But I can guess, ye're gawn to gather dew:" I trow, when that she saw, within a crack, Dear Roger, when your joe puts on her gloom, Roger. Kind Patie, now fair fa' your honest heart, Weel are ye wordy o't, wha hae sae kind. Redd up my ravel'd doubts, and clear'd my mind. Patie. Weel, haud ye there-and since ye've frankly made To me a present o' your bran new plaid, My flutes be yours, and she too that's sae nice, Roger. As ye advise, I'll promise to observ't; Patie. But first we'll tak a turn up to the height, PARIINE. SPEAK on, speak thus, and still my grief, A lady rich, in beauty's blossom, Nae mair the shepherd, to excell The rest, whase wit made them to wonder, Shall now his Peggy's praises tell: Ah! I can die, but never sunder. Ye meadows where we aften strayed, Ye banks where we were wont to wander, Sweet-scented rucks round which we play'd, You'll lose your sweets when we're asunder. Again, ah! shall I never creep Around the knowe wi' silent duty, Kindly to watch thee while asleep, And wonder at thy manly beauty? Hear, Heaven, while solemnly I vow, Tho' thou shou'dst prove a wandering lover, Thro' life to thee I shall prove true, Nor be a wife to any other. REV. ROBERT BLAIR. 1699-1746. THE life of a Scottish country clergyman seldom presents materials for biography beyond the record of his active virtues. Blair was minister of Athelstaneford in Haddingtonshire, and was an accomplished gentleman as well as an amiable man. His poem The Grave has been one of the most popular in the English language, at least among the people of Scotland. Its stern tone of reflection, its vigorous and hard-featured diction, so different in its unforced simplicity from the strained grandeur of Young; and its sepulchral and terrible imagery,-rank it among the most impressive of religious poems. |