O'er thee, in youth, and now in age,
Mankind I've trac'd on monie a page;
The patriot bauld, the deep-learn'd sage,

The pension'd tribe, wha vauntin rage,

But ne'er can shine.

O'er thee, I pray to see the day,
When toil-worn man, o'er lang a prey
To star-clad brithers, shall be gay;

An' bless the hour,

When tyranny 'gan to decay,

An' lose his pow'r.

O'er thee, I've thought wi' heartfelt scorn,
O' what ilk mortal yet shou'd mourn;
How Afric's sons frae hame were torn,

An' basely sauld ;

- Blush, Britons! at sic deeds, hell-born,

Whene'er their tauld! (8)

I mind what comfort thou cou'd'st gie,
Whan todlen roun my minny's knee;
An' lang as I hae pow'r to prie,

At morn and eve,

Be mine sax cups o' wholesome TEA,

Vol. II.

I'll scorn to grieve !

F

Wae wait the loons! few be their days,
Wha'd folk destroy wi' leaves o' slaes,
An' pois'nous weeds, their walth to raise,

Spite o' our laws!

May auld Nick on sic deadly faes

Suin fix his claws!

Ye fair, wi' whom I've far'd fu' bra',
Peace to yer bosoms, ane an' a'!

An achin head ne'er may ye cla',

But lang be blest;

An' TEA yer troubles wash awa',

Till sunk in rest!

Ye chiels whom I hae cause to prize, Wha TEA wi' me wou'd ne'er despise; Wha wish'd me ay the wale o' joys,

An' sooth'd ilk care;

Leel be yer hearts, my merry boys,

When I'm nae mair!

LOUISA, A BALLAD.

WHERE yon tall pine nods o'er the deep, And murm'ring chides each passing gale, Louisa oft would sit and weep,

And tell, with broken sighs, her tale.

"What dost thou gaze at, village youth? Why down thy cheek rolls the big tear? Why press thy finger on thy mouth?

Louisa's tale, boy, would'st thou hear?

"The hips and haws are oft my food; The nearest water drink supplies; My bed is in the thickest wood,

But sleepless oft with morn I rise!

"Thou little girl, with rosy cheek,

To thee the villain man's unknown;

He'll woo thee, but thy ruin seek,
Then soon thy happiness is flown!

"Art thou an only parent's care? I, too, had once a mother dear!

Hie home! her smiles, her blessings share→→ No more my sorrows shalt thou hear!"

Thus sunk a prey to want and grief,
The world no pleasure could impart;
Friendship could lend her no relief,
Nor pity heal a broken heart.

With woe-worn looks, in wild despair,
Now she'd repeat a lover's name;

Now gaze on one, her only care,
The living record of her shame.

Now in each feature, fondly trace

The look, that did her heart betray; Then bending o'er his beauteous face, Would weep the ling'ring hours away.

"Ah! pretty babe!" she oft would cry,
"Thy smile but deeper wounds my breast!

Where, where from mis'ry can we fly?
The grave's our only place of rest!

"Ah! pretty babe! no father hears Thy tongue its lisping tales repeat; No lover dries thy mother's tears,

Nor marks her painful bosom beat!

"Be sorrow poor Louisa's lot!
Yet still her pray'r shall be to Heav'n,
That tho' by. Henry now forgot,

His wrongs to her may be forgiv'n!"

No more the mourner hop'd for peace; And Heav'n, in pity to her woes,

Soon bade Louisa's sorrows cease.

Where yon tall spire o'er-tops the height, And many a place of rest is seen, There wanders one from morn to night; Guilt marks his look and alter'd mien.

He heeds no stranger's proffer'd aid,
Nor chilling rain, nor piercing blast ;
But near the aged yew-tree's shade,
For ever thinks of what is past.

On one he looks, to one he speaks,

Whom oft he prays kind Heav'n to save;

And with his babe, the Maniac seeks

Wild flow'rs, to deck Louisa's

grave.