Janet Hamilton Poems

What ails ye, bonnie Mary Lee?
What gars ye greet an' pine?
Your e'e is dim, your cheek is wan-
What ails ye, Mary, mine?
...

Matron fair, ripe, rich and glowing,
Full thy stores, thy vintage flowing;
Golden sunflowers, dahlias blowing,
Deck thy festal board.
...

A voice deep and solemn is sounding abroad;
Oh mothers of Britain! each humble abode
Should echo the burden with which it is fraught-
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'My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, or rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise:
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I'm a lamiter, Girzie, or I wad hae been
At the feast o' the mutches hauden yestreen
In the big City Ha'-the notion was gran':
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'Take physic, Pomp!' Look on that noble brow-
Of what avail thy garish splendours now-
The crown of Empire, worn for three short years,
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To Britannia.

Nay, all this availeth thee nothing-
Thy prestige, thy power, and estate,
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'Avaunt, away! dread shapes of hate and fear
That hover round me,' moan'd the dying Year:
'Dark treason, superstition, and misrule!
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O Jeanie, my woman! whar is't ye are gaun,
Wi' a bairn on yer arm an' ane in yer haun?
There's snaw on the grun, an' nae shoon on yer feet,
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Blow the trumpet, sound the doom,
Let the awful clangours boom
Through high heaven and earth below,
Through the gloomy realms of woe;
...