Aft, aft in sorrow's waefu' mood

When winter's nights blew drifts o' snaw, She'd tell of Guy's red field o' blood,

And a' the waes o' Dornock Ha'!

And aft (when driven frae house and hame
By Guy's rough sire, wha nought could move)
She'd talk o' Gregory's ancient fame,
And weep his death in tears o' love!

Till worn wi' grief and mirk despair
She died! and left her child forlorn,
Till Kenneth's love, and tender care
Dried up the tears that now return:—

But blest the night that blew the blast
And sent ye wandering thro' the snaw
To find a kindred hame at last

To cheat the waes o' DORNOCK HA'!'

'Twas thus, I ween! in times of old
The Lyric Muse impassion'd told
In simple, varied strain,

Her melting tales to touch the heart
With sympathy, and warm impart
Affliction's woes and pain:

And as she sung her moving theme
By broomy bank, and limpid stream,
The Passions, ever true

To Pity's tones, resum'd their sway,
Long check'd by war, and feudal fray,

And strong, and stronger grew;

And as they swell'd, and throbbing beat, Fond from their rural hid retreat

The Loves came smiling by,

And joining Friendship, hand in hand
Danc'd raptur'd round, in choral band,
To Peace and Harmony!
Each softening virtue claim'd a place,
Warm Charity with angel face,
Compassion, heavenly meek!

And Modesty, in blushing traits,
Scarce seen in these new-fashion'd days
To deck youth's virgin cheek!

Blest be the song! and blest the lyre!
That warm'd the soul with passion's fire,
Again a poet cries;

Lure Peace and Concord, to assuage
With lenient balm infuriate rage,
And Mercy from the skies!
For till they join, by Virtue twin'd,
Discord and Warfare crush the mind,
While Ruin sweeps along;
Nor Love, nor Harmony divine

Bend, wooing from their radiant shrine
To prompt the poet's song.

TO THE READER.

THE writer of the present Poem thinks it necessary to acquaint the public, that it is founded on a short traditionary story, which reached him by the following accidental circumstance. A gentleman in Perthshire, well known for his researches into antiquity and national character,* chancing, while on a tour to the Hebrides, to hear some person say, 'I'll never burn my harp for a woman,'t took occasion to ask the meaning of the proverb-He received for answer, a simple unadorned tale, somewhat similar to the ground-work of the present poem; the singularity of which struck him so forcibly, that he committed it to writing. On a visit some years ago, to a friend‡ who had accidently seen the manuscript, he related this little artless story to the author, and, with his usual glow of colouring, diffused such an air of novelty and passion over it, as to suggest an idea that something interesting might be made of it in verse. The first part was written shortly after, but the author's sudden departure for Europe put a stop, for some time, to any further attempt; although he must confess, in

*Mr. Ramsay, of Auchertyre.

+ Smeirg a loisgeadh a thiompan ria.'
The late Mr. Graham, of Gartmore.