'd the world to hear; 
 That aged bard has left to weep^ 
 
 A widow lone, and children dear. 
 
 The mountain harp is broken now. 
 The wretched widow sits forlorn — 
 
 With care depicted on her brow, 
 Her joyless heart with sorrow worn. 
 
 Ye, who the mountain Bard did charm — 
 Whose sound still vibrates on the ear — 
 
 Let sympathy your bosom warm, 
 And dry the widow's bitter tear. 
 
 And ye, who feasted round the board 
 His scanty store could ill supply, 
 
 O, do not now your treasure hoard, 
 While sorrow dims the widow's eye. 
 
 The simple Bard, unskilled to save. 
 Did soon his scanty treasure drain ; 
 
 For what his noble patron gave, 
 The Bard as freely gave again. 
 
POEMS. 49 
 
 Alas ! the festive days that's gone, 
 Might been to nobler ends applied ; 
 
 But when was ever prudence known 
 The poet's generous heart to guide. 
 
 Old Scotia long his name may toast, 
 And of his works be proudly vain ; 
 
 No other country e'er could boast, 
 A shepherd sung as sweet a strain. 
 
 But what avails a nation's praise, 
 If still in want the orphans pine ; 
 
 From penury the widow raise — 
 
 O, Scotland, let that work be thine. 
 
 And Albion, too, my native land. 
 The noblest deeds thy sons employ, 
 
 With Scotia join thy generous hand. 
 To fill the widow's heart with joy. 
 
50 POEMS. 
 
 BY A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S, 
 
 ON 
 
 VISITING THE RUINS OF WARK CASTLE. 
 
 Proud Wark, once famed in history's page, 
 In days when Scotia's sons went forth, 
 
 In hostile bands, with hate and rage, 
 To shout the war-cry of the north. 
 
 'Twas then thy turrets proudly frown'd. 
 
 Upon assailants far below ; 
 While keep and tower, with warriors crown'd. 
 
 Caused human blood in torrents flow. 
 
 Within thy halls was tript the dance, 
 
 When beauteous Sal'sbury held the sway ; 
 
 Here bounded forth the knight with lance, 
 To drive the daring foe away. 
 
 Around thy walls have heroes fought, 
 Against thee kings have armies led ; 
 
 Ah ! little then these warriors thought, 
 How vain the prize for which they bled. 
 
 Thy courtly halls are now no more. 
 Thy walls are crumbling to decay ; 
 
POEMS. 51 
 
 The earth has drank those streams of gore, 
 Brave soldiers shed in Border fray. 
 
 Thy donjon keep, where watch ne'er slept 
 Is now a mound of rubbish wild ; 
 
 And where thy wardens vigil kept, 
 Now plays the harmless village child. 
 
 In vain did man in war assail, 
 Thy massy walls repell'd the foe ; 
 
 The warrior in his coat of mail, 
 
 'Twere useless deeds of might to show. 
 
 But that so hard for man to gain. 
 Long since is won by hoary time ; 
 
 Now thou art levelFd with the dust, 
 A mass of rubbish, stone, and lime. 
 
 And so it is, the works of man, 
 
 However great, decay at last ; 
 For he, and they, are like a span, 
 
 And for the moment only last. 
 
 Unlike the works of God on high — 
 Ah ! His shall last for evermore ; 
 
 These still remain, though ages fly — 
 Let man His wondVous power adore. 
 
52 POEMS. 
 
 ON THE DEATH 
 OF MY FAVOURITE SON JAMES, 
 
 WHO DIED OF CHOLERA, WHEN IT RAGED IN COLD- 
 STREAM, IN 1832, AGED TEN YEARS. 
 
 O, 'tis the curse of heaven to possess a mind 
 Given to reflection, and a heart alive to sympathy. 
 I have wept for other's woes, without the power 
 To heal thejn ; but, O God ! how was my heart 
 Sweird, even to bursting, to behold my son, 
 My lovely son, struggling in the pangs of death. 
 And faintly calling on his father to relieve him. 
 Yes, I beheld my boy, my lovely boy, 
 Parched with thirst, a deadly thirst, 
 And durst not give the cooling draught he long'd 
 
 for. 
 Physicians said it would prove fatal. 
 I withheld the cooling draught. 
 Meanwhile, his gentle heart burned within him. 
 What would my boy have given 
 For but a cup of water, yet 'twas withheld I 
 I prayed to heaven but to spare my child 
 A little longer ; but 'twas in vain — 
 The hand, the hand of death was on him. 
 He- called on me to kiss and press his clay 
 Cold lips ; and when he saw me weep 
 
POEMS. 53 
 
 Strove to conceal his pain, 
 
 Forcing his pretty lips into a smile, 
 
 Saying, he would soon be well. 
 
 Alas ! the heart driven to distraction 
 
 Will eager catch at hope, when even to hope 
 
 Is madness. But the hour was fast approaching 
 
 That parted us for ever. 
 
 An icy cold spread o'er his gentle limbs ; 
 
 The roses on his cheeks began to wither ; 
 
 And his eyes, that beamed with love. 
 
 Did lose their beauteous lustre and grow dim* 
 
 He closed them, sank into a gentle sleep ; 
 
 His eyes were closed, never to open more ; 
 
 One heavy sigh, that heart did cease to beat — 
 
 The languid pulse stood still. 
 
 I stood like one whom sense and motion left, 
 
 Gazing on his pale form, scarcely believing 
 
 What now I saw. But soon a deeper shade 
 
 Veiled that beauteous face 
 
 That used to cheer me in my darkest hour. 
 
