"Twas here he studied oft his favourite book

Here did he oft, in contemplation deep,
Sadly reflect upon the bypast years,

Sadly remember that his fathers sleep.

The shadow of the cloud passed o'er the glade;
Struggling, in vain, went on the murmuring stream;
The rugged rock falls slowly down to dust;
All did remind him-DEATH IS NOT A DREAM.

Soon did the father realize his thoughts;
Soon did another mournful instance give;
To all on earth an end is firmly fix'd ;
Few are the days the oldest have to live.

Long did the friendly tear, and grateful sigh, Mark the remembrance of the help he gave; And ever, to the memory of his life,

Sacred has been preserved his lonely CAVE.

The plank is gone, but still its piers are left; 'Twixt and the cell the shining pool still lies, No crumbs now fall, but still, at summer's eve, Its eager trouts, as if impatient, rise.

Still, up the steep, his crystal well remains,
The faint and languid seek it out with care,
And that the holy finder of the spring
May be rewarded, is their constant prayer :

The vaulted bason still entire is seen,

The hanging path that joins it to the cell,
And yet in simple characters remain
Above its gothic door, "Our Lady's Well."

Beneath its hills, the 'Spital House yet stands *
By the clear rill we trace its ancient site;
Even now its hospitality remains,

And travellers still claim shelter as their right.

The Monks' burn, near, has yet its former name, Not far below, it joins the trickling rill;

Where meet the streams, the fruitful Glebe croft spreads,

Betwixt their conflux and the northern hill †.

Part of the Castle still is to be found;
The western point its ruined Chapel shows;
And yet a thorn, with many a reverend twist,
Lives underneath, and o'er its fountain grows.

* See the Map.

+ See the Description of the 'Spitals of New Hall. See the Description of New-Hall House.

For a BATHING HUT in HABBIE'S How; Dedicated to PEGGY, the Gentle Shepherdess.

An Ode.

"Horrida tempestas cœlum contraxit ; et imbres

"Nivesque deducunt Jovem : nunc mare nunc silvæ

"Threicio aquilone sonant."

HOR. lib. 5. carm. 13.

"Red came the river down, and loud, and oft

"The angry spirit of the water shriek'd."

DOUGLAS. Act 3. Sc. 2.

"The winds roared in the woods, and the torrents tumbled from the hills

"Work'd into sudden rage by wintry showers,
"Down the steep hill the roaring torrent powers:
"The mountain shepherd hears the distant noise."

RAMBLER. NO. 65.

"PEGGY.-Gae farer up the burn to Habbie's How,
"Where a' the sweets of spring and simmer grow:
"Between twa birks out o'er a little lin

"The water fa's and maks a singand din:
"A pool breast-deep beneath as clear as glass,
"Kisses with easy whirls the bordering grass.
"We'll end our washing while the morning's cool,
"And when the day grows het we'll to the pool,
"There wash oursells-'tis healthfu' now in May,
"And sweetly cauler on sae warm a day.”

GENTLE SHEPHERD. Act 1. Sc. 2.

FIERCELY blew the wintry blast;
Cold, and drenching, was the rain;
Mercy on the tender flocks!

On the herds that grazed the plain !-
Quickly arose this rapid stream,

Largely fed by many a rill;

Esk Head*, the fount from whence he came,

Is at the back of Patie's Hill.

Darkly, and troubled, deep he rolled,
Tumbling, and roaring, as he went ;
Till, frantic, o'er these rocks he rushed,
And for a while his fury spent:
Now, calmly, in the pool he wheels,
Beneath the foam, and mist that rose;
Then, with gained vigour, as before,
He dashing down the valley goes.
Thus have I seen a tawny bull,

By rushing dogs with rage supplied,

Come roaring down the mountain's brow,

As if he every check defied:

But if a swamp should intervene,

He foams, and flounders with his train ;

Till struggling to an issue found,

He thunders down the steep again.

Esk Head, at the foot of the Harper Rig. See the Descrip

Thanks to thee, RURAL HUT! 'twas then,

Stopt, with my gun, I sought thy aid
How freely didst thou take me in,
And give me shelter in thy shade!-
Long last thy hospitable roof!
Long may thy rustic walls remain !
And may
th' unfriendly, envious blast,
Attempt to break them down, in vain !
Hence may these hanging trees, and rocks,
Be thy protectors always found!

May woodbines, and the ivy green,

Cheerful, in summer, clasp thee round!

Here let me, 'tis a favourite spot,
When languid at the bottom lie
The finny race, o'erpowered with heat,
Take out my book, put up my fly!
Enchanted by thy native scenes;
Lulled by the falling of the stream;
Here, Ramsay, may I, acted, see
Thy GENTLE SHEPHERD in my dream:
His artless bower-tree stockinhorn,

His dog, and flock, would make him known;
His crook, smart garters, bonnet blue,
And plaid across his shoulder thrown:
For often, with his bashful friend,
Retiring hither from the plain,
Blithsome, he told his amorous tale;
Or, piping, played a merry strain: