Chapter II: Part 2

Raise, ye, my Bards, said mighty Fingal, raise
A mournful song, in sad Moina’s praise;
Call to our hills her ghost with tuneful air,
That she may rest in peace with Morven’s fair.
The sun-beams mild on other days that shone,
Delights of ancient heroes long since gone.
I’ve seen Balclutha’s walls, but they are sad,
And dreary desolation round them spread;
The ruinous fire had rioted in the hall;
The people’s voice is heard no more at all;
And Clutha’s course was alter’d by the fall;
And there the thistle shook its lonely head,
Thro’ wither’d moss the wind a whistling made;
The skulking fox did from the window look,
And rank the tufted grass around him shook:
‘Such is the dwelling of Moina now,
The habitation of her fathers low.
Then raise ye Bards, a sweetly mournful strain,
And o’er the stranger’s land in song complain;
They only fell a little us before,
We too must one day fall and be no more.
Why build the hall, son of the winged days?
Or why with toil a stately fabric raise?
To-day thou lookest from thy tower elate;
Yet a few years, for lo! how short the date!
Then desert blasts howl in thy empty court,
And whistle round thy shield in seeming sport;
And come thou desert blast, with howling sound,
We in our little day shall be renown’d;
Still shall be heard our deeds in battles past,
And in the song of bards our name shall last;
When thou shalt fail, O! sun of heaven so bright!
If thou indeed must fail, thou mighty light!
If thou, like me, but for a season art,
Our fame shall live when thy last beams depart.

ANOTHER EXTRACT

_From Ossian._

From grief a kind of joy doth flow,
When peace is in the breast;
Some minds indulge themselves in woe,
And love to be distress’d.

Altho’ by sad remembrance pain’d,
The heart still holds it dear,
The soft sensation is retain’d,
Tho’ causing many a tear.--

But sorrow wastes the mournful soul,
Its joyless days are few,
Whose heart of settled sadness full
Bids cheerfulness adieu!--

A willing stranger to delight,
It wastes in early bloom,
Like flowers which nightly mildews blight,
And scorching suns consume.--

The floweret bends its heavy head,
The killing drops to drink,
So does the mind to pleasure dead,
In cherish’d sorrow sink.--

But grief doth such in secret waste,
Their fleeting days are few,
Whose minds by settled gloom possess’d,
Bid cheerfulness adieu!--

=A Petition=

TO A MEDICAL GENTLEMAN.

Would, Sir, that I could win your ear,
A favour is petition’d here,
Though much you have already done,
Yet bear with one request from me:
Your patient, now, I fain would be,
If granted so desir’d a boon;

A plan might be devis’d that would
Be blest, who knows, to do me good.
And, O! it were a happy thing!
’Twould greatly better my condition,
Spread your fame as a physician,
Double pleasure thence would spring.

Not that I mean your skill’s denied,
If so, I had not first applied,
Much less my pleading now renew;
But curing such a stubborn case,
Your usefulness would much increase,
Tho’ fame should weigh but light with you.

One kind to me before, now gone,
Did all that long could have been done;
This lameness to prevent, and cure,
But then my wavering constitution,
More than now, was in confusion,
And resisted med’cine’s power.

One time I had a minute’s talk,
With you ’bout helping me to walk,
But you declin’d so hard a task,
And I was then, as at this day,
So troublesome another way,
I wanted courage more to ask.

But measur’d lines possess a power,
At least I’ve known it so before,
They’ve gain’d a cause which else had fail’d,
When told in truth’s persuasive spirit,
Meaning well, though poor in merit;
Ev’n such verses have prevail’d;

Please, Sir, let such prevail with you,
And try what art and means can do,
To make me walk though lame and slow:
I think you nothing can propose,
As process, regimen, or dose,
But I will patient undergo:

And after all if means are vain,
I will not murmur, or complain,
When both have done the best we may;
Do promise, once to make a trial,
Nor kill weak hope with a denial,
And your petitioner will pray.

LINES

COMPOSED IN THE TIME OF WAR.

Ha! what’s a’ your hurry my blythe laughing lassie?
What mak’s you sae merry that’s been sae lang wae?
Sae cheerily smiling, weel pleas’d, and sae dressy,
Ye ha’e na been seen for this mony a day?
Is JAMIE come hame again frae the French prison?
I read i’ your looks that I haena guess’d wrang;
Said she, I’ll no hide it, for frankly confessing,
I hope now to see him afore it be lang.

