ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON. WHILE Virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, While Summer, with a matron grace, While Autumn, benefactor kind, While maniac Winter rages o'er So long, sweet poet of the year, Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that Thomson was her son. Burns. SONG. To all you ladies now at land We men at sea indite; But first would have you understand The muses now, and Neptune too, For tho' the muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we, Then if we write not by each post, Nor yet conclude our ships are lost, The King, with wonder and surprize, Will swear the seas grow bold, Because the tides will higher rise Than e'er they did of old : But let him know it is our tears Brings floods of grief to White-hall stairs. Should foggy Opdam chance to know The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, For what resistance can they find From men who've left their hearts behind? Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind, Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse, 'Tis then no matter how things go, To pass our tedious hours away But now our fears tempestuous grow, Whilst you, regardless of our woe, When any mournful tune you hear, As if it sigh'd with each man's care, Think then how often love we've made In justice you cannot refuse To think of our distress, When we, for hopes of honour, lose And now we've told you all our loves, By the Earl of Dorset, in 1665. THE AGED LOVER RENOUNCETH LOVE. AN OLD BALLAD. I LOTHE that I did love, In youth that I thought sweet, As time requires; for my behove Methinks they are not meet. My lusts they do me leave, And tract of time begins to weave For age, with stealing steps, Hath claw'd me with his crutch, And lusty youth away he leaps, My muse doth not delight For reason me denies All youthly idle rime, The wrinkles in my brow, The furrows in my face, The harbinger of death, To me I see him ride; The cough, the cold, the gasping breath, : |