Nor greater bliss his bosom knew,
In opening youth's delightful prime,
Than when thy favouring ear he drew
To listen to his chanted rhyme.

Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies
To him were all with rapture fraught;
He heard with joy the tempest rise

That wak'd him to sublimer thought;
And oft thy winding dells he sought,

Where wild flow'rs pour'd their rathe perfume; And with sincere devotion brought

To thee the summer's earliest bloom.

But, ah! no fond maternal smile
His unprotected youth enjoy'd;
His limbs inur'd to early toil,

His days with early hardships tried ;
And more to mark the gloomy void,
And bid him feel his misery,
Before his infant eyes would glide
Day-dreams of immortality.

Yet, not by cold neglect depressed,
With sinewy arm he turn'd the soil,
Sunk with the evening sun to rest,

And met at morn his earliest smile.
Wak'd by his rustic pipe, meanwhile
The powers of Fancy came along,
And sooth'd his lengthen'd hours of toil
With native wit and sprightly song.

Ah! days of bliss, too swiftly fled,

When vigorous Health from labour springs, And bland Contentment smooths the bed, And Sleep his ready opiate brings:

And hovering round on airy wings

Float the light forms of young Desire,

That of unutterable things

The soft and shadowy hope inspire.

Now spells of mightier power prepare,
Bid brighter phantoms round him dance;
Let Flatt'ry spread her viewless snare,
And Fame attract his vagrant glance;
Let sprightly Pleasure too advance,

Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone,
Till lost in Love's delirious trance,

He scorn the joys his youth has known.

Let Friendship pour her brightest blaze,
Expanding all the bloom of soul;

And Mirth concentre all her rays,

And point them from the sparkling bowl;
And let the careless moments roll
In social pleasures unconfined,
And Confidence that spurns control
Unlock the inmost springs of mind:

And lead his steps those bowers among,
Where elegance with splendour vies,
Or Science bids her favour'd throng
To more refin'd sensations rise:
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys,

And freed from each laborious strife,
There let him learn the bliss to prize
That waits the sons of polish'd life.

Then, whilst his throbbing veins beat high
With every impulse of delight,

Dash from his lips the cup of joy,

And shroud this scene in shades of night; And let Despair, with wizard light, Disclose the yawning gulph below,

And pour incessant on his sight

Her specter'd ills and shapes of woe.

And shew beneath a cheerless shed,
With sorrowing heart and streaming eye,
In silent grief where droops her head,
The partner of his early joys;

And let his infant's tender cries
His fond parental succour claim,
And bid him hear in agonies

A husband's and a father's name.

'Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds;
His high reluctant spirit bends,
In bitterness of soul he bleeds,
Nor longer with his fate contends.
An idiot laugh the welkin rends

As genius thus degraded lies;

Till pitying Heaven the veil extends
That shrouds the poet's ardent eyes.

Rear high thy bleak majestic hills,
Thy shelter'd valleys proudly spread ;
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills,
And wave thy heaths with blossoms red.
But never more shall poet tread

Thy airy height, thy woodland reign, Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead

That ever breath'd the soothing strain.

A MONODY

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT BURNS.

WRITTEN BY S. KEMBLE, ESQ.

For two Voices.---Tune, Gaffer Gray.

AH! what is there ill news, speak old

Robin Gray,

That thy blue bonnet's pluck'd o'er thy brow? O! sad news I've read,

Robie Burns, man, is dead,

And the ploughman weeps over his plough,
Well, a well a day,

And the ploughman weeps over his plough.

Is he gone then for aye, and for aye,
Robin Gray?

No more shall we list to his song?
No, cold as a clod,

Beneath a green sod,

Poor Robin they've lain all along,
Well, a well a day,

Poor Robin they've lain all along.

Adieu then, the forest and hill,
Robin Gray,

And farewell the valleys and grove !
Why the forest and hill,

And the valleys ring still,

Still echo his ditties of love,
Well, a well a day,

Still echo his ditties of love.

The sad sound of echo I'll shun,
Robin Gray,

Its dying notes live on my mind:
Can you then, as you roâm

From your forefathers' home, Leave your forefathers' feelings behind, Well, a well a day,

Leave your forefathers' feelings behind:

Still the blackbird will sing on the thorn,
Robin Gray,

And the lark early carol on high,
But the lowly lodg'd swain,
As he scatters the grain,

Will chaunt Robin's verse with a sigh,
Well, a well a day,

Will chaunt Robin's verse with a sigh.

Softly lie on his bosom the turf,
Robin Gray,

Rest his ashes unmingled and pure ;
May the tomb of his urn

Caledonia adorn,

And his much-lov'd remains so secure, Well, a well a day,

And his much-lov'd remains so secure.

FINIS

MACKENZIE AND DENT, PRINTERS,

NEWCASTLE.