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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,
| The so
Thy fwains are familh'd on the rocks,
let, The vie
What boots it, then, in ev'ry clime,
The rural pipe, and merry lay,
Oh baneful cause, oh, fatal morn, accurs’d to ages yet unborn !
The sons against their fathers stood;
The naked and forlorn muft feel
The pious mother doom'd to death,
Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,
The Lascar's Lamentation.
H hear, a wretched Lascar's cries,
To poverty a prey.
Forc'd from his native peaceful home,
He wanders here forlorn ;'
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 ;
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;
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;
Thou has refus'd to save.
What comfort say, can'st thou receive
When thy last hour is nigh?
But I have learnt to die.