The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,

The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, too soon the glowing west

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,

And fondly broods with miser care; Time but the impression stronger makes,

As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?

256. JOHN ANDERSON.
John Anderson my jo, John,

When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,

Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,

John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither ;
And mony a canty day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither.
But we maun totter down, John,

But hand in hand we'll go :
And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson my jo.

257. BANNOCKBURN.

Robert Bruce's address to his army.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled ;
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to glorious victorie !
Now's the day and now's the hour-
See the front o' battle lour ;
See approach proud Edward's power-

Edward ! chains and slaverie !

Wha will be a traitor knave ?
Wha can fill a coward's grave ?
Wha sae base as be a slave?

Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw ! Freeman stand or freeman fa',

Caledonian ! on wi' me!
By oppression's woes and pains !
By our sons in servile chains !
We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be—shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low !
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow !

Forward ! let us do or die!

258. MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. When chill November's surly blast

Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wander'd forth

Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man, whose aged step

Seem'd weary, worn with care ;
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,

And hoary was his hair.
Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ?

Began the rev'rend sage ;
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

Or youthful pleasure's rage!
Or, haply, prest with cares and woes,

Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me to mourn

The miseries of man !
The sun that overhangs yon moors,

Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support

A haughty lordling's pride; I've seen yon weary winter-sun

Twice forty times return; And ev'ry time has added proofs

That man was made to mourn.

O man! while in thy early years,

How prodigal of time! Mispending all thy precious hours;

Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;

Licentious passiops burn;
Which tenfold force give Nature's law,

That man was made to mourn.

Look not alone on youthful prime,

Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,

Supported is his right :
But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn,
Then age and want, oh! ill-match'd pair !

Show man was made to mourn.

A few seem favourites of fate,

In pleasure's lap carest ;
Yet, think not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly blest.
But, oh! what crowds in every land,

Are wretched and forlorn ;
Thro' weary life this lesson learn,

That man was made to mourn.

Many and sharp the num'rous ills,

Inwoven with our frame !
More pointed still we make ourselves,

Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face

The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man,

Makes countless thousands mourn !

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,

So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth

To give him leave to 'toil ; And see his lordly fellow-worm

The poor petition spurn, Unmindful tho' a weeping wife

And helpless offspring mourn.

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave

By Nature's law design'd, Why was an independent wish

E’er planted in my mind ?
If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty or scorn ?
Or why has man the will and pow'r

To make his fellow mourn ?
Yet let not this too much, my son,

Disturb thy youthful breast :
This partial view of human-kind

Is surely not the last !
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!
Welcome the hour my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,

From pomp and pleasure torn;
But, oh! a blest relief to those

That weary-laden mourn !

259. THE BANKS O' Doon. Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fair ! How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae fu' o' care ! Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings upon the bough ; Thou minds me o' the happy days

When my fause luve was true. Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wistna' o'

my

fate, Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,

To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its love,

And sae did I omine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,

Frae aff its thorny tree ;
And my fause luver staw the rose,

But left the thorn wi' me.

260. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ;

The shortening winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frael the pleugh ;

The blackening trains o' craws to their repose ; The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes,

This night his weekly moil? is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.
At length his lonely cot appears in view,

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
Th' expectant wees things, toddlin,4 stachers thro'

To meet their dad, wi' flicterino noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin 8 bonnily,

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His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,

Does a'' his weary carking 10 cares beguile,
An' makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.
Belyvell the elder bairns come drappin in,

At service out, amang the farmers roun’;
Some ca' 12 the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 13 rin

A cannie 14 errand to a neebor town:
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her c'e,
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw 15 new gown,

Or deposit her sair-won penny-fee, 17
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
Wi' joy unfeign’d, brothers and sisters meet,

An each for other's weelfare kindly spiers ; 18
The social hours, swift-wing’d, unnoticed fleet;

Each tells the uncos 19 that he sees or hears ; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ;

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