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companion-your flatterer-your seducer-but, believe me, he is not your friend.


The Tears of Scotland. Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn! Thy fons, for valourdong renown'd, Lie Naughter'd on their native ground; Thy hospitable roofs no more Invite the stranger to the door ; In smoaky ruins funk they lie, The monuments of cruelty.

The wretched 'owner sees, afar,
His all become the prey of war ;
Bethinks høn of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast, and curses life.


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Thy fwains are familh'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks :
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain ;
Thy infants perifh on the plain.

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What boots it, then, in ev'ry clime,
Thro' the wide-spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still Phone with undiminish'd blaze ?
Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke :
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancour fell.

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The rural pipe, and merry lay,
No more shall chear the happy day :
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night :
No strains, but those of sorrow, flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woc,
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o’er the silent plain.

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Oh baneful cause, oh, fatal morn, accurs’d to ages yet unborn !


The sons against their fathers stood;
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's soul was not appeas'd :

The naked and forlorn muft feel
• Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel!

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The pious mother doom'd to death,
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath,
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread;
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend,
And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.


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Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns;
Resentment of my country's fate
Within filial breast shall beat ;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My fympathizing verse fhall flow,
“ Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
* Thy banishd peace, thy laurels torn !"



The Lascar's Lamentation.

H hear, a wretched Lascar's cries,
Turn not thine eyes away ;
Helpless and fhiv'ring, here he lies,

To poverty a prey.

Forc'd from his native peaceful home,

He wanders here forlorn ;'
Hungry and sad, obliged to roam,

comfort torn.

Ah ! could I but once more behold

That foil which gave me life, Within these arms, once more infold

My lov'd, my long-loft wife.

The white-man then, with haughty air

Might treat me with disdain ;
But Yalpa free'd from black despair,

No longer would complain.


On the cold stones I lay my head,

Oppress'd with want and pain ; The smallest gift to buy some bread,

I alk--but ask in vain !

Did'st thou but feel the parching thirst;

Know but one half my grief;
See my poor heart with anguish burst,

Could'st thou deny relief?

The Christian rolling in his wealth,

Poffeft with means to bless; Enjoying happiness and health,

Thinks not of my distress.

Alas, I faint, my eyes grow diin,

I hasten to the grave;
Now cruel Christian, pity him

Thou has refus'd to save.

What comfort say, can'st thou receive

When thy last hour is nigh?
Thou, cruel man, has learnt to live,

But I have learnt to die.




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