While many a stroke of fondness glides
Along thy back and tabby sides.
Dilated swells thy glossy fur,
And loudly sings thy busy pur;
As, timing well the equal sound,
Thy clutching feet bepat the ground,
And all their harmless claws disclose,
Like prickles of an early rose;
While softly from thy whiskered cheek
Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.
But, not alone by cottage fire
Do rustics rude thy feats admire;
The learned sage, whose thoughts explore
The widest range of human lore,
Or, with unfettered fancy, fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
Pausing, smiles with altered air
To see thee climb his elbow chair,
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe.
The widow'd dame, or lonely maid,
Who in the still, but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turns a lettered page;
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork, or paper ball,
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch
The ends of ravell'd skein to catch,
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her sober skill.
Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent,
In lonely tower or prison pent,
Reviews the coil of former days,
And loaths the world and all its ways;
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam
Doth rouse him from his moody dream,
Feels, as thou gambol'st round his seat,
His heart with pride less fiercely beat,
And smiles, a link in thee to find
That joins him still to living kind.
Whence hast thou then, thou witless
The magic power to charm us thus ?
Is it, that in thy glaring eye,
And rapid movements, we descry,
While we at ease, secure from ill,
The chimrey corner snugly fill,
A lion, darting on the prey,
A tyger, at his ruthless play?
Or, is it, that in thee we trace,
With all thy varied wanton grace,
An emblem view'd with kindred eye,
Of tricksy, restless infancy?
Ah! many a lightly-sportive child,
Who hath, like thee, our wits beguil'd,
To dull and sober manhood grown,
With strange recoil our hearts disown.
Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure,
When thou becom'st a cat demure,
Full many a cuff and angry word,
Chid roughly from the tempting board.
And yet, for that thou hast, I ween,
So oft our favoured playmate been,
Soft be the change which thou shalt prove,
When time hath spoiled thee of our love;
Still be thou deem'd, by housewife fat,
A comely, careful, mousing cat,
Whose dish is, for the public good,
Replenish'd oft with sav'ry food.
Nor, when thy span of life is past,
Be thou to pond or dunghill cast;
But gently borne on good man's spade,
Beneath the decent sod be laid,
And children show, with glist'ning eyes,
The place where poor old Pussy lies.
THE HEATHCOCK.*-JOANNA BAILLIN
Goon morrow to thy sable beak,
And glossy plumage, dark and sleek,
Thy crimson moon, and azure eye,
Cock of the Heath, so wildly shy!
I see thee, slyly cowering through
The wiry web of silver dew,
That twinkles in the morning air,
Like casement of my lady fair.
* Music for this and the succeeding Song by Miss Baillie, will be found in Mr Thomson's Collection of Welch Airs, adapted by Haydn.
A maid there is in yonder tower,
Who, peeping from her early bower,
Half shows, like thee with simple wilé,
Her braided hair, and morning smile.
The rarest things, with wayward will,
Beneath the covert hide them still;
The rarest things to light of day,
Look shortly forth, and shrink away.
A fleeting moment of delight,
I sunn'd me in her cheering sight;
And short, I ween, the time will be,
That I shall parley hold with thee.
Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day,
The climbing herd-boy chaunts his lay,
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring,-
Thou art already on the wing.
O! WELCOME bat, and owlet grey,
Thus winging low your airy way;
And welcome moth, and drowsy fly,
That to mine ear come humming by ;
And welcome shadows long and deep,
And stars that from the blue sky peep;
Oh, welcome all! to me ye say,
My woodland love is on her way.
Upon the soft wind floats her hair,
Her breath is in the dewy air,
Her steps are in the whisper'd sound
That steals along the stilly ground.
Oh, dawn of day, in rosy bower,
What art thou to this witching hour!
Oh, noon of day, in sunshine bright,
What art thou to this fall of night!
WITH what delight, 'mid yonder shades serene,
I hear the thrilling minstrelsy of heaven!
To me how soothing is yon kindred scene!
To me how balmy this cool breath of even!
In former years, 'mid these same shades remote,
At the same hour, and self-same season sweet,
Oft have I thus the peaceful woodlands sought,
To muse, sequestered, in the calm retreat.
Then boundless charms, bright as the youthful year,
In swift succession ever-varying rose;
While Hope's enchanting form was ever near,
To soothe my light and transitory woes.-
O youthful joys, how swiftly do ye pass,
And like the morning cloud ye fade away;
Or like the dew-drops, trembling on the grass,
That fly the glances of advancing day!
I seek not now yon kindred shades serene,
To meet those pleasures that illum'd the past; Fled is the pleasing, gay, delusive scene;
Those dreams, alas! were too, too sweet to last,
I wander mournful through the well-known shade; The weak line drops unfinished from my tongue :→→ But, still, I love the splendours here display'd,
And yet enjoy the woodlark's evening song.
Perchance, when at the high behest of Heaven, My soul is called to unknown realms afar, Death draw may like the deep shades of EVEN, And meet me, thus, beneath her dewy star.
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