Pale glides his ghost on the hills of Corunna:
Fancy, O waft the dear shade to my view!
Fearless, alone I'd converse wi' my Johnnie,
Nor tremble to meet him beside the lone yew.
Down by yon hawthorn, so lately in blossom,
That drooping and wither'd now seems in decay,
There aft was I prest to that dear manly bosom,
That, sairly lamented, lies cauld in the clay.
Absence.
[This song is the production of Dr. Thomas Blacklock, commonly called the Blind Poet, who also composed an air to it, and sent both to Johnson's Museum. It professes to be "written in the manner of Shenstone." Dr. Blacklock was a native of Annan, and in infancy lost his eye-sight from small pox. Notwithstanding this calamity, he studied for the church, and was licensed to preach, but, owing to his blindness, never obtained a kirk. His life was principally spent at Edinburgh, where he kept a boarding-house, and was much venerated by all classes. He died there in 1791, aged seventy.]
Ye rivers so limpid and clear,
Who reflect, as in cadence you flow,
All the beauties that vary the year,
All the flow'rs on your margins that grow!
How blest on your banks could I dwell,
Were Marg'ret the pleasure to share,
And teach your sweet echoes to tell
With what fondness I doat on the fair!
Ye harvests, that wave in the breeze
As far as the view can extend!
Ye mountains, umbrageous with trees,
Whose tops so majestic ascend!
Your landscape what joy to survey,
Were Marg'ret with me to admire!
Then the harvest would glitter, how gay,
How majestic the mountains aspire!
In pensive regret whilst I rove,
The fragrance of flow'rs to inhale;
Or catch as it swells from the grove,
The music that floats on the gale:
Alas! the delusion how vain!
Nor odours nor harmony please
A heart agonizing with pain,
Which tries ev'ry posture for ease.
If anxious to flatter my woes,
Or the languor of absence to cheer,
Her breath I would catch in the rose,
Or her voice in the nightingale hear.
To cheat my despair of its prey,
What object her charms can assume!
How harsh is the nightingale's lay,
How insipid the rose's perfume!
Ye zephyrs that visit my fair,
Ye sunbeams around her that play,
Does her sympathy dwell on my care?
Does she number the hours of my stay?
First perish ambition and wealth,
First perish all else that is dear,
Ere one sigh should escape her by stealth,
Ere my absence should cost her one tear.
When, when shall her beauties once more
This desolate bosom surprise?
Ye fates! the blest moments restore
When I bask'd in the beams of her eyes;
When with sweet emulation of heart,
Our kindness we struggled to show;
But the more that we strove to impart
We felt it more ardently glow.
While frequent on Tweed.
[Written by the Rev. John Logan, at one time a clergyman in Leith, but who spent the latter years of his life as a literary adventurer in London. He was born in 1748, and died in 1788.]
While frequent on Tweed and on Tay,
Their harps all the muses have strung,
Should a river more limpid than they,
The wood-fringed Esk flow unsung?
While Nelly and Nancy inspire
The poet with pastoral strains,
Why silent the voice of the lyre
On Mary, the pride of the plains?
O nature's most beautiful bloom
May flourish unseen and unknown:
And the shadows of solitude gloom
A form that might shine on a throne.
Through the wilderness blossoms the rose,
In sweetness retired from the sight;
And Philomel warbles her woes
Alone to the ear of the night.
