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Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast,
The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,

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While airs impregnated with incense play

Around her, fanning light her streamers gay,

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So thou, with sails how swift, hast reached the shore

"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,"

And thy loved consort on the dang'rous tide
Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed,
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,
Sails ripped, seams op'ning wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course.
Yet, oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he,
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins cnthroned and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents passed into the skies!

And now, farewell. Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done:
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem t' have lived my childhood o'er again,
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
1790.

THE CASTAWAY

Obscurest night involved the sky,
Th' Atlantic billows roared,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Washed headlong from on board,

1798.

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Or courage die away,

But waged with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.

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But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,

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From naked groves nae birdie sings;
To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings;
The breeze nae od'rous flavour brings
From Borean cave;

And dwyning Nature droops her wings,
Wi' visage grave.

Mankind but scanty pleasure glean

Frae snawy hill or barren plain,

Whan Winter, 'midst his nipping train,

Wi' frozen spear,

Sends drift owr a' his bleak domain,
And guides the weir.

Auld Reikie! thou 'rt the canty hole,
A bield for mony a caldrife soul,
Wha snugly at thine ingle loll,

Baith warm and couth,

While round they gar the bicker roll
To weet their mouth.

When merry Yule Day comes, I trow,
You'll scantlins find a hungry mou;
Sma' are our cares, our stamacks fou
O' gusty gear

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And kickshaws, strangers to our view
Sin' fairn-year.

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Fiddlers, your pins in temper fix,
And roset weel your fiddlesticks;
But banish vile Italian tricks

From out your quorum,
Nor fortes wi' pianos mix—
Gie's "Tullochgorum"!

For naught can cheer the heart sae weel
As can a canty Highland reel;
It even vivifies the heel

To skip and dance:

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Wha sways the empire of this city,

When fou we're sometimes capernoity,

Be thou prepared

To hedge us frae that black banditti,
The City Guard.

BRAID CLAITH

Ye wha are fain to hae your name

Wrote in the bonny book of Fame,
Let merit nae pretension claim

To laureled wreath,

But hap ye weel, baith back and wame,
In gude Braid Claith.

He that some ells o' this may fa',
An' slae-black hat on pow like snaw,

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1772.

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