This lovely maid’s of royal blood
     That ruled Albion’s kingdoms three,
     But oh, alas! for her bonie face,
     They’ve wrang’d the Lass of Albany.

     In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde
     There sits an isle of high degree,
     And a town of fame whose princely name
     Should grace the Lass of Albany.

     But there’s a youth, a witless youth,
     That fills the place where she should be;
     We’ll send him o’er to his native shore,
     And bring our ain sweet Albany.

     Alas the day, and woe the day,
     A false usurper wan the gree,
     Who now commands the towers and lands—­
     The royal right of Albany.

     We’ll daily pray, we’ll nightly pray,
     On bended knees most fervently,
     The time may come, with pipe an’ drum
     We’ll welcome hame fair Albany.

     [Footnote 1:  Natural daughter of Prince Charles Edward.]

On Scaring Some Water-Fowl In Loch-Turit

     A wild scene among the Hills of Oughtertyre.

“This was the production of a solitary forenoon’s walk from Oughtertyre House.  I lived there, the guest of Sir William Murray, for two or three weeks, and was much flattered by my hospitable reception.  What a pity that the mere emotions of gratitude are so impotent in this world.  ’Tis lucky that, as we are told, they will be of some avail in the world to come.”  —­R.B., Glenriddell MSS.

Why, ye tenants of the lake, For me your wat’ry haunt forsake?  Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus you fly?  Why disturb your social joys, Parent, filial, kindred ties?—­ Common friend to you and me, yature’s gifts to all are free:  Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, Busy feed, or wanton lave; Or, beneath the sheltering rock, Bide the surging billow’s shock.

     Conscious, blushing for our race,
     Soon, too soon, your fears I trace,
     Man, your proud, usurping foe,
     Would be lord of all below: 
     Plumes himself in freedom’s pride,
     Tyrant stern to all beside.

     The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
     Marking you his prey below,
     In his breast no pity dwells,
     Strong necessity compels: 
     But Man, to whom alone is giv’n
     A ray direct from pitying Heav’n,
     Glories in his heart humane—­
     And creatures for his pleasure slain!

     In these savage, liquid plains,
     Only known to wand’ring swains,
     Where the mossy riv’let strays,
     Far from human haunts and ways;
     All on Nature you depend,
     And life’s poor season peaceful spend.

     Or, if man’s superior might
     Dare invade your native right,
     On the lofty ether borne,
     Man with all his pow’rs you scorn;
     Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
     Other lakes and other springs;
     And the foe you cannot brave,
     Scorn at least to be his slave.