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TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,
On crowning his Bust, at Ednam, Roxburghshire,
BY ROBERT BURNS.
WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Æolian strains between :
While Summer, with a matron grace,
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
The progress of the spiky blade: While Autumn, benefactor kind,
By Tweed erects his aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind,
Each creature on his bounty fed : While maniac Winter rages o’er
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows: So long, sweet poet of the year,
Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ; While Scotia, with exulting tear,
Proclaims that Thomson was her son.
On seeing a wounded Hare limp by me, which a Fellow
had just shot at.
BY ROBERT BURNS.
INHUMAN man! curse on thy barbarous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
The bitter little that of life remains :
No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains To thee shall home, or food, or pastime, yield. Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest;
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed !
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.
ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AFR.
BY ROBERT BURNS.
OH! had each Scot of ancient times,
Been JEANY Scott, as thou art, The bravest heart on English ground,
Had yielded like a coward.
THE FAKENHAM GHOST.
BY ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.
THE lawns were dry in Euston Park :
(Here truth inspires my tale) The lonely foot-path, still and dark,
Led over hill and dale.
Benighted was an ancient dame,
And fearful haste she made To gain the vale of Fakenham,
And hail its willow shade.
Her footsteps knew no idle stops,
But follow'd faster still ;
That whisper'd on the bill.
Where clamorous rooks, yet scarcely hushid,
Bespoke a peopled shade ;
And hovering circuits made.
The dappled herd of grazing deer,
That sought the shades by day, Now started from her path with fear,
And gave the stranger way.
Darker it grew; and darker fears
Came o'er her troubled mind;
Come patting close behind.
She turn'd; it stopp'd-nought could she see
Upon the gloomy plain;
She heard the same again.
For, where the path was bare,
She mutter'd many a prayer.
She tried what sight could do ; When, through the cheating glooms of night,
A MONSTER stood in view.
It follow'd down the plain!
And said her prayers again.
The white park gate in view;
That ghost and all pass'd through. Loud fell the gate against the post !
Her heart-strings like to crack :
Would leap upon her back.
As it had done before ;
She fainted at the door.
Good-natured souls! all unadvised
Of what they had to fear. The candle’s gleam pierced through the night, Some short space o'er the
green; And there the little trotting sprite
Distinctly might be seen. An ass's foal had lost its dam
Within the spacious park; And, simple as the playful lamb,
Had follow'd in the dark. No goblin he; no imp of sin:
No crimes had ever known. They took the shaggy stranger in,
And rear'd him as their own.
Upon the cottage floor:
That frightend her before.
And 'twas his fate to thrive:
And kept the joke alive
And some conviction too :-
Perhaps, was just as true.