Robert Anderson Poems

Stern Winter frae the gelid north,
Wi' monie a storm comes howling forth;
And hills and glens are clad wi' sna':
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O thou, my long--lov'd, and much--honour'd friend,
Why on the winding banks of Tay,
Doth sorrow ay point out thy way,
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Dear friend! (for friends too oft are few)
Thank Heaven! I boast of numbers true;
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Rejoice with me, ye vocal train,
And raise the cheerful rustic strain;
Our Cumbrian Bard, with glee again,
The song renews:
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Some chiels for fame or riches write,
Of Sense and Reason in despite,
And 'gainst your sex wi' rancour rail:
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Now, forc'd to write a lang Epistle,
It puts me in a fearfu' fistle;
And maun be trifling, by my fay,
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Do thou accept, my youthful friend,
This gift of gratitude I send;
A bouquet of poetic flow'rs,
Cull'd from the Muses' fav'rite bowers,
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Dear Jock, I thank ye for your Letter,
And own mysel' your humble debtor:
Yet, tho' I dinna like to flatter,
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Here lies a wretch, to whom, we're told,
No pleasure life did give,
Who, when she could no longer scold,
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A husband, parent fond, a friend sincere,
To Vice a foe, to Virtue ever dear;
One who well knew the world, and lov'd mankind,
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