Te cannon an' te pluff trakoon, Sore proke her rank an' pore her toon, Her nain sell ne'er cot sic a stoon, As Cot shall answer me, man. Pig Satan sent te plan frae hell, She fought for all she loved or had, And for te right; put Heavin forpade, And mony a bonny Heelant lad Lay pleeding on te prae, man. Fat could she too, fat could she say? Te crand M'Tonald was away, And her nown chief tat luckless tay Pe far peyond Dunvey, man. M'Pherson and M'Gregor poth, Te men of Moidart and Glen-quoich, All absent from te field, man. Te sorde was sharp, te arm was true, Though laith she pe to yield, man. When Sharles first wi' the flighters met, “ Turn, turn,” he cry't," and face tem yet, Fie, ploody Tuke, fat ail't her ten, To rafage every Heelant glen? Her crime was truth, and lofe to ane, She had no hate at tee, man. And you, and yours, will yet pe klad To trust te honest Heelant lad; Te ponnit plue and pelted plaid HYMN TO THE EVENING STAR. WRITTEN in 1811. All the pieces which I wrote at that age have a melody in them, which, since that period, I have never been able to reach; but they are often deficient in real stamina. ARISE, arise, thou queen of Love, Thy bed is chill'd with evening dew O, let me see thy golden breast, Thy coronal with glory fill. O, come-the evening colours fade, Soft silence broods o'er lawn and lee; And beauty in the greenwood shade, Uplifts a longing eye for thee. Thy temple be this silvan bower, Where wounded lovers kneel confest ; Thine altar-cloth the daisy flower, Thy tabernacle, beauty's breast. Be this thy dearest, holiest shrine, As slowly steals an angel's wing, Thy light pavilion down the sky; Before thee let young seraphs sing The softest love-sick melody. And here, on thy beloved shrine, Where fragrant flowers of incense glow, Pure as that heavenly breast of thine, And fairer than the virgin snow ;— |