From great Dundee, who smiling Victory led, And fell a Martyr in her arms, (What breast of northern ice but warms!) To bold Balmerino’s undying name, Whose soul of fire, lighted at Heaven’s high flame, Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim: Nor unrevenged your fate shall lie, It only lags, the fatal hour, Your blood shall, with incessant cry, Awake at last, th’ unsparing Power; As from the cliff, with thundering course, The snowy ruin smokes along With doubling speed and gathering force, Till deep it, crushing, whelms the cottage in the vale; So Vengeance’ arm, ensanguin’d, strong, Shall with resistless might assail, Usurping Brunswick’s pride shall lay, And Stewart’s wrongs and yours, with tenfold weight repay. Perdition, baleful child of night! Rise and revenge the injured right Of Stewart’s royal race: Lead on the unmuzzled hounds of hell, Till all the frighted echoes tell The blood-notes of the chase! Full on the quarry point their view, Full on the base usurping crew, The tools of faction, and the nation’s curse! Hark how the cry grows on the wind; They leave the lagging gale behind, Their savage fury, pitiless, they pour; With murdering eyes already they devour; See Brunswick spent, a wretched prey, His life one poor despairing day, Where each avenging hour still ushers in a worse! Such havock, howling all abroad, Their utter ruin bring, The base apostates to their God, Or rebels to their King. On The Death Of Robert Dundas, Esq., Of Arniston, Late Lord President of the Court of Session. Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks; Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, The gathering floods burst o’er the distant plains; Beneath the blast the leafless forests groan; The hollow caves return a hollow moan. Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves, Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves! Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, Sad to your sympathetic glooms I fly; Where, to the whistling blast and water’s roar, Pale Scotia’s recent wound I may deplore. O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear! A loss these evil days can ne’er repair! Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway’d her rod: Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow, She sank, abandon’d to the wildest woe.