There draw a shot, there lay a guard,
And here beside him lie, man;
Now let him feel a gamester's hand,
Now in his bosom die, man;
Then fill the port, and block the ice,
We sit upon the tee, man;
Now tak' this in-ring, sharp and neat,
And mak' their winner flee, man.
How stands the game? Its eight and eight,
Now for the winning shot, man;
Draw slow and sure, and tak' your aim,
I 'll sweep you to the spot, man.
The stane is thrown, it glides along,
The besoms ply it in, man;
Wi' twisting back the player stands,
And eager breathless grin, man.
A moment's silence, still as death,
Pervades the anxious thrang, man;
When sudden bursts the victor's shout,
With holla's loud and lang, man.
Triumphant besom's wave in air,
And friendly banters fly, man;
Whilst, cold and hungry, to the inn,
Wi' eager steps they hie, man.
Now fill ae bumper, fill but ane,
And drink wi' social glee, man,
May curlers on life's slippery rink,
Frae cruel rubs be free, man;
Or should a treacherous bias lead
Their erring course ajee, man,
Some friendly in-ring may they meet,
To guide them to the tee, man.
ON THE GREEN SWARD.[88]
Tune—"Arniston House."
On the green sward lay William, in anguish extended,
To soothe and to cheer him his Mary stood near him;
But despair in the cup of his sorrows was blended,
And, inwardly groaning, he wildly exclaim'd—
"Ah! look not so fondly, thou peerless in beauty,
Away, I beseech thee, no comfort can reach me;
A martyr to love, or a traitor to duty,
My pleasure is sorrow, my hope is despair.
"Once the visions of fancy shone bright and attractive,
Like distant scenes blooming which sunbeams illumine;
Love pointed to wealth, and, no longer inactive,
I labour'd till midnight, and rose with the dawn.