Adieu ye Streams, written for the Flowers of the Forest (an old Scottish air)

Adieu ye Streams that smoothly glide,

Through mazy windings o'er the plain,

I'll in some lonely cave reside,

And ever mourn my faithful swain;

Flower of the forest was my love,

Soft as the sighing summer's gale;

Gentle and constant as the dove

Blooming as roses in the vale.

Alas! by Tweed my love did stray

For me he searched the banks around;

But ah! the sad and fatal day,

My love, the pride of swains, was drown'd.

Now droops the willow o'er the stream,

Pale stalks his ghost on yonder grove,

Dire fancy paints him in my dreams,

Awake, I mourn my hopeless love

In memory of General Stanwix's daughter who was lost in her passage from Ireland

On the dark Bosom of the faithless Main

Where stormy Winds and howling Tempests reign

Far from her Native Fields and Friendly Skies

In early Death's cold arms Fidelia lies.

Ah! spare to tell (for she is now no more)

What Virtue, Beauty, Sweetness, charm'd before

Here let the Pensive Muse in Silence Mourn

Where Friendship to her name has rais'd the sacred Urn.

An eregular ode to —

The tribute of a simple Song

Such as wild Birds the Woods among

Warble on Hawthorn sprays

Let not my gentle friend disclame

Tho’ far from Honors and from Fame

Fortune obscures my Artless Lays

Nor Venel Hopes inspire

Nor Vainety can fire

My Muse to strike the trembling String

But friendship true and Love intire

First taught her both to feel and Sing

First led her fearfull steps to the Castalian Spring.

O’ may she ne'er complain

Of lost repose and broken Vows

May she ne'er sigh to find how Vain

Are hopes of Friendship as of Love

For few the Blessings Life alows

And fewer still can these improve.

But thou Lov'd Sister of my Heart

Tho’ Sea's divide and Mountain's part

Tho’ fate shou'd bear thee to a foreign Land

Still constant be thy sacred truth

Till Life shall reach its latest Sand

Tho’ gay desires, and Chearful Youth

Fly far away

Let Friendship last as long as this frail gesture of decay

Still in this faithfull Breast

Thy Image reigns confest

Still shall it fill this constant heart

Nor e're the dear Idea part

Till all its throbings are at rest.