"Yet nipping winter's keenest reign
But for a short-lived space prevails;
Springtime returns, and cheers each swain,
Scented with Flora's fragrant gales.
Come, Julia! come, thy love obey,
Thou mistress of angelic charms!
Come, smiling like the morn of May,
And centre in thy Strephon's arms.

"Else, haunted by the fiend despair,
He'll court some solitary grove,
Where mortal foot did ne'er repair,
But swains oppress'd with hapless love.
From the once pleasing rural throng
Removed, he'll bend his lonely way,
Where Philomela's mournful song
Shall join his melancholy lay.

AMIDST A ROSY BANK OF FLOWERS.*

SONG.

AMIDST a rosy bank of flowers,

Young Damon mourn'd his forlorn fate;

In sighs he spent his languid hours,
And breathed his woes in lonely state.

Gay joy no more shall ease his mind;
No wanton sports can soothe his care;
Since sweet Amanda proved unkind,

And left him full of black despair.

*The tune to which this is adapted in the Scots Musical Museum, where it also has a place, is "The Highlandman's Lamentation," composed by James Oswald, and published in the third volume of his Caledonian Pocket Companion.

His looks, that were as fresh as morn,
Can now no longer smiles impart;
His pensive soul, on sadness borne,
Is rack'd and torn by Cupid's dart.

Turn, fair Amanda! cheer your swain;
Unshroud him from his veil of woe:
Range every charm to soothe the pain
That in his tortured breast doth grow.

NO REPOSE CAN I DISCOVER.*

SONG.

No repose can I discover,

Nor find joy without my lover;

Can I stay when she's not near me?
Cruel fates! once deign to hear me.

The charms of grandeur don't decoy me,
Fair Eliza must enjoy me;

My crown and sceptre I resign,

The shepherd's life shall still be mine.

SINCE BRIGHTEST BEAUTY SOON MUST

FADE.
SONG.

SINCE brightest beauty soon must fade,
That in life's spring so long has roll'd,

And wither in the drooping shade,
Ere it return to native mould;

*In the Museum, as additional words to the tune of "Braw, braw lads of Gala Water."

Ye virgins, seize the fleeting hour,
In time catch Cytherea's joy,
Ere age your wonted smiles deflower,
And hopes of love and life annoy.

CAPE SONG.*

Tune-"How happy a state does the miller possess."

How happy a state does the Cape-knight possess,
With sixpence he'll purchase a crown's worth of bliss,
O'er a foaming green stoup he depends for some sport
From a liquid that never can do a man hurt.

What though in Capehall he should goosified spew? From peuking with porter no thirst can ensue, Not so, my dear knights, fares the ignorant ass Who drinks all the evening at burning molass.

Now in the Cape closet a table's preparing,
With Welsh Rabbits garnished and good Glasgow
herring;

Oh what Caller Tippeny then shall be quaff'd,
And of thee, O Thames Water,† a terrible draught!

In freedom's gay frolic we shorten the night,
With humorous pitching and songs of delight;
Then who would not rather in Capehall get drunk
For sixpence, than give half-a-crown to a punk?

* This appears for the first time in any edition of Fergusson's collected poems, not having seen the light of print until recently, when quoted by Dr. Hans Hecht in his introduction to Songs from David Herd's Manuscripts, published by William J. Hay, John Knox's House, Edinburgh. 1904.

+ London porter.

ON NIGHT.

Now murky shades surround the pole;
Darkness lords without control:
To the notes of buzzing owl,
Lions roar and tigers howl,
Fright'ning from their azure shrine
Stars that wont in orbs to shine:
Now the sailor's storm-toss'd bark
Knows no blest celestial mark,
While in the briny troubled deep
Dolphins change their sport for sleep;
Ghosts, and frightful spectres gaunt,
Churchyard's dreary footpaths haunt,
And brush with wither'd arms the dews
That fall upon the drooping yews.

THE AUTHOR'S LIFE.

My life is like the flowing stream

That glides where summer's beauties teem, Meets all the riches of the gale

That on its watery bosom sail,

And wanders 'midst Elysian groves
Through all the haunts that fancy loves.
May I, when drooping days decline,
And 'gainst those genial streams combine,
The winter's sad decay forsake,
And centre in my parent lake.

EPIGRAM

ON A LAWYER'S DESIRING ONE OF THE TRIBE TO LOOK
WITH RESPECT TO A GIBBET.

THE lawyers may revere that tree
Where thieves so oft have strung,
Since, by the Law's most wise decree,
Her thieves are never hung.

CHARACTER OF A FRIEND

IN AN EPITAPH WHICH HE DESIRED THE AUTHOR TO

WRITE.

UNDER this turf, to mouldering earth consign'd,
Lies he, who once was fickle as the wind,
Alike the scenes of good and ill he knew,
From the chaste temple to the lewdest stew.
Virtue and vice in him alternate reign'd:
That fill'd his mind, and this his pocket drain'd,
Till in the contest they so stubborn grew,
Death gave the parting blow, and both withdrew.

EPITAPH ON GENERAL WOLFE.*

IN worth exceeding, and in virtue great,
Words would want force his actions to relate.
Silence, ye bards! eulogiums vain forbear;
It is enough to say that Wolfe lies here.

* Quebec witnessed the fall of James Wolfe; a young hero, whose name is worthy to be placed in the same rank with those of the Grecian annals; a man of extraordinary acuteness and energy of mind, whose soul was equally superior to pride and suspicion, and who, in his virtues, perhaps in his magnanimity, but especially in the circumstances of his death, closely resembled Epaminondas-John Von Muller. General Wolfe was twice struck as he led on a bayonet charge which decided the day; and when the French were already broken, he received a third bullet, which was fatal, in the heart. He lived just long enough to know that the victory was complete; and the last words of the young conqueror were-"Now, God be praised, I die happy."