O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,
     With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn;
     And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes
     The verdure and pride of the garden or lawn! 
     Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,
     And England triumphant display her proud rose: 
     A fairer than either adorns the green valleys,
     Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

Braving Angry Winter’s Storms

     Tune—­“Neil Gow’s Lament for Abercairny.”

     Where, braving angry winter’s storms,
     The lofty Ochils rise,
     Far in their shade my Peggy’s charms
     First blest my wondering eyes;
     As one who by some savage stream
     A lonely gem surveys,
     Astonish’d, doubly marks it beam
     With art’s most polish’d blaze.

     [Footnote 1:  Of the Edinburgh High School.]

     Blest be the wild, sequester’d shade,
     And blest the day and hour,
     Where Peggy’s charms I first survey’d,
     When first I felt their pow’r! 
     The tyrant Death, with grim control,
     May seize my fleeting breath;
     But tearing Peggy from my soul
     Must be a stronger death.

Song—­My Peggy’s Charms

     Tune—­“Tha a’ chailleach ir mo dheigh.”

     My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form,
     The frost of hermit Age might warm;
     My Peggy’s worth, my Peggy’s mind,
     Might charm the first of human kind.

     I love my Peggy’s angel air,
     Her face so truly heavenly fair,
     Her native grace, so void of art,
     But I adore my Peggy’s heart.

     The lily’s hue, the rose’s dye,
     The kindling lustre of an eye;
     Who but owns their magic sway! 
     Who but knows they all decay!

     The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
     The generous purpose nobly dear,
     The gentle look that rage disarms—­
     These are all Immortal charms.

The Young Highland Rover

     Tune—­“Morag.”

     Loud blaw the frosty breezes,
     The snaws the mountains cover;
     Like winter on me seizes,
     Since my young Highland rover
     Far wanders nations over.

     Where’er he go, where’er he stray,
     May heaven be his warden;
     Return him safe to fair Strathspey,
     And bonie Castle-Gordon!

     The trees, now naked groaning,
     Shall soon wi’ leaves be hinging,
     The birdies dowie moaning,
     Shall a’ be blythely singing,
     And every flower be springing;
     Sae I’ll rejoice the lee-lang day,
     When by his mighty Warden
     My youth’s return’d to fair Strathspey,
     And bonie Castle-Gordon.

Birthday Ode For 31st December, 1787^1