A PYTHAGOREAN ON BOSWORTH FIELD.
Three large, black frogs were sitting on the brink,
A fourth, of stunted growth, and hunchbacked too;
The first leaped in as fast as you could wink,
And gave their heels most cleverly to view;
I'm spinning yarn, Sir Reader, you may think,
Things less entitled to the term of true
Have drawn the sword, made cripples fight with crutches, Cost kings their crowns, and grandmothers their mutches.*
The small, bumped gentleman still kept his place, With two most wicked, serpent-looking eyes
He stared defiance, and though in his face
I shook my stick, he still refused to rise; A rustic passing, tickled with the case,
Said, grinning," whoy, it would not un zooprize, "If it sud be King Dick, the bludy dog,
"Performin' penance now in that 'ere frog."
of rubble-stone, containing a tablet with the following inscription, from the pen of the late Dr Parr :
Aqva. Ex. Hoc. Pvteo. Havsta.
Sitim. Sedavit.
Ricardvs. Tertivs. Rex. Angliæ.
Cvm. Henrico. Comete. De Richmondia.
Acerime. Atqve. Inferissime. Prælians.
Et. Vita. Pariter. ac. sceptro.
Ante. Noctem . Caritvrvs.
2 Kal. Sept. A.D. 1485.
FAIR falls the cold and ineffectual beam
On frozen path, and ice-encrusted stream,
The chimney's fumes in lengthened lines ascend,
And from the eaves long icicles depend,
While sonorous bells bid ambient ether call
To distant echo in her woodland hall;
With motives various as the garbs they wear,
To church the lieges orderly repair,
Many their light religion there to find,
Again to leave it with the church behind.
One of that class behold amid the throng,
That steps with some slight consequence along;
Pale is his face, the prominences bold,
And badly formed to stand the piercing cold;
Blank and unmeaning, to the world displayed,
In all the
The church is gained—the text is read-he winks, Nods, till in sleep contentedly he sinks,
Or with a stupid, rude, and wandering gaze, The place, the preacher, and the crowd surveys.
When sermon 's o'er, elate he homeward hies,
As much improved, as penitent, as wise
As when he came; nor sentence can he tell
More than he could at ringing of the bell.
"Fine man! fine man! sound doctrine!" he will say,
As great achievement, mark the text he may,
And though he own the creed and Christian name,
'Tis but because his fathers did the same;
And had his lot been cast in eastern clime,
Where Ganges pours his sacred tide sublime,
To that dread deity had learned to kneel,
Or dragged the idol's murdering chariot-wheel.
Mere child of form! yet steadily inclined
To that which dawned upon his youthful mind;
Sordid of soul, of spirit mean and poor,
To pride or power a stepping-stone secure.
O, how unlike of old the warrior wight,
Who pricked his thundering charger to the fight,
Whirled the bright brand, and dealt the deadly blow,
That told like lightning on the blasted foe;
And bade the waters of the mountain flood,
Sweep to the vale the fierce invader's blood!
My fancy soars-I see his stately form,
Firm as the oak, that mocks the winter's storm;
Fire in his eye, and valour in his
arm,
A soul alive to Freedom's every charm:
Mark, with a free-born air he bears his head,
The mist-clad mountain sounding to his tread.
Such were thy sons, dear Caledonia ! thine
The guards of Freedom at her lofty shrine
In ancient days, for life nor death would yield
One foot of Right's invaluable field;
But fled upon the wings of Time, again
We seek for such, but seek the land in vain.
WRITTEN AT “THE BONNY BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR."
STERN winter's voice is on the hill,
And summer's glory swells the wave
Of troubled Tweed, and loud, and chill
The gusts through "birks" of Yarrow rave,
Her "braes" in mourning weeds are clad
For children of the sunshine-dead.
Aweary, pensive, and alone,
Like tree upon the trackless waste;
Or storm-beat solitary stone,
That points to where the mighty rest-
I stand beneath thy branches bare,
Thou "bonny bush aboon Traquair."
Song-sainted relic of the past,
How many hearths have heard thy name?
many hearts whose lots were cast
In foreign lands, with holy flame
Have burned, while rose their native air,
The "bonny bush aboon Traquair?”
Years come like e'ening on the dell,
And gone are Yarrow's bards of yore ;
And Tweed, and Ettrick, weeping tell,
That Scott and Hogg are now no more;
And something says, again, I ne'er
Shall see the "bush aboon Traquair."
TRAQUAIR, November, 1840.
LINES WRITTEN NEAR KILMARNOCK HOUSE.
YON aged beech, all crimsoned with the ray
Of weary light that forms the winter day,
Calls to remembrance, with a pleasing pain,
The days I never shall behold again ;
And joys that seem by memory displayed,
To veil the present with a denser shade.
While Nature stands in a dejected state,
And on the sun eve shuts the western gate,
I'll pause alone! and drop a tribute tear
O'er what is now, and what has once been here.
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