Shepherd, or Huntsman, or worn Mariner, Whate'er thou art, who wouldst allay thy thirst, Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone, Arch'd, and o'erwrought with many a sacred verse,...
Dear is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every passing villager. The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, And shells his nuts at liberty....
Love, under Friendship's vesture white, Laughs, his little limbs concealing; And oft in sport, and oft in spite, Like Pity meets the dazzled sight, Smiles thro' his tears revealing. ...
Whoe'er thou art, approach, and, with a sigh, Mark where the small remains of Greatness lie.[2] There sleeps the dust of Him for ever gone; How near the Scene where once his Glory shone!...
There, in that bed so closely curtain'd round, Worn to a shade, and wan with slow decay, A father sleeps! Oh hush'd be every sound! Soft may we breathe the midnight hours away! ...
Blue was the loch, [1] the clouds were gone, Ben-Lomond in his glory shone, When, Luss, I left thee; when the breeze Bore me from thy silver sands, Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees,...