Classic Poem

BOOK I. ODE XXXII .

TO HIS LYRE .

If e'er with thee, we fool'd away,
Vacant beneath the shade, a day,
Still kind to our desire;
A Scotish song we now implore,
To live this year, and some few more,
Come then my Scotish Lyre.

First strung by Stewart's cunning hand,
Who rul'd fair Scotia's happy land,
A long and wide domain:
Who bold in war, yet whether he,
Reliev'd his wave-beat ship from sea,
Or camp'd upon the plain,

The joys of wine, and Muses young,
Soft Beauty, and her page he sung,
That still to her adheres:
Margaret, author of his sighs,
Adorn'd with comely coal-black eyes,
And comely coal-black hairs.

O Thou, the grace of song and love,
Exalted to the feasts above,
The feast's supreme delight:
Sweet balm to heal our cares below;
Gracious on me thy aid bestow,
If thee I seek aright.