See here are twa letters frae him an’ my brither,
They’re baith to be here in a fortnight at maist;
I’m gaun the blythe tidings to tell JAMIE’S mither,
Sae that’s just the cause o’ my gladness and haste.
I left her, an’ thought how destructive is fighting,
Contriv’d by nae guid to hand folk in a steer;
Keeps mony a body themselves ay affrighting,
For brither, friend, husband, or son, that is dear.

Some wars on ae side hae been right it is granted,
But ilk’ sober person’s opinion runs thus--
That war aye, if possible, should be prevented,
The wide warld’s wealth canna balance the loss.
I’m no a deep-learn’d far-skill’d politician,
But common sense tells me that war is a fiend,
Spreading poverty, bloodshed, an’ fell desolation,
Sic havoc I heartily wish at an end.

=Sabella=;

A METRICAL TALE.

Near twilight, in a forest vast,
Which close tall trees did well adorn;
Surrounded by a heathy waste,
Where rang’d the deer with branched horn.

No marks of culture there were shewn,
But passing Flora, from her lap,
Some borders had profusely strewn
With seeds, and Phœbus nurs’d them up.

An op’ning small the wood divides,
Where runs a riv’let chrystal clear,
And plants and flowers bedeck the sides,
In all its windings far and near.

Off either bank the blast to ward,
Stand the straight oak and comely larch,
The silent pathway’s lofty guard,
Join’d by the sweetly smelling birch.

The falling dew they did imbibe,
Scent, beauty, freshness, to repair;
And on their boughs, a plumy tribe
Pour’d sweetest woodnotes on the air.

Calm was the scene, not e’en a breath
The smallest quiv’ring leaf did shake;
When slowly stepping o’er the heath,
Advanc’d a nymph of graceful make.

When she approach’d to where the rill
Out of a little fountain rose;
’Twas so inviting, soft, and still,
Its devious walk the damsel chose.

Now said she, as she stept along,
This is a favourable place,
To search what in me is so wrong,
And ever robs me of my peace.

My bosom is not torn with spite,
Nor dark revenge, nor fell remorse;
No! what my youthful bloom doth blight,
Arises from another source.

Credulity has been my wreck,
Too easy won by feign’d regard;
Affection whispering, don’t suspect,--
Reflection’s voice was not yet heard.

Long blinded, I did long believe,
Was loath to think his heart so bad,
As with such treachery to deceive,
Then basely slight a trusting maid.

But long neglect has made me own
His fondest vows were only feign’d;
He roves through fields to me unknown,--
Nor one farewell epistle deign’d.

Now to some favourite fair he’ll jest,
And speak of me, with taunting scorn;
Oh! how this weakness I detest,
And yet cannot forbear to mourn.

My heart from every thing around,
Displeas’d, dissatisfied, turns back!
Cease cheerful birds! that echoing sound
Does still my forlorn mind distract.

Thinking herself unseen, unheard,
Aloud her sad complaint began,
When, leaning on his staff, appeared
A venerable aged man.

“Daughter,” he said, “be not alarm’d,
“Pursue your walk, nor tremble so
“At one, by seventy years disarm’d,
“From being a formidable foe.

“I only in the forest stopt,
“As from my work I did retire;
“And these few faded branches lopt,
“A faggot for my lonely fire.”

“By seventy years,” replied the maid,
Whose looks much pity did express--
“And still must work, you sure have had
“Uncommon family distress.”

“Ah! why recall that tender name,”
The old man with a sigh rejoin’d,--
“Forgive me, you are not to blame,
“’Tis never absent from my mind.

“Wouldst thou accompany so old
“A man as I’m to yonder bank,
“Hear his advice, or hist’ry told?”
She said--“for both I would you thank.

“Of good advice I’m much in want,
“Sick of deceitful trifling youth;
“I’ll hear the voice of age intent,
“And lend a willing ear to truth.

“I’ll not inquisitive enquire”--
When seated, thus the sage began:
“The cause why you so much desire
“To wander from th’ abodes of man?

“Amidst the foliage envelop’d,
“This much I both have heard and seen,
“By gestures and expressions dropt,
“Your heart is press’d with anguish keen.

“O! listen then while I relate
“The wasting griefs myself have known,
“Nought interesting to repeat,
“Befell me till to manhood grown.

“I was arrived at age mature,
“Before my honour’d parents died,
“A passion stronger but as pure,
“The place of filial love supplied.

“One night, my day’s employment done,
“In twilight’s pale but soothing reign;
“The busy world I wish’d to shun,
“And sought a long neglected plain.

