If care arise (and cares will come!),
Thy bosom is my softest home!
I lull me there to rest!

And is there aught disturbs my Fair?
I bid her, sigh out all her care,
And lose it in my breast!

Have I a joy? 'Tis all her own!
Or hers and mine are all but one!
Our hearts are so intwined
That, like the ivy round the tree,
Bound up in closest amity,

'Tis death to be disjoined!

A HAPPY HUSBAND.

Edinburgh, October II [1773].

TRUE BLUE.

I HOPE there's no Soul
Met over this bowl,

But means honest ends to pursue!

With the voice, go the heart!
And let's never depart

From the faith of an honest True Blue!

For country and friends,
Let us scorn private ends,
And keep old British virtue in view!
Despising the tribe

Who are swayed by a bribe;

Be honest, and ever True Blue!

On the politic knave,
Who strives to enslave,

Whose schemes the whole nation may rue;
On Pension and Place,

That cursed disgrace;

Turn your backs, and be staunch! be True Blue!

With hounds and with horn,
We will rise in the morn,
With vigour the fox to pursue;
'Corruption''s the cry,

We will chase till we die! 'Tis worthy a British True Blue!

Here's a Health to all those
Who do slavery oppose;

And our trade both defend and renew!
To each honest voice

That concurs in the choice

And support of an honest True Blue!

ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF SCOTS MUSIC.

[Thursday, March 5, 1772.]

Mark it, CESARIO! It is old and plain!

The Spinsters and the Knitters in the sun,

And the free Maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chant it!

SHAKESPEARE, Twelfth Night.

ON Scotia's plains, in days of yore,
When Lads and Lasses tartan wore,
Soft Music rang in ilka shore
In hamely weid:

But Harmony is now no more;
And Music, dead!

Round her the feathered choir would wing,
Sae bonnily she used to sing,
And sleely wake the sleeping string,
Their Sang to lead,

Sweet as the zephyrs of the Spring:
But now she 's dead!

Mourn, ilka Nymph, and ilka Swain!
Ilk sunny hill and dowie glen!
Let weeping streams and Naiads drain
Their fountain-head!

Let ECHO swell the dolefu' strain;

Since Music 's dead!

Whan the saft vernal breezes ca'
The grey-haired Winter's fogs awa',
Naebody then is heard to blaw
Near hill or mead,

On chaunter, or on aiten straw;
Since Music 's dead!

Nae Lasses now, on Simmer days,
Will lilt at bleachin of their claes!
Nae Herds, on Yarrow's bonny braes,
Or banks of Tweed,

Delight to chant their hameil Lays!
Since Music 's dead!

At gloming now, the Bagpipe 's dumb,
When weary owsen hameward come,
Sae sweetly as it wont to bum,

And Pibrachs skreed!

We never hear its warlike hum,

For Music 's dead!

MACGIBBON 's gone! Ah! wae 's my heart!
The man in Music maist expert!
Wha cou'd sweet harmony impart;
And tune the reed

Wi' sic a slee and pawky art!

But now he 's dead!