FIRST SIX VERSES OF NINETIETH PSALM

FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINETIETH PSALM VERSIFIED

O THOU, at first, the greatest friend
Of all the human race!

Whose strong right hand has ever been
Their stay and dwelling place!

Before the mountains heav'd their heads
Beneath Thy forming hand,
Before this ponderous globe itself,
Arose at Thy command;

That Pow'r which rais'd and still upholds
This universal frame,

From countless, unbeginning time

Was ever still the same.

Those mighty periods of years

Which seem to us so vast,
Appear no more before Thy sight
Than yesterday that's past.

Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature, man,
Is to existence brought;

Again Thou say'st, 'Ye sons of men,

Return ye into nought!'

Thou layest them, with all their cares, In everlasting sleep;

As with a flood Thou tak'st them off With overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flow'r, In beauty's pride array'd;

But long ere night-cut down, it lies All wither'd and decay'd.

LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS

LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING

Now Nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea:

Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies;

But nought can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.

Now laverocks wake the merry morn
Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis wild, wi' mony a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest:
In love and freedom they rejoice
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,

And milk-white is the slae:

The meanest hind in fair Scotland

May rove thae sweets amang; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison strang.

I was the Queen o' bonie France,
Where happy I hae been;
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn,
As blythe lay down at e'en:
And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland,
And mony a traitor there;
Yet here I lie in foreign bands,
And never-ending care.

O! soon, to me, may Summer suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair to me the Autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn!
And, in the narrow house of death,
Let Winter round me rave;

And the next flow'rs that deck the Spring,
Bloom on my peaceful grave!

SELECTIONS FROM EPISTLES TO J. LAPRAIK

SELECTIONS FROM EPISTLES TO
J. LAPRAIK

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD

WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green,
An' paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en,
An' morning poussie whiddin seen,
Inspire my muse,

This freedom, in an unknown frien',
I pray excuse.

But, first an' foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,

I to the crambo-jingle fell;

Tho' rude an' rough

Yet crooning to a body's sel,
Does weel eneugh.

I am nae poet, in a sense;
But just a rhymer like by chance.

An' hae to learning nae pretence;
Yet, what the matter?

Whene'er my muse does on me glance,

I jingle at her.