“The moon arose with cheering rays--
“I walk’d on lighted by the same,
“Where oftentimes in boyish days,
“I with my mother went and came.

“Till by some secret impulse led,
“Near to the margin of a fount,
“Where a neat cottage rais’d its head,
“Of no contemptible account.

“Its owner wealthy was and proud,
“Had been a hero brave in youth;
“His daughter’s praises fame sang loud,
“Nor deviated from the truth.

“Her merits I had oft’ been told;
“Had long esteem’d the lovely maid;
“Another feeling made me bold,
“And I its dictates quick obey’d.

“Struck with a whimsical conceit,
“To try if welcome as a guest,
“I enter’d the half open’d gate.
“Nine times five years have not effac’d

“From memory, the sudden joy
“That then my raptur’d bosom felt.
“An object caught my eager eye,
“On which it long with pleasure dwelt.

“I saw the fair Amelia stand,
“Midst her domestic maidens young;
“Industrious was each busy hand,
“Whilst to her side an orphan clung.”

“Poor little child” she said, “bereft
“Of parents in thy tender years,
“But not an helpless outcast left,
“To break thine heart with sighs and tears.

“No! I will shield from want and cold,
“And teach thee all myself have known;
“Virtue and truth to thee unfold,
“As far as light to me is shewn.”

“She stopt, I hastily retir’d,
“Nor waited for a sentence more;
“Durst not approach what I admir’d,
“But unobserved reach’d the door.

“Went home, but no amusement, then,
“Could from my purpose make me swerve;
“I visited the maid again,
“And told my mind without reserve.

“She heard me with a patient ear,--
“Our families of old were one;
“Suspended betwixt hope and fear!
“I listen’d, while she thus began:”

“Sincerity’s engaging form,
“I love, admire, and reverence;
“Its accents the affections warm,
“Nor fail to win our confidence.”

“Could I these protestations trust,
“My heart your suit would not disown;
“Treat not this frankness with disgust,
“Dissembling is to me unknown.

“O to remember that blest hour,
“My happiness seem’d then complete;
“Our mothers both long time before,
“Friendship did more than blood unite.

“To wed the daughter of her friend,
“My mother wish’d me many a day,
“Hers too the same would recommend,
“But still a bar was in our way.

“Her sire our union did prevent,
“And charg’d her ne’er to see me more;
“At last an unforeseen event,
“Rob’d him of all his golden store,

“Of which he boasted.--With delight,
“And wing’d with hope, to them I flew;
“His sentiments were alter’d quite,
“He own’d Amelia was my due.

“That treasure then I did espouse,--
“Heaven soon recall’d the precious pearl;
“Two pledges of our faithful vows,
“She left an infant boy and girl.

“Their opening minds with care I rear’d,
“With learning suited to their birth:
“My son adventurous appear’d,
“My daughter studied private worth.

“Some men their place of birth esteem,
“They prize its woods and mountains more
“Than places which with plenty teem,
“Of rarest fruits and richest ore.

“Not so, my son, for he t’ acquire
“A splendid fortune, so was bent,
“He left his home, his sister, sire,
“And to a land far distant went.

“By no endearing ties deterr’d,
“Fair Caledonia he would leave;
“Columbia’s fertile plains preferr’d,
“For them encounter’d wind and wave.

“I letters wrote from time to time,
“Entreating that he would return;
“At last I learn’d that foreign clime,
“Had brought him to an early urn.

“The darling of my anxious cares--
“My daughter too was in decline,
“But hid her pains, restrain’d her tears,
“Conceal’d her grief to comfort mine.

“While slow consumptive symptoms wore,
“I saw her like a lily drop;
“And death relentless from me tore
“My last remaining earthly prop.

“Relations now to own refuse,
“Because they know that at my death,
“To raise their mercenary views,
“I have no riches to bequeath.

“To summer’s sun and winter’s storm,
“This tottering frame I must expose,
“When feeble hands and limbs infirm,
“Plead loud for ease and soft repose:

“But not at Heaven’s all-wise decree,
“Should we once murmur in the least;
“A little longer--then we’ll be
“Where no afflicting cares infest.

“These birds to their Creator’s throne,
“Send up, of praise, a willing rent;
“And should we, as it were, lock on
“With peevish fretful discontent.

“We’re more indebted far than they,
“With reason’s light we are endow’d,
“And many favors ev’ry day,
“Are bounteously on us bestow’d.

