O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide That streamed thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart, Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die—the second glorious part, (The patriot’s God, peculiarly thou art His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never, Scotia’s realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, In bright succession rise, her ornament and guard! [Illustration: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, .... And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend.] THE BRIGS OF AYR ’Twas when the stacks got on their winter-hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-worn crap; Potatoe-bings are snuggèd up frae skaith O’ coming Winter’s biting, frosty breath; The bees, rejoicing o’er their summer toils, Unnumber’d buds an’ flowers’ delicious spoils, Seal’d up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, Are doom’d by Man, that tyrant o’er the weak, The death o’ devils, smoor’d wi’ brimstone reek: The thund’ring guns are heard on ev’ry side, The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; The feather’d field-mates, bound by Nature’s tie, Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie: (What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, And execrates man’s savage, ruthless deeds!) Nae mair the flow’r in field or meadow springs; Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, Except perhaps the Robin’s whistling glee, Proud o’ the height o’ some bit half-lang tree: The hoary morns precede the sunny days, Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze, While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays.