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Cauld blew the bitter-biting north,
Amid the storm,
Thy tender form.
The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
O'clod or stane :
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
In humble guise ;
And low thou lies.
Such is the fate of artless maid,
And guileless trust;
Such is the fate of simple bard,
Of prudent lore,
And whelm him o'er.
Such fate to suffering worth is given,
To misery's brink !
He, ruined, sink !
Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate,
Full on thy bloom;
Shall be thy doom.
The gloomy night is gathering fast,
Across her placid, azure sky,
"Tis not the surging billow's roar, 'Tis not that fatal deadly shore; Though death in every shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear: But round my heart the ties are bound,
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
Farewell! Old Coila's hills and dales, Her healthy moors and winding vales; The scenes where wretched fancy roves, Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes My peace with these, my love with thoseThe bursting tears my heart declare ; Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayr
The path to bliss abounds with many a snare ; Learning is one, and wit, however rare. The Frenchman, first in literary fame, (Mention him if you please. Voltaire ?—The same.) With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied, Lived long, wrote much, laughed heartily, and died. The Scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew Bon-mots to gall the Christian and the Jew; An infidel in health, but what when sick ? 0—then a text would touch him at the quick : View him at Paris in his last career, Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere ; Exalted on his pedestal of pride, And fumed with frankincense on every side, He begs their flattery with his latest breath, And smothered in't at last, is praised to death.
Yon cottager, who wcaves at her own door, Pillow and bobbins all her little store ;