Thomson’s Edward and Eleanora
Farewell, old Scotia’s bleak domains,Far dearer than the torrid plains,Where rich ananas blow!Farewell, a mother’s blessing dear!A borther’s sigh! a sister’s tear!My Jean’s heart-rending throe!Farewell, my Bess! tho’ thou’rt bereftOf my paternal care.A faithful brother I have left,My part in him thou’lt share!Adieu, too, to you too,My Smith, my bosom frien’;When kindly you mind me,O then befriend my Jean!
What bursting anguish tears my heart;From thee, my Jeany, must I part!Thou, weeping, answ’rest—“No!”Alas! misfortune stares my face,And points to ruin and disgrace,I for thy sake must go!Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear,A grateful, warm adieu:I, with a much-indebted tear,Shall still remember you!All hail then, the gale then,Wafts me from thee, dear shore!It rustles, and whistlesI’ll never see thee more!
The Calf
To the Rev. James Steven, on his text, Malachi, ch. iv. vers. 2. “And ye shall go forth, and grow up, as Calves of the stall.”
Right, sir! your text I’ll prove it true,Tho’ heretics may laugh;For instance, there’s yourself just now,God knows, an unco calf.
And should some patron be so kind,As bless you wi’ a kirk,I doubt na, sir but then we’ll find,Ye’re still as great a stirk.
But, if the lover’s raptur’d hour,Shall ever be your lot,Forbid it, ev’ry heavenly Power,You e’er should be a stot!
Tho’ when some kind connubial dearYour but—and—ben adorns,The like has been that you may wearA noble head of horns.
And, in your lug, most reverend James,To hear you roar and rowt,Few men o’ sense will doubt your claimsTo rank amang the nowt.
And when ye’re number’d wi’ the dead,Below a grassy hillock,With justice they may mark your head—“Here lies a famous bullock!”