“The current of this little brook,
“A picture does of time convey;
“Ere we a moment thereon look,
“The silent water glides away.

“To us what lesson does it speak,
“Time plainly whispers in our ear,
“Beyond my bounds your thoughts direct--
“’Tis shadow here, ’tis substance there.”

“The nightly shades now falling fast,
“Perhaps I ne’er will see you more.”
He said, her hand then softly press’d,
“May Heaven your wonted peace restore.”

“Once more indulge me,” said the fair,
“And lead me to your humble home,
“My every wish is center’d there,
“Respecting all this side the tomb.

“My youthful hopes have all expir’d,
“O let me come with you to live,
“In station of a servant hir’d,
“My best assistance you shall have.”

His utmost eloquence was us’d,
From such wild fancies to dissuade.
With faltering voice, and eyes suffus’d
With tears, return’d the weeping maid--

“No aged parents of my own,
“Or friends now my assistance claim,
“And temperate or torrid zone,
“To poor SABELLA is the same.”

Fearing her intellects derang’d,
He with reluctance let her go;
But soon this rash opinion chang’d,
Her conduct show’d it was not so.

She call’d him “father,” when that name
Again soft sounded in his ear;
He her embrac’d--and did exclaim--
“Heaven bless thee! O my daughter dear!

“A parent’s duties I’ll fulfil,
“Whilst Heaven is pleas’d my life to spare.”
“It is enough,” she said, “I will
“Endeavour to deserve your care.”

With every thing convenient,
She comforted his hours of rest;
A pleasing calm, if not content,
At length possess’d her youthful breast.

He taught her lore from many a page,
For ancient books he knew full well:
Of history grave in every age,
How empires rose and how they fell.

And here let the narrator pause,
Who much admires the pleasant sight--
One evening thus employ’d he was,
And she attending with delight;

A youth advanc’d across the vale,
Declar’d himself the old man’s son;
And oh! remarkable to tell--
SABELLA’s lover both in one.

Not to be tedious or minute,
An explanation soon took place;
The youth renew’d his former suit,
But was refus’d with modest grace.

“I’ll leave this house, my master will,”
She said, “no longer want my care.”
Both sire and son t’ entreaties fell,
And a third pleader too was there.

Affection, far from being extinct,
Now rose a powerful foe to pride:
What could she speak, or act, or think--
She smil’d consented, was his bride.

The sire, four-score and ten years old,
His faculties not much impair’d;
Grand-children did with joy behold,
Then died in peace, _lov’d and rever’d_.

=Song=,

_On leaving the Country for the Town_.

Ye shrubs, and blooming flow’rs,
All deck’d in richest pride,
I’ll sing amidst your foliage;
In you I can confide.

But yonder tall plantation,
Is not a friend so true,
For there will tell-tale ECHO,
Repeat each word anew.

Fair smiling infant nature,
Again salutes the eye,
Each leaf and flower expanding,
And all in beauty vie.

Bud on ye tender blossoms,
In vernal breezes wave,
Some other maid will praise you,
Though I these beauties leave.

Spring once thy scented verdure,
With pleasure I survey’d;
And music of the woodlands
Has made my bosom glad.

No more through flow’ry meadows,
Delighted now I range,
But for scenes not so enticing,
Would all these charms exchange,

Yes, yonder crowded city,
With all its bustling noise,
In place of your mild silence,
Is now become my choice.

O hope! what sweet sensations,
Thy promises do give!
But oft, alas! though winning,
Thy brightest smiles deceive.

=Song=,

In answer to

“I’M WEARIN’ AWA’ JEAN.”

Oh! you are happy now Jo!
Your care is a’ through Jo!
Nae pain reaches you
In the land o’ the leal.

Our lassie wan awa’ Jo!
Nor muckle sorrow saw Jo!
Now I mourn twa
In the land o’ the leal.

But a’ is guid and weel Jo!
Though nature it maun feel Jo!
Ilk pain will be heal
In the land o’ the leal.

My locks are thin and grey Jo!
My powers fast decay Jo!
I’m laith lang to stay,
Fae the land o’ the leal.

But my tears drap in vain Jo!
Alane I maun remain Jo!
Till we meet again
In the land o’ the leal.

Though trouble here us tries Jo!
’Tis blessing in disguise Jo!
To mak’ us mair prize
The land o’ the leal.

FAREWELL TO PERTH.

Adieu! pleasant Perth, all thy parts I admire,
Thy domes, and rich buildings, in every fine street,
Thy bridge, and thy churches, with each lofty spire,
Tay’s meads, and green isles, make thy beauty complete.

