Where every science, every nobler art, That can inform the mind or mend the heart, Is known; as grateful nations oft have found, Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. Philosophy, no idle pedant dream, Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason’s beam; Here History paints with elegance and force The tide of Empire’s fluctuating course; Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan, And Harley rouses all the God in man. When well-form’d taste and sparkling wit unite With manly lore, or female beauty bright, (Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace Can only charm us in the second place), Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, As on this night, I’ve met these judges here! But still the hope Experience taught to live, Equal to judge—you’re candid to forgive. No hundred—headed riot here we meet, With decency and law beneath his feet; Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom’s name: Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame. O Thou, dread Power! whose empire-giving hand Has oft been stretch’d to shield the honour’d land! Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire; May every son be worthy of his sire; Firm may she rise, with generous disdain At Tyranny’s, or direr Pleasure’s chain; Still Self-dependent in her native shore, Bold may she brave grim Danger’s loudest roar, Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more. The Bonie Moor-Hen The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn, Our lads gaed a-hunting ae day at the dawn, O’er moors and o’er mosses and mony a glen, At length they discover’d a bonie moor-hen. Chorus.—I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men, I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men; Take some on the wing, and some as they spring, But cannily steal on a bonie moor-hen. Sweet—brushing the dew from the brown heather bells Her colours betray’d her on yon mossy fells; Her plumage outlustr’d the pride o’ the spring And O! as she wanton’d sae gay on the wing. I rede you, &c. Auld Phoebus himself, as he peep’d o’er the hill, In spite at her plumage he tried his skill; He levell’d his rays where she bask’d on the brae— His rays were outshone, and but mark’d where she lay. I rede you,&c. They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill, The best of our lads wi’ the best o’ their skill; But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight. I rede you, &c. Song—My Lord A-Hunting Chorus.—My lady’s gown, there’s gairs upon’t, And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t; But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet, My lord thinks meikle mair upon’t.