The Monitors

The lift looks cauldrife i' the west,
The wan leaf wavers frae the tree,
The wind touts on the mountain's breast
A dirge o' waesome note to me.

It tells me that the days o' glee,
When summer's thrilling sweets entwined?

An' love was blinkin' in the ee,
Are a' gane by an' far behind ;
That winter wi' his joyless air,
An' grizzly hue, is hasting nigh,
An' that auld age, an' carkin' care,
In my last stage afore me lie.

Yon chill and cheerless winter sky,
Troth but 'tis eereisome to see,
For ah ! it points me to descry
The downfa's o' futuritye.

I daurna look unto the east,
For there my morning shone sae sweet ;
An' when I turn me to the west,
The gloaming's like to gar me greet ;
The deadly hues o' snaw and sleet
Tell of a dreary onward path;
Yon new moon on her cradle sheet,
Looks like the Hainault scythe of death.

Kind Monitors ! ye tell a tale
That oft has been my daily thought;
Yet, when it came, could nought avail,
For sad experience, dearly bought,
Tells me it was not what I ought,
But what was in my power to do,
That me behoved. An' I hae fought
Against a world wi' courage true.

Yes — I hae fought an' won the day,
Come weal, come woe, I carena by,
I am a king ! My regal sway
Stretches o'er Scotia's mountains high,
And o'er the fairy vales that lie
Beneath the glimpses o' the moon,
Or round the ledges of the sky,
In twilight's everlasting noon.

Who would not choose the high renown,
'Mang Scotia's swains the chief to be,
Than be a king, an' wear a crown,
'Mid perils, pain, an' treacherye?

Hurra ! The day's my own— -I'm free
Of statemen's guile, an' flattery's train ;
I'll blaw my reed of game an' glee,
The Shepherd is himself again !

" But, Bard — ye dinna mind your life
Is waning down to winter snell —
That round your hearth young sprouts are rife,
An' mae to care for than yoursell."
Yes, that I do — that hearth could tell
How aft the tear-drap blinds my ee ;
What can I do, by spur or spell,
An' by my faith it done shall be.

And think — through poortith's eiry breach,
Should Want approach wi' threatening brand,
I'll leave them canty sangs will reach
From John o' Groats to Solway strand.

Then what are houses, goud, or land,
To sic an heirship left in fee ?

An' I think mair o' auld Scotland,
Than to be fear'd for mine or me.

True, she has been a stepdame dour,
Grudging the hard-earn 'd sma' propine,
On a' my efforts looking sour,
An' seem'd in secret to repine.

Blest be Buccleuch an' a' his line,
For ever blessed may they be ;
A little harae I can ca' mine
He rear'd amid the wild for me.

Goodwife — without a' sturt or strife,
Bring ben the siller bowl wi' care ;
Ye are the best an' bonniest wife,
That ever fell to poet's share;
An' I'll send o'er for Frank — a pair
O right good-hearted chiels are we —
We'll drink your health — an' what is mair,
We'll drink our Laird's wi' three times three.

To the young Shepherd, too, we'll take
A rousing glass wi' right good-will ;
An' the young ladies o' the Lake,
We'll drink in ane — an awfu' swill !

Then a' the tints o' this warld's ill
Will vanish like the morning dew,
An' we'll be blithe an' blither still —
Kind winter Monitors, adieu !

This warld has mony ups an' downs,
Atween the cradle an' the grave,
O' blithesome haun's an' broken crowns,
An' douks in chill misfortune's wave;
All these determined to outbrave,
O'er fancy's wilds I'll wing anew,
As lang as I can lilt a stave, —
Kind winter Monitors, adieu !