For who can write and speak as thou and I?

American independence

conquers all

reply!

ODE FOR

GENERAL WASHINGTON'S

BIRTHDAY

No Spartan tube, no Attic shell,
No lyre Æolian I awake;
'Tis Liberty's bold note I swell,
Thy harp, Columbia, let me take!
See gathering thousands, while I sing,
A broken chain exulting bring,

And dash it in a tyrant's face,
And dare him to his very beard,

And tell him he no more is feared

No more the despot of Columbia's race!
A tyrant's proudest insults brav'd,
They shout-a People freed! They hail an
Empire saved.

Where is man's godlike form?

Where is that brow erect and bold-
That eye that can unmov'd behold

The wildest rage, the loudest storm

That e'er created Fury dared to raise?
Avaunt! thou caitiff, servile, base,

That tremblest at a despot's nod,

Yet, crouching under the iron rod,

Canst laud the arm that struck th' insult

ing blow!

Art thou of man's Imperial line?

Dost boast that countenance divine

Each skulking feature answers, No!

I

Eng- But come, ye sons of Liberty, land's Columbia's offspring, brave as free, disgrace In danger's hour still flaming in the van,

Ye know, and dare maintain, the Royalty of Man!

Alfred! on thy starry throne,

Surrounded by the tuneful choir,

The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,
And rous'd the freeborn Briton's soul of fire,
No more thy England own!

Dare injured nations form the great design,
To make detested tyrants bleed?

Thy England execrates the glorious deed!
Beneath her hostile banners waving,
Every pang of honour braving,

England in thunder calls, "The tyrant's cause is
mine! "

That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice And hell, thro' all her confines, raise the exulting voice,

That hour which saw the generous English name Linkt with such damnèd deeds of everlasting shame!

Thee, Caledonia! thy wild heaths among,
Fam'd for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of Freedom fled?

Immingled with the mighty dead,

Beneath that hallow'd turf where Wallace lies.
Hear it not, WALLACE! in thy bed of death.
Ye babbling winds! in silence sweep,
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,
Nor give the coward secret breath!

Is this the ancient Caledonian form,

Firm as her rock, resistless as her storm?
Show me that eye which shot immortal hate,
Blasting the despot's proudest bearing;

Show me that arm which, nerv'd with thundering
fate,

Crush'd Usurpation's boldest daring !— Dark-quench'd as yonder sinking star,

No more that glance lightens afar ;

That palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of

war.

VERSES TO

COLLECTOR MITCHELL

FRIEND of the Poet, tried and leal,
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal
Alake, alake, the meikle deil

Wi' a' his witches

Are at it skelpin jig and reel
In my poor pouches!

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,
That One-pound-one, I sairly want it;
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it,
It would be kind;

And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted,
I'd bear't in mind.

So may the Auld

year gang out moanin

To see the New come laden, groanin,

Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin,
To thee and thine:

Domestic

peace and comforts crownin
The hale design.

A small request

Farewell
Folly

POSTSCRIPT.

Ye've heard this while how I've been lickit,
And by fell Death was nearly nickit;
Grim loon! he got me by the fecket,
And sair me sheuk;

But by gude luck I lap a wicket,
And turn'd a neuk.

But by that health, I've got a share o't,
And by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't,
My hale and weel, I'll tak a care o't,
A tentier way;

Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't,
For ance and aye!

EPISTLE TO

COLONEL DE PEYSTER

My honor'd Colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the Poet's weal;
Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel
The steep Parnassus,

Surrounded thus by bolus pill,

And potion glasses.

O what a canty world were it,

spare

Would pain and care and sickness
And Fortune favour worth and merit

As they deserve;

And aye rowth o' roast-beef and claret,
Syne, wha wad starve?

it;

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and frippery deck her;
Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker

I've found her still,

Aye wavering like the willow-wicker, "Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches like baudrons by a ratton
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on
Wi' felon ire;

Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on,
He's aff like fire.

Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,
First showing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines, and bonie lasses rare,
To put us daft;

Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare
O hell's damned waft.

Poor Man, the flie, aft bizzes by,
And aft, as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy damn'd auld elbow yeuks wi' joy
And hellish pleasure!

Already in thy fancy's eye,

Thy sicker treasure.

Soon, heels o'er gowdie, in he gangs,
And, like a sheep-head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs,

And murdering wrestle,

As, dangling in the wind, he hangs,
A gibbet's tassel.

Satan's

snares