Tune—­“The Carlin of the Glen.”

     Young Jamie, pride of a’ the plain,
     Sae gallant and sae gay a swain,
     Thro’ a’ our lasses he did rove,
     And reign’d resistless King of Love.

     But now, wi’ sighs and starting tears,
     He strays amang the woods and breirs;
     Or in the glens and rocky caves,
     His sad complaining dowie raves:—­

     “I wha sae late did range and rove,
     And chang’d with every moon my love,
     I little thought the time was near,
     Repentance I should buy sae dear.

     “The slighted maids my torments see,
     And laugh at a’ the pangs I dree;
     While she, my cruel, scornful Fair,
     Forbids me e’er to see her mair.”

The Flowery Banks Of Cree

     Here is the glen, and here the bower
     All underneath the birchen shade;
     The village-bell has told the hour,
     O what can stay my lovely maid?

     ’Tis not Maria’s whispering call;
     ’Tis but the balmy breathing gale,
     Mixt with some warbler’s dying fall,
     The dewy star of eve to hail.

     It is Maria’s voice I hear;
     So calls the woodlark in the grove,
     His little, faithful mate to cheer;
     At once ’tis music and ’tis love.

     And art thou come! and art thou true! 
     O welcome dear to love and me! 
     And let us all our vows renew,
     Along the flowery banks of Cree.

Monody

     On a lady famed for her Caprice.

     How cold is that bosom which folly once fired,
     How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten’d;
     How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired,
     How dull is that ear which to flatt’ry so listen’d!

     If sorrow and anguish their exit await,
     From friendship and dearest affection remov’d;
     How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate,
     Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov’d.

     Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you;
     So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear: 
     But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true,
     And flowers let us cull for Maria’s cold bier.

     We’ll search through the garden for each silly flower,
     We’ll roam thro’ the forest for each idle weed;
     But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower,
     For none e’er approach’d her but rued the rash deed.

     We’ll sculpture the marble, we’ll measure the lay;
     Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre;
     There keen Indignation shall dart on his prey,
     Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire.

The Epitaph

     Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect,
     What once was a butterfly, gay in life’s beam: 
     Want only of wisdom denied her respect,
     Want only of goodness denied her esteem.