From the barn-door poor Robin repairs to the ha'; All omens, say sages, betokening snaw. The blythe bleezing ingle the fam❜ly surround, While mirth and good humour are there to be found; The crack, joke, and song, round they quicklydo ca', logne How the army of England the shore it does throng What grand gasconades are made by the Conven "Dear father," quoth Jenny, "what are these gun-boats? That they will cause us trouble, I have my ain doubts; For the French have been always a thorn on our side, And their Popish religion I cannot abide." "Their sodgers these gun-boats are meant to bring o'er, But no rude invader shall land on our shore ; Peden, A man the most sceptic may even confide in, Perhaps to our cost, even this very year.' "Such nonsense, gudewife, should ne'er enter your pow, While fair in the Channel rides brave gallant Howe; If he could them meet in our ain straits of Dover, Not even one Frenchman would ever come over." Says Johnny," Even should they set sail and get o'er, Wi' bold volunteers we'll attack them on shore; For our king and our country we'll spend our heart's blood; We Britons may fall, but shall ne'er be subdued." PART SECOND. BUT searce had soft slumbers closed their eyes, When storms truly dreadful did forthwith arise; The wind blew so loud, and so thick fell the snow, That Nature seem'd warring with mortals below. At the noise of the storm the storemaster arose, The pale shepherds start from their short-lived repose; But the storm and the darkness so did them affray, That, anxious they wait for the dawning of day. By the dawn, every shepherd repairs to his flocks, The icicles frizzling his beard and his locks ; So dark is the drift, that he scarcely can tell or see. For his flock, by this time, he's in heavy alarm, And he bendeth his course straight unto the Kaim; The storm it continues, and still does increase, O'erwhelming our shepherd with doubt and distress. He's also in peril from craig and from scar, With dangers at hand, and worse dangers afar! His mind is bewilder'd as well as his eye, Yet still pushes on, but knows not where nor why. But the clouds now depart, and appears the blue sky, When the wandering shepherd around casts his eye; But through a false medium each object is seenAnd sure these are not the famed hills of Dalveen. Pondering long with himself which tract to pursue," But still the swollen stream at length he must cross, Which how to accomplish he's much at a loss, His dog then commenced a most pitiful howl; |