Robert Anderson Poems

Ah! who is she whose tresses wild,
Bespeak her sorrow's frantic child?
'Tis Kate, whose bosom fraught with woe,
...

'Twas at the hour when night retreating,
Bade the screech--owl seek his nest;
Gloomy vapours slow were fleeting,
Morning glimmer'd in the east:
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O have you seen the blushing rose,
The blooming pink, or lily pale;
Fairer than any flow'r that blows
Was Lucy Gray of Allendale.
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Come into my cabin, Red Robin;
Thrice welcome, blithe warbler to me;
Now Skiddaw has thrown a white cap on,
Again I'll gie shelter to thee:
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Apologies shall sangsters use?
Wae worth the loon wha dare refuse;
I'll chaunt ane aff--hand frae the Muse,
And praise the land we live in:
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The Norlan blast bla's o'er the hill,
And day's last chearin' glimpse is gane;
Alake! what waes my bosom fill,
For hame or shelter I hae nane!
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Where Irthin rows to Eden's streams,
Thro' meedows sweetly stealin,
Owrhung by crags, hawf hid by furs,
There stands a cwozey dwellin;
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Ye pow'rs, thro' life may this be mine,
To taste pure Friendship, Love, and Wine,
In some lone nook where Quiet dwells--
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Poor Tom last week was thought a dunce,
All wonder'd much at his thick sconce,
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Since to serve a poor Cumbrian Bard is your plan,
Let gratitude shew the great duty of man;
Around you may health, love, and cheerfulness reign,
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