 Then, and not till then, I saw my child was gone. 
 
 Before I could not think that death 
 
 Would blast a flower so lovely. 
 
 I did not weep. 
 
 Tears could not force a passage 
 
 To ease my breaking heart. 
 
 I stood and gazed in dumb despair ; 
 
54 POEMS. 
 
 And but a few short hours approached 
 
 The sable coffin, which soon contained 
 
 All that my heart held dear. 
 
 I was forbid to weep ; 
 
 To show myself a man I must not shed a tear. 
 
 Alas ! is manhood with feeling incompatible, 
 
 When the tender ties of nature are rudely torn 
 
 asunder ? 
 Is it manhood to affect the stoic, 
 And behold with cold indifference 
 Our own offspring, the young and lovely. 
 Hurried to the grave ? 
 
 I walked pensive by the hearse that bore him 
 To his last dwelling. 
 
 When the green turf was rapt above his breast, 
 I wandered home, and found my house a desert — 
 All, all I loved was gone. 
 Ah ! what avails the wisdom of the sage, 
 Who tell us neither to doat nor idolise our 
 Children, as we may soon be parted. 
 Alas ! the thought of separation v 
 
 Makes the heart cling yet more closely 
 To the lov*d idol of its fond affection. 
 Philosophers may boast the power of reason, 
 And its influence o*er the human mind ; 
 But, in the hour of trial, how impotent 
 To heal the sorrows of a broken heart. 
 
POEMS. 55 
 
 They talk of hope. What can I hope ? 
 
 My child is lying in the lonely grave, 
 
 And hope is mockery now. 
 
 I know that all must die ; 
 
 That many a father's heart is rent with 
 
 Anguish, by losing all he loves. 
 
 Is that a consolation, 
 
 That others feel the cruel pangs that I do ? 
 
 Absurd conclusion ! Ask the wretch 
 
 That's tortured on the wheel. 
 
 When his trembling limbs quiver with 
 
 Agony, if his pains are less. 
 
 Because thousands have suffered on the rack 
 
 Before him. Or will it be consoling 
 
 To the damned to know, 
 
 That millions with them lie in endless 
 
 Torment ? No ; each must suffer his 
 
 Own ills alone, and other woes are 
 
 No alleviation. 
 
 My lovely boy, I scarcely deemed that 
 
 He was mortal : his gentle heart 
 
 Was innocent and pure 
 
 As the pale snow-drop which I planted 
 
 Upon his grave. How pleased have I 
 
 Beheld him at his childish sports 
 
 Surpass his fellows, and look up 
 
 For my approving smile. 
 
56 POEMS. 
 
 They still pursue their gambols 
 
 On the green ; but he is lying 
 
 In the lonely grave. 
 
 How oft his pretty songs have cheered 
 
 My humble cot ; but on my lonely 
 
 Hearth the voice of melody is heard no more. 
 
 My lovely boy, thy memory falls 
 
 Upon my heart, like silent dew 
 
 Upon the tender grass, though not to freshen, 
 
 But to make it wither. 
 
 I wander oft a weary pilgrim 
 
 To thy lonely grave. No stone is there 
 
 To tell thy virtues or to mark thy name ; 
 
 But the pale snow-drop shows 
 
 Where spotless innocence now sleeps in peace. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Cold is that heart that ance was warm, 
 That beat wi' love to me, Peggy ; 
 
 Yet my heart's true and constant too, 
 And still adoreth thee, Peggy. 
 
 Tho' slander sought to blast your fame, 
 It did not alter me, Peggy ; 
 
 I seemed cold, yet still my heart. 
 Did fondly doat on thee, Peggy, 
 
POEMS. 57 
 
 The glances of your lovely eyes, 
 That often shone on me, Peggy, 
 
 Showed ance true love without disguise, 
 To ane adoring thee, Peggy. 
 
 And can a brother change your mind, 
 
 Or can he alter thee, Peggy? 
 A brother kind may love you well, 
 
 But cannot love like me, Peggy. 
 
 But frost will blast the sweetest bloom 
 That springs on flower or tree, Peggy — 
 
 And cold disdain may change the mind 
 That fondly doats on thee, Peggy. 
 
 I would have sought you for my bride. 
 Though highest I had been, Peggy ; 
 
 Had I been king of England fair. 
 
 You should have been the queen, Peggy. 
 
 But though I love you as my life. 
 And wish to make ye mine, Peggy, 
 
 Yet know my breast contains a heart. 
 As haughty, proud as thine, Peggy. 
 
58 POEMS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Air — Garb of Old Gaul, 
 
 From the banks of the Tweed with our banners 
 
 we come, 
 In warlike array, with the trumpet and drum ; 
 The sons of corruption we'll boldly defy. 
 With our hero. Sir Francis, we'll conquer or die. 
 
 There's a magical sound in the name of a Blake, 
 Whose ancestors made ev'n the boldest to quake, 
 Who gathered fresh laurels by flood and by field, 
 And made all the foes of old England to yield. 
 
 Must a son of the Borders be doomed like a slave, 
 Must the birthplace of freedom be liberty's grave? 
 No, we'll sweep all our foes from the earth like a 
 
 flood. 
 Or our hands shall be died with their dearest 
 
 heart's blood. 
 
 Arouse, then, ye Borderers, and come to the field, 
 Put on your armour, your buckler, and shield; 
 With your bright gleaming broadswords your 
 
 hero surround. 
 Till he's covered with laurels and victory crown'd. 
 
I