This rock my shield, when storms are blowing,
The limpid streamlet yonder flowing
Supplying drink, the earth bestowing
My simple food;

But few enjoy the calm I know in
This desert wood.

Content and comfort bless me more in
This grot, than e'er I felt before in
A palace and with thoughts still soaring
To God on high,

Each night and morn, with voice imploring,
This wish I sigh :-

:

"Let me, oh Lord! from life retire,
Unknown each guilty worldly fire,
Remorse's throb, or loose desire ;
And when I die,

Let me in this belief expire-
To God I fly."

Stranger, if full of youth and riot,
And yet no grief has marr'd thy quiet,
Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at
The hermit's prayer-

But if thou hast good cause to sigh at
Thy fault or care;

If thou hast known false love's vexation,
Or hast been exiled from thy nation,
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation,
And makes thee pine,

Oh, how must thou lament thy station!
And envy mine!

TO MY BED.

THOU bed, in which I first began
To be that various creature-Man!
And when again the Fates decree,
The place where I must cease to be ;-

When sickness comes, to whom I fly,
To soothe my pain, or close mine eye,-
When cares surround me, where

weep,
Or lose them all in balmy sleep ;-
When sore with labour, whom I court,
And to thy downy breast resort;-
Where, too, ecstatic joys I find,
When deigns my Delia to be kind-
And full of love, in all her charms,
Thou giv'st the fair one to my arms.
The centre thou-where grief and pain,
Disease and rest, alternate reign.
Oh, since within thy little space,
So many various scenes take place;
Lessons as useful shalt thou teach,
As sages dictate-churchmen preach;
And man, convinced by thee alone,
This great important truth shall own :-
"That thin partitions do divide
The bounds where good and ill reside;
That nought is perfect here below;
But BLISS still bordering upon woe."

THE TREE OF LIBERTY.
HEARD ye o' the tree o' France,
I watna what's the name o't;
Around it a' the patriots dance,
Weel Europe kens the fame o't.
It stands where ance the Bastile stood,
A prison built by kings, man,
When Superstition's hellish brood

Kept France in leading strings, man.

Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit,
Its virtues a' can tell, man;
It raises man aboon the brute,
It maks him ken himsel', man.

Gif ance the peasant taste a bit,
He's greater than a lord, man,
And wi' the beggar shares a mite
O' a' he can afford, man.

This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth,
To comfort us 'twas sent, man:
To gie the sweetest blush o' health,
And mak us a' content, man.
It clears the een, it cheers the heart,
Maks high and low gude friends, man;
And he wha acts the traitor's part,
It to perdition sends, man.

My blessings aye attend the chiel,
Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man,
And staw'd a branch, spite o' the deil,
Frae yont the western waves, man.
Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care,

And now she sees wi' pride, man,
How weel it buds and blossoms there,
Its branches spreading wide, man.

But vicious folk aye hate to see

The works o' Virtue thrive, man;
The courtly vermin's banned the tree,
And grat to see it thrive, man;
King Loui' thought to cut it down,
When it was unco sma', man;
For this the watchman crack'd his crown,
Cut aff his head and a', man.

A wicked crew syne, on a time,
Did tak a solemn aith, man,

It ne'er should flourish to its prime,

I wat they pledged their faith, man; Awa they gaed wi' mock parade,

Like beagles hunting game, man, But soon grew weary o' the trade,

And wish'd they'd been at hame, man.

For Freedom, standing by the tree,
Her sons did loudly ca', man;
She sang a sang o' liberty,

Which pleased them ane and a', man.
By her inspired, the new-born race
Soon drew the avenging steel, man;
The hirelings ran-her foes gied chase,
And bang'd the despot weel, man.
Let Britain boast her hardy oak,
Her poplar and her pine, man,
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke,
And o'er her neighbours shine, man:
But seek the forest round and round,
And soon 'twill be agreed, man,
That sic a tree can not be found,
'Twixt London and the Tweed, man.
Without this tree, alake this life,
Is but a vale o' woe, man;
A scene o' sorrow mix'd wi' strife,
Nae real joys we know, man.
We labour soon, we labour late,
To feed the titled knave, man;
And a' the comfort we're to get,
Is that ayont the grave, man.
Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow,

The warld would live in peace, man; The sword would help to mak a plough, The din o' war wad cease, man. Like brethren in a common cause, We'd on each other smile, man; And equal rights and equal laws Wad gladden every isle, man. Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat Sic halesome dainty cheer, man; I'd gie my shoon frae aff my feet,

To taste sic fruit, I swear, man.

Syne let us pray, auld England may
Sure plant this far-famed tree, man;
And blythe we'll sing, and hail the day
That gave us liberty, man.

ON THE DEATH OF THE POET'S
DAUGHTER.

These tender and affecting lines were written, it is said, on the death of his child in 1795.

OH sweet be thy sleep in the land of the grave,
My dear little angel, for ever;

For ever-oh no! let not man be a slave,
His hopes from existence to sever.

Though cold be the clay where thou pillow'st thy head,

In the dark silent mansions of sorrow,

The spring shall return to thy low narrow bed,
Like the beam of the day-star to-morrow.

The flower-stem shall bloom like thy sweet seraph form,

Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom,

When thou shrunk frae the scowl of the loud winter storm,

And nestled thee close to that bosom.

Oh still I behold thee, all lovely in death,
Reclined on the lap of thy mother,

When the tear trickled bright, when the short stifled breath,

Told how dear ye were aye to each other.

My child, thou art gone to the home of thy rest, Where suffering no longer can harm ye, Where the songs of the good, where the hymns of the blest,

Through an endless existence shall charm thee.