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 Afar the illustrious Exile roams, Whom kingdoms on this day should hail; An inmate in the casual shed, On transient pity’s bounty fed, Haunted by busy memory’s bitter tale! Beasts of the forest have their savage homes, But He, who should imperial purple wear, Owns not the lap of earth where rests his royal head! His wretched refuge, dark despair, While ravening wrongs and woes pursue, And distant far the faithful few Who would his sorrows share. False flatterer, Hope, away! Nor think to lure us as in days of yore: We solemnize this sorrowing natal day, To prove our loyal truth—we can no more, And owning Heaven’s mysterious sway, Submissive, low adore. Ye honored, mighty Dead, Who nobly perished in the glorious cause, Your King, your Country, and her laws, [Footnote 1: The last birthday of Prince Charles Edward.]