THE VISION. DUAN FIRST. THE sun had clos'd the winter-day, The Curlers quat their roaring play, And hunger'd Maukin taen her way To kail-yards green, While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has been. The Thresher's weary flingin-tree, The lee-lang day had tir'd me; And when the Day had clos'd his e'e, Far i' the West, Ben i' the Spence, right pensivelie, I gaed to rest. There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek, The auld, clay biggin; And heard the restless rattons squeak About the riggin. All in this mottie, misty clime, I backward mus'd on wasted time, How I had spent my youthfu' prime, An' done nae-thing, But stringing blethers up in rhyme For fools to sing. Had I to guid advice but harket, I might, by this, hae led a market, Or strutted in a Bank and clarket My Cash-Account; While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarket, Is a' th' amount. I started, mutt'ring blockhead! coof! And heav'd on high my wauket loof, To swear by a' yon starry roof, Or some rash aith, That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof Till my last breath — When click! the string the snick did draw; And jee! the door gaed to the wa'; And by my ingle-lowe I saw, Now bleezan bright, A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw, Come full in fight. Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht; The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht; I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht, In some wild glen; When sweet, like modest Worth, she blusht, And stepped ben. Green, slender, leaf-clad Holly-boughs Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows, I took her for some SCOTTISH MUSE, By that same token; And come to stop those reckless vows, Would soon been broken. A "hare-brain'd, sentimental trace" Was strongly marked in her face; A wildly-witty, rustic grace Shone full upon her; Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, Beam'd keen with Honor. Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, Till half a leg was scrimply seen; And such a leg! my BESS, I ween, Could only peer it; Sae straught, sae taper, tight and clean, Nane else came near it. Her Mantle large, of greenish hue, My gazing wonder chiefly drew; Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw A lustre grand; And seem'd, to my astonish'd view, A well-known Land. Here, rivers in the sea were lost; There, mountains to the skies were tost: Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, With surging foam; There, distant shone, Art's lofty boast, The lordly dome. Here, DOON pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods; There, well-fed IRWINE stately thuds: Auld, hermit AIRE staw thro' his woods, On to the shore; And many a lesser torrent scuds, With seeming roar. Low, in a sandy valley spread, An ancient BOROUGH rear'd her head; Still, as in Scottish Story read, She boasts a Race, To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, And polish'd grace. DUAN SECOND. With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, I view'd the heavenly-seeming Fair; A whisp'ring throb did witness bear Of kindred sweet, When with an elder Sister's air She did me greet. 'All hail! my own inspired Bard! ' In me thy native Muse regard! 'Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, ' Thus poorly low! 'I come to give thee such reward, ' As we bestow. 'Know, the great Genius of this Land, ' Has many a light, aerial band, 'Who, all beneath his high command, ' Harmoniously, 'As Arts or Arms they understand, ' Their labors ply. 'They SCOTIA'S Race among them share; ' Some fire the Sodger on to dare; 'Some rouse the Patriot up to bare ' Corruption's heart: 'Some teach the Bard, a darling care, ' The tuneful Art. ''Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, ' They ardent, kindling spirits pour; 'Or, mid the venal Senate's roar, ' They, sightless, stand, 'To mend the honest Patriot-lore, 'And grace the hand. 'Hence, FULLARTON, the brave and young; ' Hence, DEMPSTER'S truth-prevailing tongue; 'Hence, sweet harmonious BEATTIE sung ' His "Minstrel lays;" 'Or tore, with noble ardour stung, ' The Sceptic's bays. 'To lower Orders are assign'd, 'The humbler ranks of Human-kind, ' The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, 'The Artisan; ' All chuse, as, various they're inclin'd, 'The various man. 'When yellow waves the heavy grain, ' The threat'ning Storm, some, strongly, rein; 'Some teach to meliorate the plain, ' With tillage-skill; 'And some instruct the Shepherd-train, ' Blythe o'er the hill. 'Some hint the Lover's harmless wile; ' Some grace the Maiden's artless smile; 'Some soothe the Lab'rer's weary toil, ' For humble gains, 'And make his cottage-scenes beguile ' His cares and pains. 'Some, bounded to a district-space, ' Explore at large Man's infant race, 'To mark the embryotic trace, 'Of rustic Bard; ' And careful note each op'ning grace, 'A guide and guard. 'Of these am I — COILA my name; ' And this district as mine I claim, 'Where once the Campbell's, chiefs of fame, ' Held ruling pow'r: 'I mark'd thy embryo-tuneful flame, ' Thy natal hour. 'With future hope, I oft would gaze, ' Fond, on thy little, early ways, 'Thy rudely-caroll'd, chiming phrase, ' In uncouth rhymes, 'Fir'd at the simple, artless lays ' Of other times. 'I saw thee seek the sounding shore, ' Delighted with the dashing roar; 'Or when the North his fleecy store ' Drove thro' the sky, 'I saw grim Nature's visage hoar, ' Struck thy young eye. 'Or when the deep-green-mantl'd Earth, ' Warm-cherish'd ev'ry floweret's birth, 'And joy and music pouring forth, ' In ev'ry grove, 'I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth ' With boundless love. 'When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, ' Call'd forth the Reaper's rustling noise, 'I saw thee leave their ev'ning joys, ' And lonely stalk, 'To vent thy bosom's swelling rise, 'In pensive walk. 'When youthful Love, warm-blushing, strong, ' Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 'Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, ' Th' adored Name, 'I taught thee how to pour in song, 'To soothe thy flame. 'I saw thy pulse's maddening play, ' Wild-send thee Pleasure's devious way, 'Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray, ' By Passion driven; 'But yet the light that led astray, ' Was light from Heaven. 'I taught thy manners-painting strains, ' The loves, the ways of simple swains, 'Till now, o'er all my wide domains, 'Thy fame extends; ' And some, the pride of Coila's plains, 'Become thy friends. 'Thou canst not learn, nor I can show, 'To paint with Thomson's landscape-glow; ' Or wake the bosom-melting throe, 'With Shenstone's art; ' Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow, 'Warm on the heart. 'Yet all beneath th'unrivall'd Rose, ' The lowly Daisy sweetly blows; 'Tho' large the forest's Monarch throws ' His army shade, 'Yet green the juicy Hawthorn grows, ' Adown the glade. 'Then never murmur nor repine ' Strive in thy humble sphere to shine; 'And trust me, not Potosi's mine, ' Nor Kings regard, 'Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 'A rustic Bard 'To give my counsels all in one, 'Thy tuneful flame still careful fan; ' Preserve the dignity of Man, 'With Soul erect; ' And trust, the UNIVERSAL PLAN 'Will all protect. 'And wear thou this' — She solemn said, And bound the Holly round my head: The polish'd leaves, and berries red, Did rustling play; And, like a passing thought, she fled, In light away.