Nor aught the huntsman's voice avails;

And, when he nears

Steam carriages, they gar the rails,

Shriek Hughie Spiers!

The flies that round his bardship bum,
His wondrous merits daily hum;

Auld

at puss,

66

twa threads an' a thrum,"

Her windpipe clears,

And bids the chorus rolling come

In Hughie Spiers!

When meditation leads his shanks
By sedgy pools and reedy stanks,
The paddocks lea' their plays and pranks,
And e'en their dears,

And come in crowds to gie their thanks
To Hughie Spiers!

When tempests sweep the welkin wide,
And hags the broomstick steed bestride,
Ere forth upon their route they ride,

Nick cries, my fiers,

Look out, no tricks may ill betide,

Sweet Hughie Spiers!

At birth of this seraphic bard,

Things strange, they say, were seen and heard: The sun rose east-grass decked the sward

In gossips' ears

Doors on their oilless hinges jarred,

66

"O! Hughie Spiers!"

To aid his observations sly,
Nature has given a searching eye;
Although his foes will this deny,

And say he wears

That of the mole, 'tis all a lie—

Gleg Hughie Spiers!

He has gi'en vice ane unco clip,
He made Miss Folly naked strip,
Fast held her in his mighty grip-

And Reason swears

She mended 'neath the sounding whip
O' Hughie Spiers!

Unlike some bards of modern time,

Who string their neighbours' faults in rhyme, He soars amid the true sublime,

Nor ever veers

To aught that's low; 'twere darkest crime,

Says Hughie Spiers!

Whene'er his mighty numbers flow,

Concord and strength attending go,

Grace, ease, and dignity, in Co.,

Jove, stooping, hears

The notes, and shouts- "Well done! bravo!

"My Hughie Spiers!

Come, Scotia! lift thy drooping head,
And leave poor Burns's lowly bed;
In thy best tartans be thou clad ;

Dry up thy tears;

Shout! there's a brighter in his stead,

Great Hughie Spiers !

THE TOMBS OF THE DOUGLASES.

"Sae mony, sae guid, as o' the Douglases hae been
O' ane sirname, were ne'er in Scotland seen."

OLD SAYING.

I.

APPROACH thou reverently, the mighty dead

Are here, whose swords were in themselves a host; Who in the cause of sacred freedom bled,

And left their names on history's page embossed, E'en when they fell, 'twas glorious as on coast Of Eastern land descends the orb of day;

They conquered perishing; yea, once when lost His followers seemed, and dead the Douglas lay, The dread, redoubted name, was victor in the fray.*

II.

'Tis said, here rests the dust of "Good Sir James," If in thy heart there lingers aught that's base, One thought that with the kindred craven claims, Hence! bring not here thy sacrilegious gaze;

* Battle of Otterburne, fought 21st July, 1388.

His virtues far transcend the loftiest praise, To Southron yoke he never deigned to yield; The land's first ornament in peaceful days, War's hottest thunderbolt in battle-field,

In dark, in dangerous times, poor Caledonia's shield.

III.

And Beauty, haughty, high-born Beauty, here Disclaims the boasted triumph of her eyes; Lo! in that tomb, where carvings quaint appear, Perhaps the theme of ancient minstrel liesThe pride of courts, who gave the envied prize To valour's hand, and led the radiant dance With steps of harmony, in all the dyes That form the rainbow's dazzling expanse― Her frown more dreaded far than sternest foeman's lance.

IV.

O! for one hour of midnight's deepest noon, When twinkling orbs their solemn vigils keep; And mourns the watch-dog to the waning moon; And weary winds through rents of ruin creep; And mellowed comes the music of the deep, Disturbed at times by owlet's dreary scream

Here left to thought sublime, unseen to weep O'er human grandeur's sublunary dream,

And gather lore to guide rapt Passion's wayward team.

DOUGLAS, June, 1840.