Their ance-lo'ed master -O, my Jamie dear! Forgie, forgie this ither starting tear Their ance lo'ed master, won by Coila's plains, O, Jamie! ilka day wi' ills is rife : Ane wi' twa three social Friends convene, To crack a while, an' spend a sunless e'en ; Το Our lambs, our kids, our meads, our Nymphs an' a', Are left to mourn their Robin gane awa! JAMIE. He's just preferr'd-my Johnie, greet nae mair, He's just preferr'd the banks, an' braes o' Ayr. May be some wily lass has had the airt, Wi' spells, an' charms, to win our Robin's heart; An' hauds him, wi her Glaumour gift,sae fell, That, tho' he wad, he coudna break the spell. We maun pit up wi't, lad, an', sin' we maun, We'll bear the trouble, just as weel's we can. THE TRAVELLER. FROM THE GERMAN. Quid quisque vitet nunquam homini satis Who can his future woe forsee? Who from the impending danger flee? WHEN gloomy winter rul'd the year, From cheerless, and disturb'd repose, The rushing rain, in torrents fell: Each big, brown, swollen brook Adown its chok'd up channel roar'd : With many a wishful look, And long, and eager he explor'd, To find some Friendly cell; Where he might shun the lashing rain; HOR. FRAN. His tearful eye He lifts, in prayer, to Jove on high, Louder, and louder blew the blast ; In larger torrents pour'd the rain: The way-worn Traveller, aghast, Began, in fretful murmur, to complain : "'Tis thus the gods, for whom our victims bleed, Regardless of our need; Amid our sad distress, severe, Refuse to lend a pitying ear; And, of their power in vain parade, He reach'd the verge of a lone, dismal wood: Plunging amid the shade, He seeks the kindly shelter of the glade; Nor for that kindly shelter given, Allow'd one grateful thought to rise to heaven. But, scarce his foot the forest made, A robber sprung: the trembling wretch, afraid, Bending his bow, The robber aim'd a deadly shaft to throw : Relax'd, and injur'd by the rain, The moisten'd cord he drew in vain: Short of his aim he sees his arrow fall; While, o'er the wild, in sad affray, Dreading the danger scarcely past, Or reinless fury of the storm. And, while his bosom throbs with fear, his ear: Presumptuous Mortal! from this caution given, Muse on the care, as on the power of Heaven; Nor dare again to deprecate the flood, Which Heaven, you see, hath made a mean for good |