For who would trust the seeming sighs Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes, For pleasures past I do not grieve, Nor perils gathering near; No thing that claims a tear. 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 PLOUGH. a WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure b 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' spreckled 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, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield, O' clod or stane, Adorns the histiek stibble field, Unseen, alane. 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 soil'd, is laid And guileless trust, Low i' the dust. c Neebor, neighbour. d Weet, rain, wetness. e Spreckled, spotted, speckled. ↑ Glinted, peeped. g Wa's, walls. h Maun, must. i Bield, shelter. k Histie, dry 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 peers We fought and conquered. Ere a sword was drawn, THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 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, 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 ! |