Sidor som bilder
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Like "Patience on a monument" you stand,
And have for hours thus so obsequious stood,
Unlike a freeman, independent, brave,
But as a vile, degraded galley-slave.

Speak! why so cowardly conceal the cause Of your absurd, humiliating plight? here thee overawes,

What august presence

Poor sneaking, timid, melancholy wight ?
A pompous nothing by a counter's side:
Damned be his arrogance, contempt, and pride.

Solicit you a beggar's bite of bread,

From such a grovelling brother of the soil? No!-why then hang as self-condemned your head? Go, ask mock-consequence for leave to toilWithout reserve, your wish a child might scan— And show yourself, poor devil, once a man.

That "Britons never shall be slaves," how vain That boast with you! so henceforth sing it not;

Nor any of your smutty trade and train,

Who equally with you may curse their lot,
Pent up, to pine in garrets life away,
In grinding penury and dark dismay.

ANSWER TO ROBERT GILFILLAN.

EALTH, sir, to you! I've lang essay'd

A gratefu' tribute to hae paid;

But aye the Muse, that fickle jade,
Still jinket me-

Syne by the pen I've aften laid
Wi' tearfu' ee.

Then up the pipe wi' vengeance cocket,
Wi' feelings frozen, senses locket,
And aften been sa sair provocket-
As tak an aith

To ne'er again wi' her be yocket
Till my last breath.

"Twas in a plight like this yestreen, Alane mysel, without my frien',

In his bit cot of ivy green

In scented breer,

I saw, what few hae ever seen

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When seated at the clean fireside,
Where aft I've sate in rhymin' pride,
A form towards me seemed to glide
Divinely fair,

With whom on earth the gayest bride
Could ne'er compare.

Her flowin' robes were driven snaw,
And rich wi' stars were studded a';
Her scarf a rainbow bright and braw;
While round her brows

Bloom'd flowers the sweetest e'er I saw,
O' endless hues.

Thought I, guid keep me; Lord, be here!
O'erpower'd wi' reverential fear

I guessed some goddess was asteer,
And felt undone:

She spak-'twas music in my ear—
"Fear not, my son."

Then beckon'd to me and drew nigher,
While flash'd her eyes ethereal fire,
And syne she strung Auld Scotia's lyre,
And gied it me;

Then smilin', vow'd me to inspire
T' the day I die.

Hail, favours sacred ever new!

Then frae her breath distill'd a dew,
Whase balmy fragrance, quaff'd by few,

I 'nhaled in store,

And raise transported, born anew,

For rhymin' lore,

My heart wi' gratefu' feelings glowed,
For boons and blessings then bestowed,

A thousand thanks I felt I owed

My heavenly Donor,

Which, while I reverently bowed,

I poured upon her.

But by degrees a flood o' light
Enwrapt her glorious image bright,
That stunned my senses wi' the sight,
And maist my brain;

But when I rallied on that night,
I found her gane,

Now on my harp, hail three times ten, Lang life and health to thee I sen'; While inspiration guides my pen,

Thy praise I'll sound,

And honest worth, thou wale o' men, Till a' resound.

Your kind reply to what I sent
Wi' joy I read and heart content-
Admired your wit as on I went,
And penetration,
Ilk cogent, candid free comment,
And observation.

Believe me, sir, for frae my youth,
Base flattery I disdained forsooth,
But aye adored the naked truth,
In prose or lays,

And freely dealt to a' a footh

O' blame or praise.

An independent mind for me-
As swees the buss I spurn to swee;
The cringing look, the bended knee,
For empty fame,

I loathe, and glory to be free,

As Steel's my name.

Forgie me, sir, and wi' me bear;
Your patience hae I taxed ance mair,
And sent ye aff some chosen ware
For your reflection;

Your honest verdict dinna spare—

"Twill stand inspection.

My theme is Roslin, sir, I ween;

Lang famed and classic has it been;
Whase banks and braes o' deep'nin' green,
And ruins grey,

Speak loud o' mony a moving scene
Lang past away-

Of strife, and stratagem, and plot,
Of laurels won and battles fought:
There ilka wee bit gowany spot

Blooms o'er a grave;

And buried splendours sleep, forgot,

Where nettles wave.

H

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