Still as eternal seems the cliff,

As when the ivy first we drew From its proud base, or gathered there The ring-dove's feathers wet with dew.

But now upon the blighted heart,
Their varied charms are faintly traced,
Like sunbeam of a wintry dawn
Upon the dreary moorland waste.
With never, never ceasing speed
We travel to some unknown shore,
And all the dear delightful dreams
Of early days return no more.

Again, again, another tie,

That bound me to the vision vain
Of life, and every phantom joy,
Is all untimely snapt in twain;
A light that o'er my weary path
Has often shed a cheering ray,
Till brighter prospects rose around,
Is set, alas! and set for aye.

EPISTLE TO MR ROBERT BROWN, KIRKHILL, CRAIGIE.

How get ye on, my auld fier" Kirkie ?”
Wee, gleg, auld-farrant, cockin' birkie,
Is Fortune's sky grown dim and murky,
Or dazzling bright,
Like sunset on the shores of Turkey,
A sea of light?

Does e'er the Muse now come to see you,
And climb the hill of Barnweil wi' you,
And there sic lifts, sic visions gi'e you,
That things of Time

And sense for ever seem to lea' you,

In thoughts sublime?

Or has she on you turned her back,
And doomed you to a catch-the-plack,
To tread the sordid gin-horse track

When o'er your

Down to the grave; head Oblivion black

Shall roll her wave?

But, "Kirkie," auld enough's your horn, To ken the Muses saw nae corn,

Nor spin a thread that can be worn

To face the cauld,

And lea' their votaries aft forlorn,

When frail and auld.

Na; for sic things they never care,
But croon and canter here and there,
Nor teach for a' their heathenish lear,
A bairn its carritch,

Nor e'er o' saut ae spoonfu' spare

To mak' the parritch.

Nae wonder, then, ere life's short day
Has measured half its joyless way,
Bards o'er some precipice should gae,
Wi' a' their bays,

And furnish mony a tale o' wae

To after days.

Should e'er I see Apollo's face,

I'll tell 'im, if he disna place

His household

gear

in tense and case,

He's nae grammarian :

Why lag behind this railroad race,

Utilitarian?

He must get hands, nor frail, nor few,

To spin, weave, cook, distil, and brew,

Besides, a mint, the hale year through
Gaun day and night.

Nae mair the bardies then should thole
Reproach and want, frae pole to pole,
Sklent leuks, and tongue's contemptuous roll,
Frae gets o' Folly,

Wha ne'er were blessed wi' half the soul

O' shepherd's colly.

Ho! steersman Reason-look afore!
I hear the breaker's hungry roar,
Yet on we scud, as Wilson's corps

O' beagles speed,

Harlin' their red-het harrows o'er

Some wretch's head.

Then (I suppose) we'll shorten sail,
Talk wiser, though perhaps more stale,
Spier gin ye're aye at meal-time hale,

And douce, and steady,

Or joined hae to your title's tail

The term-grand-daddy.

But, if the Fates so kind should be,
Or causes and effects agree,

Or means and ends each other see,

On fittin' friendly,

Or what else name Divinity

Shall deem mair kindly

To gie' the jilts, howe'er, should they
Gang linkin' down the wished-for way,
My wandering bardship hopes to hae
The pleasure soon,

Your hand to shake, some market day,
In Killie toun.

Meanwhile, 'tis time to trace a land, Where wide tracks scorn the tiller's hand; Yet in my heart's hall Rapture's brand Will kindle bright

At gloamin', as I take my stand

On some lone height.

And see afar the barren waste,

The tarn, the mountain russet-drest,

The forest groaning in the blast,

The sea-fowls soar,

The whelming wave, with snowy crest,

Assault the shore.

But hark! one-two: guid morn, my frien',

May ne'er ye see what I hae seen,

Grin Ruin face to face, and keen

Detraction's blade,

Drawn first by those that should have been The first to shade.