To sychophants and fawning knaves, That Scotland ne'er was made for slaves! Each fruitful vale, each mountain throne, Is ruled by Nature's laws alone; And nought but falsehood's poisoned breath Will urge the claymore from its sheath. O spirit of the wind and sky, Where doth thy harp neglected lie? Is there no harp thy bard to be, To wake that soul of melody? Is liberty herself a slave? No! God forbid it! On, ye brave! APPROACH OF WINTER The Autumn day now fades away, The fields are wet and dreary; The rude storm takes the flowers of May, And Nature seemeth weary; The partridge coveys, shunning fate, Hide in the bleaching stubble, And many a bird, without its mate, Mourns o'er its lonely trouble. On hawthorns shine the crimson haw, Where Spring brought may-day blossoms: Decay is Nature's cheerless law-- Life's Winter in our bosoms. The fields are brown and naked all, The hedges still are green, But storms shall come at Autumn's fall, And not a leaf be seen. Yet happy love, that warms the heart Through darkest storms severe, Keeps many a tender flower to start When Spring shall re-appear. Affection's hope shall roses meet, Like those of Summer bloom, And joys and flowers shall be as sweet In seasons yet to come. MARY DOVE Sweet Summer, breathe your softest gales To charm my lover's ear: Ye zephyrs, tell your choicest tales Where'er she shall appear; And gently wave the meadow grass Where soft she sets her feet, For my love is a country lass, And bonny as she's sweet. The hedges only seem to mourn, The willow boughs to sigh, Though sunshine o'er the meads sojourn, To cheer me where I lie: The blackbird in the hedgerow thorn Sings loud his Summer lay; He seems to sing, both eve and morn, "She wanders here to-day." The skylark in the summer cloud One cheering anthem sings, And Mary often wanders out To watch his trembling wings. * * * * * I'll wander down the river way, And wild flower posies make, For Nature whispers all the day She can't her promise break. The meads already wear a smile, The river runs more bright, For down the path and o'er the stile The maiden comes in sight. The scene begins to look divine; We'll by the river walk. Her arm already seems in mine, And fancy hears her talk. A vision, this, of early love: The meadow, river, rill, Scenes where I walked with Mary Dove, Are in my memory still. SPRING'S NOSEGAY The prim daisy's golden eye On the fallow land doth lie, Though the Spring is just begun: Pewits watch it all the day, And the skylark's nest of hay Is there by its dried leaves in the sun. There the pilewort, all in gold, 'Neath the ridge of finest mould, Blooms to cheer the ploughman's eye: There the mouse his hole hath made, And 'neath the golden shade Hides secure when the hawk is prowling by.