"TWAS on a genial morn in May,
When sweetly flowers were springing,
To Ythan's banks I took my way,
Pleased by the wild birds singing.
The eastern clouds were tinged with red,
Scarcely were zephyrs blowing;
The river, o'er its gemmy bed,
Was softly silent flowing.
To Methlic's church-yard close I drew,
Where high the ash is rising;
When to its gates a female flew,
With speed which was surprising.
The gate was lock'd, but, at a bound,
Lightly she sprang in over;
And gazed upon the graves around,
Crying, "Here is laid my lover!
My bitter moans he doth not hear,
Nor can he see my weeping;
My crying will not reach his ear,
Alas, in death he's sleeping!
Oh! come, slow death, and in my heart
Thy keenest dagger cover:
How sweet would be thy welcome dart!
'Twould send me to my lover!"
She leapt the iron gate again,
Like fairy flight amazing!
The Bellmuir's dark fir forest, then,
Quick hid her from my gazing.
Now earthly sorrow she defies,
Nor grief nor care can move her;
In Methlic's burying ground she lies,
Mould'ring beside her lover!
The Bellmuir is a widely extended heathy tract of ground, on the northern bank of the Ythan, whereon is a beautiful and thriving plantation, belonging to the Earl of Aberdeen.
To a Friend, whom the Author had invited to drink Tea w him; but, at the appointed time, the Author was detained fr home till he was gone.
DEAR SIR, I never keener felt
The pangs by disappointment dealt,
Than what I did, when home I came
And found you gone, and mine the blame.
Alas! cried I, what have I done,
Staid out until my friend is gone!
Yon cursed clock !*-still let it be
As false to all as 'twas to me;
And may its master, who protested
That it was right, by it be hasted
On to commit some such foul blunder,
As he by it has laid me under.
* "Yon cursed clock!"-The cause of detainment was a clock being an hour slow, while its owner supposed it to be correct.
Then would his rage break it in pieces,
And in the fire consume the cases;
A just reward for such a plight
As it threw me into last night.
If you forgive my drear mistake,
And not our former friendship break,
My gratitude shall flow to you-
At any rate, it will be due.
Loud low the cattle in the woods,
And wake the echoes of the braes;
And, undisturb'd, on Ythan's vales,
The bounding deer of Bellmuir plays.
May never poacher early lurk,
While the game-herd lies lull'd in sleep,-
Perhaps a-dreaming of his charge,
Which duty calls in vain to keep,-
And wait his victim's near approach,
As he the vale roams sportive o'er,
To aim the leaden drops of death,
And lay him weltering in his gore!
High to the clouds, in many a curl,
From Methlic's village winds the smoke,
And not a breeze there is abroad,
By which its circlings can be broke.
The healthy house-maid now looks out,
Her morning face is white, but fair;
In haste she runs to pull a rose,
With starry dew-drops shining rare.
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