Now Winter pours his terrors o'er the plain......57
Now, when the thunder of dread war is o'er.....219
Oh! soft and sweet the evening sun...
Oh! lay me by yon peaceful stream.
Oh! where, tell me where, is your Highland
Laddie gone?
Sacred to thee and friendly love...............337
The vanquish'd Prince, for safety forc'd to fly.....79
Tho' long by fate's severe decree remov'd. ......247
While on the meadowy banks of Spey..........139
What adverse fate awaits the tuneful train!.....261
What voice awakes the soul-afflicting theme?...298
When FINGAL dwelt in windy halls....
What sound of woe from yonder grove......
When THOMSON's harp, of charming tone......339 When WILLY PITT, as he thought fit.........410 VALLESIA, whose illustrious blood...
Yes, even amid these wilds forlorn..
Your jealous walls, great Duke, in vain......
Ye peaceful shades, that guard my dear lov'd home 344
NOTE.-Page 17 immediately follows p. 10., owing to the circumstance of its being presumed, when the Poems were put to press, that the Title, Contents, Alphabetical Index, &c. would occupy full 16 pages.
Grief's sharpest thorn hard pressing on my breast,
I strive with wakeful melody to cheer
The sullen gloom, sweet Philomel, like thee.
Go, artless records of a life obscure,
Memorials dear of loves and friendships past,
Of blameless minds from strife and envy pure;
Go, scatter'd by Affliction's bitter blast,
And tell the proud, the busy, and the gay,
How rural peace consumes the quiet day.
Oh ye,
whom sad remembrance loves to trace,
Look down complacent from your seats above,
Regard with soft compassion's melting grace,
The simple offering of surviving love:
For, while I fondly think ye hover near,
Your whisper'd melody I seem to hear.
Ye dear companions in life's thorny way,
Who see your modest virtues here display'd,
Forgive, for well you know the unstudied lay,
Was only meant to soothe the lonely shade.
But, when the rude thorn wounds the songster's breast,
The lengthen'd strains of woe betray her secret nest.
HIGHLAND SCENERY & MANNERS:
WRITTEN DURING THE AUTHOR'S RECOVERY FROM A
LONG ILLNESS, IN SPRING 1795.
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