O sad and heavy, should I part, But for her sake, sae far awa; Unknowing what my way may thwart, My native land sae far awa. Thou that of a’ things Maker art, That formed this Fair sae far awa, Gie body strength, then I’ll ne’er start At this my way sae far awa. How true is love to pure desert! Like mine for her sae far awa; And nocht can heal my bosom’s smart, While, oh, she is sae far awa! Nane other love, nane other dart, I feel but her’s sae far awa; But fairer never touch’d a heart Than her’s, the Fair, sae far awa.

1792

I do Confess Thou Art Sae Fair

Alteration of an Old Poem.

I Do confess thou art sae fair, I was been o’er the lugs in luve, Had I na found the slightest prayer That lips could speak thy heart could muve. I do confess thee sweet, but find Thou art so thriftless o’ thy sweets, Thy favours are the silly wind That kisses ilka thing it meets. See yonder rosebud, rich in dew, Amang its native briers sae coy; How sune it tines its scent and hue, When pu’d and worn a common toy. Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, Tho’ thou may gaily bloom awhile; And sune thou shalt be thrown aside, Like ony common weed and vile.

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Lines On Fergusson, The Poet

Ill-fated genius! Heaven-taught Fergusson! What heart that feels and will not yield a tear, To think Life’s sun did set e’er well begun To shed its influence on thy bright career. O why should truest Worth and Genius pine Beneath the iron grasp of Want and Woe, While titled knaves and idiot—Greatness shine In all the splendour Fortune can bestow?