The Farewell

     The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? 
     Or what does he regard his single woes? 
     But when, alas! he multiplies himself,
     To dearer serves, to the lov’d tender fair,
     To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him,
     To helpless children,—­then, Oh then, he feels
     The point of misery festering in his heart,
     And weakly weeps his fortunes like a coward: 
     Such, such am I!—­undone!

Thomson’s Edward and Eleanora.

     Farewell, old Scotia’s bleak domains,
     Far dearer than the torrid plains,
     Where rich ananas blow! 
     Farewell, a mother’s blessing dear! 
     A borther’s sigh! a sister’s tear! 
     My Jean’s heart-rending throe! 
     Farewell, my Bess! tho’ thou’rt bereft
     Of my paternal care. 
     A faithful brother I have left,
     My part in him thou’lt share! 
     Adieu, too, to you too,
     My Smith, my bosom frien’;
     When kindly you mind me,
     O then befriend my Jean!

     What bursting anguish tears my heart;
     From thee, my Jeany, must I part! 
     Thou, weeping, answ’rest—­“No!”
     Alas! misfortune stares my face,
     And points to ruin and disgrace,
     I for thy sake must go! 
     Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear,
     A grateful, warm adieu: 
     I, with a much-indebted tear,
     Shall still remember you! 
     All hail then, the gale then,
     Wafts me from thee, dear shore! 
     It rustles, and whistles
     I’ll never see thee more!

The Calf

To the Rev. James Steven, on his text, Malachi, ch. iv. vers. 2.  “And ye shall go forth, and grow up, as Calves of the stall.”

     Right, sir! your text I’ll prove it true,
     Tho’ heretics may laugh;
     For instance, there’s yourself just now,
     God knows, an unco calf.

     And should some patron be so kind,
     As bless you wi’ a kirk,
     I doubt na, sir but then we’ll find,
     Ye’re still as great a stirk.

     But, if the lover’s raptur’d hour,
     Shall ever be your lot,
     Forbid it, ev’ry heavenly Power,
     You e’er should be a stot!

     Tho’ when some kind connubial dear
     Your but—­and—­ben adorns,
     The like has been that you may wear
     A noble head of horns.

     And, in your lug, most reverend James,
     To hear you roar and rowt,
     Few men o’ sense will doubt your claims
     To rank amang the nowt.

     And when ye’re number’d wi’ the dead,
     Below a grassy hillock,
     With justice they may mark your head—­
     “Here lies a famous bullock!”

Nature’s Law—­A Poem