I've sung, in mony a rustic lay,

Her heroes, an' her hills sae green; Her woods and vallies fresh and gay;

Her honest lads and lasses clean.

I had a thought a poor vain thought!
I thought that I might do her honour;
But a' my hopes are come to nought,

I'm forc'd to turn my back upon her!

She's thrown me out o' house an' hauld!
My heart got never sic a thrust!
An' my poor parents, frail an' auld,
Are forc'd to leave their kindred dust!

But fare-ye-weel, my native streams
Frae a' sic dule be ye preserv'd:
Ye'll find ye cherish some at hame
That disna just sae weel deserv't.

There is nae man on a' your banks
Will ever say that I did wrang him
The lasses ha'e my dearest thanks
For a' the joys I had amang them.

Though twin'd by rough an' ragin' seas,
An' risin' hills an' rollin' rivers:
To think o' them I'll never cease,
Until my heart ga'e a' to shivers !

I'll make the Harris rocks to ring

Wi' ditties wild, when nane shall hear; The Lewis shores shall learn to sing The names o' them I lo'ed so dear.

My Peggy's ay aboon the lave,
I'll carve on ilka lonely green;
The sea-bird, tossin' on the wave,
Shall learn the name o' bonny Jean.

Ye gods, tak' care o' my dear lass!

That as I leave her I may find her; Till that blest time shall come to pass We'll meet again, and never sinder.

Fareweel, my Ettrick! fare-ye-weel!
I own I'm unco wae to leave ye;
Nane kens the half o' what I feel,
Nor half o' that I ha'e to grieve me!

My parents, crazy grown wi' eild,
How I rejoic'd to be their stay;
I thought to stand their help an' shield,
Until an' at their latest day.

Wi' gentle hand to close their een,
An' weet the yerd wi' mony a tear,

That held the dust o' ilka frien';
O' friens so tender an' sincere !

It winna do ;-I maun away

To yon rough isle sae bleak an' dun;

Lang will they mourn, baith night an' day, The absence o' their darlin' son.

An' my dear Will! how will I fen'
Without thy kind an' ardent care!
Without thy verse-inspirin' pen,

My muse will sleep an' sing nae mair.

Fareweel to a' my kith an' kin!

To ilka frien' I held sae dear' How happy often ha'e we been,

Wi' music, mirth, an' welcome cheer:

Nae mair your gilded banks at noon,
An answer to my flute will swell!
Nae mair the viol sweet I'll tune,
That a' the younkers lo'ed sae well!

Nae mair amang the hags an' rocks,
While hounds wi' music filled the air,

We'll hunt the sly an' cruel fox,

Or trace the warie, circlin' hare!

My happy days wi' you are past;

An' waes my heart! will ne'er return!

The brightest day will overcast !

An' man was made at times to mourn.

But if I kend my dyin' day,

Though distant, weary, pale, an' wan, I'd tak my staff an' post away

To yield my life where it began.

If in yon lone sequester'd place
The tyrant Death should lay me low,
Oh! drap a tear, an' say-Alas!

For him who lov'd an' honour'd you.

Fareweel, my Ettrick! fare-ye-weel,

I own I'm something wae to leave ye! Nane kens the half o' what I feel!

Nor half the cause I ha'e to grieve me!

EPISTLE

TO MR. T. M. C., LONDON.

PUBLISHED IN THE SCOT'S MAGAZINE.

My blessin' on you, T. M. C.,
Like you there are nae mony mae:
For mony a year, wi' eager een,
I've glowr'd owr Scotia's Magazine;
And oft, like zealots at a sermon,

Discoverin' beauties whar there were none;
But never a' my life, till now,
Have I met sic a chiel' as you;

Sae sly, sae shrewd, sae queer a creature,
Sae weel aquaint wi' simple nature,

Sae gay, sae easy, an' sae ranty,

Sae cappernaity, an' sae canty:

For when I sing your sangs sae gay,
To lasses at the bught or hay,

They blush, an' smurtlin, own they like them,
The thoughts they thought afore sae strikes

them.

Whether 'tis from a similarity

Of feelings, hitting to a rarity;