O, let my years thus devious glide,
Through silent scenes obscurely calm,
Nor wealth nor strife pollute the tide,
Nor honour's sanguinary palm.

When labour tires and pleasure palls,
Still let the stream untroubled be,
As down the steep of age it falls,
And mingles with eternity.

HAWKESWORTH.

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CORYDON, A PASTORAL.

TO THE MEMORY OF SHENSTONE.

COME, shepherds, we 'll follow the hearse;
We'll see our loved Corydon laid :
Though sorrow may blemish the verse,

Yet let a sad tribute be paid.

They call'd him the pride of the plain;

In sooth he was gentle and kind!

He mark'd on his elegant strain
The graces that glow'd in his mind.

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On purpose he planted yon trees,

That birds in the covert might dwell;

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He cultured his thyme for the bees,

But never would rifle their cell. Ye lambkins, that play'd at his feet,

Go bleat,—and your master bemoan:

His music was artless and sweet,

His manners as mild as your own.

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No verdure shall cover the vale,

No bloom on the blossoms appear;
The sweets of the forest shall fail,

And winter discolour the year;
No birds in our hedges shall sing,
(Our hedges so vocal before)
Since he, that should welcome the spring,
Salutes the gay season no more.

His Phyllis was fond of his praise,

And poets came round in a throng;
They listen'd-they envied his lays,
But which of them equall'd his song?
Ye shepherds, henceforward be mute,
For lost is the pastoral strain:

So give me my Corydon's flute,
And thus-let me break it in twain.

J. CUNNINGHAM.

JOHN BARLEYCORN.

THERE were three kings into the East,
Three kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down, 5

Put clods upon his head,

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,

And showers began to fall;

John Barleycorn got up again,

And sore surprised them all.

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His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

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His colour sicken'd more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They 've ta'en a weapon long and sharp,

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And cut him by the knee;

Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;

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They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim,
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe,

And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame

The marrow of his bones;

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But a miller used him worst of all,

For he crush'd him 'tween two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;

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And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise,

For if you do but taste his blood,

"T will make your courage rise.

'T will make a man forget his woe;
"T will heighten all his joy;

'T will make the widow's heart to sing,
Though the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,

Each man a glass in hand;

And may his great posterity

Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

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BURNS.

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER.

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOL.

My Lord, I know your noble ear
Woe ne'er assails in vain;
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,

Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

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228 THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER.

The lightly-jumpin', glowrin' trouts,

That through my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;

If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I'm scorching up so shallow,

In gasping death to wallow.

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They're left, the whitening stanes amang,

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Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,

wept grief

As Poet Burns came by,

That, to a bard, I should be seen

Wi' half my channel dry:
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
Ev'n as I was he shored me;
But had I in my glory been,

He, kneeling, wad adored me.

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin;

There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o'er a linn :

As nature gave them me,.

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offered

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precipice

Enjoying large each spring and well,

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