Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way: And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, For them and for their little ones provide ; But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent: Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be bless'd with health, and peace, and sweet content And, oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Isle. O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart; Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. A DIRGE. When chill November's surly blast I spy'd a man, whose aged step Young stranger, whither wanderest thou? Began the reverend sage; Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me, to mourn The sun that overhangs yon moors, O Man! while in thy early years, Which tenfold force give nature's law, Look not alone in youthful prime, But see him on the edge of life, Many and sharp the num'rous ills Inwoven with our frame ! More pointed still we make ourselves, And Man, whose heaven-created face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! See yonder poor, o'er-labour'd wight, Who begs a brother of the earth If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave- Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to Or why has Man the will and power Yet, let not this too much, my son, The poor oppressed, honest man, Had never, sure been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn! O Death! the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best! Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL 1786. Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou honnie gem. Alas it's no thy neebor sweet, Wi' spreckled breast, When upward-springing, blythe to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent earth |