A WINTER NIGHT. Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are, WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Dim-darkening through the fiaky shower, keen, sullen stare sky Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, one rivulets Or, through the mining outlet bocked, And through the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle, Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o' thee? Whare wilt thou cower thy chittering wing, And close thy ee? Even you, on murdering errands toiled, Lone from your savage homes exiled, The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cot spoiled, My heart forgets, While pitiless the tempest wild Sore on you beats. Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, When on my ear this plaintive strain "Blow, blow ye winds with heavier gust! Than heaven-illumined man on brother man bestows "See stern Oppression's iron grip, Or mad Ambition's gory hand, shivering eye N Sending, like bloodhounds from the slip, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, With all the servile wretches in the rear, Whose toil upholds the glittering show, Some coarser substance, unrefined, Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile below. "Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, The powers you proudly own? Mark maiden innocence a prey Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers! "Oh ye who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think for a moment on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown! Ill satisfied keen Nature's clamorous call, Stretched on his straw he lays himself to sleep, By cruel Fortune's undeservèd blow? A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss !" I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer And hailed the morning with a cheer, But deep this truth impressed my mind- The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles GOD. no moie powdery, snow WILLIE STEWART. YOU'RE welcome, Willie Stewart; There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, Come, bumpers high, express your joy, VERSES TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.: WITH A PRESENT OF BOOKS. OH, could I give thee India's wealth, As I this trifle send, Because thy joy in both would be To share them with a friend! But golden sands did never grace Then take what gold could never buy- TO MISS JESSY LEWARS: WITH A PRESENT OF BOOKS. THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair, ON SEEING MRS KEMBLE IN YARICO. KEMBLE, thou cur'st my unbelief Of Moses and his rod; At Yarico's sweet notes of grief TO MR SYME: WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. OH, had the malt thy strength of mind, TO THE SAME, ON BEING PRESSED TO STAY AND DRINK MORE. THERE'S Death in the cup, sac beware- The man and his wine's sae bewitching. 80 more who TO THE SAME, DECLINING AN INVITATION TO JOIN A DINNER PARTY. No more of your guests, be they titled or not, ON JOHN DOVE, INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE.. HERE lies Johnny Pigeon; What was his religion? Wha e'er desires to ken, To some other warl' Maun follow the carl, For here Johnny Pigeon had nane! Strong ale was ablution Small beer persecution, A dram was memento mori; But a full-flowing bowl Was the joy of his soul, And port was celestial glory. ON MISS LEWARS' INDISPOSITION. SAY, sages, what's the charm on earth It is not purity and worth, Else Jessy had not died. MISS LEWARS RECOVERED A LITTLE BUT rarely seen since Nature's birth, Yet still one seraph's left on earth, EPITAPH FOR ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. KNOW thou, O stranger to the Fame world must follow |