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As I stood by yon roofless tower,
Where the wa’-flower scents the dewy air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight moon her care.
The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky; The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant echoing glens reply.
The stream, adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's.
The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights wi' hissing eerie din ; Athort the lift they start and shift,
Like fortune's favours, tint as win.
By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,
And by the moonbeam, shook to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attired as minstrels wont to be.
Had I a statue been o'stane,
His darin look had daunted me ; And on his bonnet graved was plain,
The sacred posy-Libertie !
And frae his harp sic strains did flow,
Might roused the slumbering dead to hear ; But, oh! it was a tale of wo,
As ever met a Briton's ear!
He sang wi' joy the former day,
He weeping wail'd his latter times ;
I winna ventur't in my rhymes.
THEIR groves o'sweet myrtle let foreign lands
reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per
fume ; Far dearer to me yon glen o'green breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly un
seen : For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,
A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny
valleys, And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave; Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the
proud palace, What are they? -The haunt of the tyrant
The slave's spicy forests, and gold bubbling
fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his
HERE's a health to ane I lo'e dear,
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear;
Although thou maun never be mine,
Although even hope is denied ; 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, Than aught in the world beside-Jessy !
Here's a health, &c.
I mourn through the gay, gaudy day,
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms;
Here's a health, &c.
I guess by the dear angel-smile,
I guess by the love-rolling e'e; But, why urge the tender confession, 'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree-Jessy!
Here's a health, &c.
BESSY AT HER SPINNING-WHEEL. O LEEZE me on my spinning-wheel, O leeze me on my rock and reel ; Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien, And haps me'fiel and warm at e'en ! I'll set me down, and sing, and spin, While laigh descends the summer sun, Blest wi' content, and milk, and mealO leeze me on my spinning-wheel.
On ilka hand the burnies trot,
On lofty aiks the cushats wail,
Wisma' to sell, and less to buy,
Amid their flaring, idle toys,
BORN 1766-DIED 1823.
The author of « THE FARMER'S Boy" was born at Hon.
ington, in Bedfordshire. His father was a tailor, but Bloomfield lost him while still a child, and to his mother he was indebted for all the education he got. In her widowhood she kept a school for the maintenance of her orphan family. At the age of eleven Robert went into the employment of an uncle who was a farmer. While there, his principal duty was to scare the birds from the corn, and such light offices as suited his years. Here he silently and unconsciously accumulated that store of rural images afterwards so pleasingly displayed in “ The Farmer's Boy." But his intercourse with rural life was soon broken off. He was taken to London by an elder brother, who taught him his own trade of shoemaking. This calling Bloomfield exercised for a good many years; and he had married long before he was known as a poet. Reading had always been his delight, especially poetry; and from admiring he began to imitate, till, almost by accident, some of his verses found a place in a newspaper. Publication, in whatever shape, forms a new era in a poet's existence. A success so flattering as a place in a newspaper induced farther attempts, and The Farmer's Boy was composed, but obtained little notice till it luckily