An' what like some disaster keen,
Can chase the glamour frae our een,
An' bring us to oursel's again?
As was the fate o' my auld pate,
When that night late, I took the gate,
As crouse as ony cock, man.
For, sad misluck! without my hat,
I doiting cam' awa', man,
An' when I down the Drygate cam',
The win' began to blaw, man.
When I cam' to the Drygate Brig,
The win' blew aff my guid brown wig,
That whirled like ony whirligig,
As up it flew, out o' my view,
While I stood glowrin', waefu' blue,
Wi' wide extended jaw, man.
When I began to grape for't syne,
Thrang poutrin' wi' my staff, man,
I coupet owre a meikle stane,
An' skailed my pickle snuff, man
My staff out o' my hand did jump,
An' hit my snout a dreadfu' thump,
Whilk raised a most confounded lump,
But whar it flew, I never knew,
Yet sair I rue this mark sae blue,
It leuks sae fleesome waff, man.
O had you seen my waefu' plight,
Your mirth had been but sma', man,
An' yet, a queerer antic sight,
I trow ye never saw, man.
I've lived thir fifty years an' mair,
But solemnly I here declare,
I ne'er before met loss sae sair;
My wig flew aff, I tint my staff,
I skail'd my snuff, I peel'd my loof,
An' brak my snout an' a', man.
Now wad ye profit by my loss?
Then tak' advice frae me, man,
An' ne'er let common sense tak' wing,
On fumes o' barley bree, man;
For drink can heeze a man sae high,
As mak' his head 'maist touch the sky,
But down he tumbles by-an'-by,
Wi' sic a thud, 'mang stanes an' mud,
That aft it's guid, if dirt an' bluid
Be a' he has to dree, man.
Pompey's Ghost.
[Written by John Lowe, author of "Mary's Dream."]
From perfect and unclouded day,
From joys complete without allay,
From joys complete without allay,
And from a spring without decay;
I come by Cynthia's borrow'd beams,
To visit my Cornelia's dreams,
And give them still sublimer themes.
I am the man you lov'd before,
Those streams have wash'd away my gore,
Those streams have wash'd away my gore,
And Pompey he shall bleed no more;
Nor shall my vengeance be withstood,
Nor unattended by a flood,
Of Roman or Egyptian blood.
Cæsar himself it shall pursue,
His days shall troubled be and few,
His days shall troubled be and few,
And he shall fall by treason too.
He, by a justice all divine,
Shall fall a victim to my shrine:
As I was his, he shall be mine.
Roslin Castle.
I.
[The beautiful tune of "Roslin Castle" has been often erroneously ascribed to Oswald, a musical composer who lived in the early part of the last century. But it is to be found in a publication before his day—M'Gibbon's Collection of Scots Tunes,—where it is called "The House of Glams." The old words are supposed to be lost. The following appear in Herd's Collection, 1776, but by what author is not known.]
From Roslin castle's echoing walls
Resound my shepherd's ardent calls,
My Colin bids me come away,
And love demands I should obey.
His melting strain and tuneful lay,
So much the charms of love display,
I yield—nor longer can refrain
To own my love, and bless my swain.
