Page:Excellent new song, called, Esk mill.pdf/2



T moon o’er the waves of the North throws her glory, And brightens the snow wreaths on proud Pentland high; Whilst cold, under arms, I view, leafless and hoary, The dark wood that answers the sentinel’s cry. But what are my suff’rings, tho’ cold, wet, and weary, And round me the rude blasts of insult blaw shrill, To theirs who’re confin’d in the dungeon so dreary, And wail life away in the gloom of E M!

Oh Esk ! gentle Esk! as thou flow thro’ the valley, No soft rounds of love now pass o’er thy waves. At night the Tattoo and at morn the Rivally, Are mixed with sighs from the iron-grated grave. Indus’ry has fled from thy scenes now distressing, The Bard shuns thy bank, who, when evening was still, Us’d so pensive to wander, the muse fond caressing;