Of old in thy bosom, though kings once resided,
Thou’rt now even more splendid by commerce increas’d,
With wise regulations, and rulers provided;
Where arts are encouraged, and learning, and taste,

Though much has of late, for the poor been collected,
Ye affluent, think still, what must many endure,
Uncover’d from cold, & with want sore dejected,
Your own cup being brimful, O! think of the poor.

So may your fine city, still more and more flourish,
And trade spreading plenty, again soon return,
With anxious remembrance, this wish I will cherish,
When far distant from it, reluctantly borne,

Yes, I’ll think of thee Perth, not for thy gay splendor,
But sweet were the times that in thee I have seen,
The mem’ry of which will remain soft & tender,
Tho’ ’twixt me & thee many miles intervene.

In some distant valley, by some pleasant fountain,
Where linnets and larks warble sweet in the spring,
While sound’s plaintive echo from rocks, grove, or mountain,
Of Perth, when unseen, often sad I will sing.

=Song=,

IN ANSWER TO

“_O Nannie wilt thou gang wi’ me_.”

No! SANDIE, I will never gang,
Ye’ll trudge through life alane for me,
For aft’ a wife maun thole the wrang,
And I sic scaith will never dree.
I’ll busk mysel’ as neat’s I can,
And claes becoming me will wear,
Though ne’er admir’d by ony man,
Or flatter’d, _fairest of the fair_.

When far awa frae kith and kin,
I’d cast a look behind, I ween,
For you to change might soon begin,
And dwinin’ fondness die wi spleen.
Puir Nannie’s tender form would sink,
If bound your cauld-rife looks to bear,
Just now’s the time for her to think,
Though flatter’d, _fairest of the fair_.

Weak woman can misfortunes brave,
To man in straits is aft’ a frien’--
That’s right, a friend, but not a slave!
’Twere silly to descend so mean.
Some clowns in health do women scorn,
But aye in sickness claim their care;
Sic deem our sex their servants born,
We spurn the thought baith brown and fair.

Yet should you wi’ mischanters meet,
And under pain or poortith bow,
I’m no sae fu’ o’ deadly hate,
But I would help to succour you.
Your grave I dinna wish to see,
Nor strew, nor gather flowers there;
Live if you can to bury me,
Ance flatter’d, _fairest of the fair_.

EVENING REFLECTIONS.

While musing upon many a change,
Reflecting thought inclines
Present ideas, to arrange
In these few simple lines;

Which unremember’d will decay,
No higher is their aim,--
The liker to their author they,
Who’ll shortly do the same.

But why one sigh at being forgot?--
A maid more fair and gay
Perhaps has trode this peaceful spot,
Whose very name’s away:--

Who in this lower world did share,
Like me, its joy and grief;
But from misfortune, pain, and care,
Hath lung since found relief.

Let fancy for a moment wait,
To view that fair unknown;
More early she, and I more late,
Have wander’d here alone.

What! though imagination paints
Her but of mean estate;
Her views when humble, few her wants,
Nor wishing to be great.

Why such a wish? for now her bones
As peacefully do rest
As theirs, who once fill’d regal thrones,
Or Indian mines possess’d.

Perfection in this lower state,
’Bove mortal reach we see,
But serious minds, humane, and sweet,
Are found in each degree.

And wheresoever these appear,
In high or low, they still
A heavenly origin declare,
And shine most beautiful.

Shine, not with ostentation’s blaze,
Th’ applauding eye to lure;
Their actions court not empty praise,
But flow from motives pure.

This conduct is a scene of peace,
Free from discordant noise;
And such a character might grace
The sister of my choice.

Though nat’rally to sadness bent,
Yet soft, sedate, and mild:
She with the mourful did lament--
She with the cheerful smil’d.

Such meek and placid innocence,
Pure seraphs would respect;
But ’mong this globe’s inhabitants,
It only found neglect.

Not mention’d by the mouth of fame,
Nor by reproach assail’d;
From both, her inoffensive frame,
The grave completely veil’d.

Ah! friendly fair! whose dust so small,
With mine may soon be mix’d:
She’s only fall’n, and I must fall--
The sure decree is fix’d.

Since life’s so short, and death so sure;
So transient every joy:
Let us that real good secure,
Which death cannot destroy.

FINIS.

Transcriber’s Notes:

Obvious printers’, punctuation and spelling errors have been corrected silently.