The works of Allan Ramsay :: :: University of Virginia Library

Men still are Men, and they who boldly dare,
Shall triumph o'er the Sons of cold Despair.—
We bring some new Materials; and what's old,
New cast with Care, and in no borrowed Mold,
Late Times the Verse may read, if these refuse,
And from sowr Criticks vindicate the Muse.
Dr. Young.

Dedication To the PATRONS who subscribed for the First and this Volume.

TO THE CRITICK

Stand, Critick, and before ye read,
Say, are ye free of Party-fead,
Or of a Saul sae scrimp and rude,
To envy every thing that's Good?
And if I shou'd (perhaps by Chance)
Something that's new and smart advance,
Resolve ye not with scornful Snuff,
To say 'tis a' confounded Stuff;
If that's the Case, Sir, spare your Spite,
For, faith, 'tis not for you I write:
Gae gie your Censure higher Scope,
And Congreve criticise or Pope,
Young's Satires, or Swift's merry Smile,
These, these are Writers worth your While.
On me your Talents wad be lost,
And tho' you gain a simple Boast;
I want a Reader wha deals fair,
And not ae real Fault will spare;
Yet with good Humour will allow
Me Praise, when e'er 'tis justly due:
Blest be sic Readers,—but the rest
That are with Spleen and Spite opprest;
May Bards arise to gar them dwine,
To Death with Lays the maist divine,
For sma's the Skaith they'll get by mine.

How many, and of various Natures,
Are on this Globe the Crowd of Creatures;
In Mexiconian Forests fly,
Thousands that never wing'd our Sky:
'Mangst them there's ane of Feathers fair,
That in the Musick bears nae Skair,
Only an imitating Ranter,
For whilk he bears the Name of Taunter;
Soon as the Sun springs frae the East,
Upon the Branch he cocks his Crest,
Attentive, when frae Bough and Spray
The tunefu' Throats salute the Day:
The Brainless Beau attacks them a',
No ane escapes him great or sma';
Frae some he takes the Tone and Manner,
Frae this a Bass, frae that a Tenor,
Turns Love's saft Plaint to a dull Bustle,
And sprightly airs to a vile Whistle;
Still labouring thus to counterfeit,
He shaws the Poorness of his Wit.
Anes, when with Echoe loud the Taunter
Tret with Contempt ilk native Chanter,
Ane of them says, We own 'tis true,
Few Praises to our Sangs are due,
But pray, Sir, let's have ane frae you.

The Ram and Buck

A Ram, the Father of a Flock,
Wha'd mony Winters stood the Shock
Of Northern Winds and driving Snaw,
Leading his Family in a Raw,
Throw Wreaths that clad the laigher Field,
And drave them frae the lowner Bield,
To crop contented frozen Fare,
With Honesty on Hills blown bare.
This Ram of upright hardy Spirit,
Was really a horn'd Head of Merit.
Unlike him was a neighbouring Goat,
A mean Saul'd, cheating, thieving Sot;
That tho' possest of Rocks the Prime,
Crown'd with fresh Herbs and rowth of Thime,
Yet Slave to pilfering; his Delight
Was to break Gardens ilka Night,
And round him steal, and aft destroy
Even Things he never could enjoy:
The Pleasure of a dirty Mind
That is sae viciously inclin'd.

Upon a Borrowing-day, when Sleet
Made Twinters, and Hog-wedders bleet,
And quake with Cauld: Behind a Ruck
Met honest Toop and snaking Buck,
Frae Chin to Tail clad with thick Hair,
He bad Defiance to thin Air;
But trusty Toop his Fleece had riven,
When he amang the Birns was driven:
Half naked the brave Leader stood,
His Look compos'd, unmov'd his Mood.

When thus the Goat (that had tint a'
His Credit baith with great and sma',
Shunn'd by them as a Pest, wad fain
New Friendship with this Worthy gain.)
Ram, say, shall I give you a Part
Of mine, I'll do't with all my Heart,
'Tis yet a lang cauld Month to Beltan,
And ye've a very raggit Kelt on;
Accept, I pray, what I can spare,
To clout your Doublet with my Hair.

No, says the Ram, tho' my Coat's torn,
Yet ken, thou Worthless, that I scorn,
To be oblig'd at any Price
To sic as you, whose Friendship's Vice;
I'd have less Favour frae the best,
Clad in a hatefu' hairy Vest
Bestow'd by thee, than as I now
Stand but ill drest in native Woo.
Boons frae the Generous make ane smile,
Frae Miscreants make Receivers vile.

EPIGRAM On Receiving a Present of an Orange from Mrs. G. L. now Countess of Aboyne.

Now, Priam's Son, thou may'st be mute,
For I can blythly boast with thee;
Thou to the Fairest gave the Fruit,
The Fairest gave the Fruit to me.

HEALTH:

A POEM. Inscrib'd to The Right Honourable the Earl of Stair.

Be't mine the Honour, once again to hear,
And see the best of Men for me appear,
I'll proudly chant: Be dumb, ye vulgar Throng,
Stair bids me sing, to him these Lays belong;
If he approves, who can condemn my Song?

Of Health I sing; O Health my Portion be,
And to old Age I'll sing if bless'd by thee.
Blessing Divine! Heaven's fairest Gift to Man!
Soul of His Joys! and Lengthner of his Span!
His Span of Life preserv'd with panting Breath,
Without thy Presence proves a ling'ring Death.

The Victor Kings may cause wide Nations bow,
And Half a Globe with conqu'ring Force subdue;
Bind Princes to their Axletrees, and make
The wond'ring Mob of staring Mortals quake:
Erect triumphal Arches, and obtain
The loud Huzza from Thousands in their Train:
But if her Sweetness balmy Health denies,
Without Delight Pillars or Eneids rise.

Cosmellius may on Silky Twilts repose,
And have a num'rous Change of finest Cloaths;
Box'd in his Chair, he may be born to dine
On Ortelons, and sip Tokay Wine.
His Liver, if an Inflammation seize,
Or wasting Lungs shall make him cough and wheeze;
No more he smiles, nor can his richest Toys,
Or Looking-glass, restore his wonted Joys:
The rich Brocade becomes a toilsome Weight,
The brilliant Gem offends his weakly Sight;
Perfumes grow nauseous then, nor can he bear
Loud tuneful Notes, that us'd to charm his Ear.
To please his Taste the Cook attempts in vain,
When now each former Pleasure gives him Pain.

Nor flowing Bowls, loud Laugh or Midnight Freik,
Nor smutty Tale, delight the roving Rake;
When Health forsakes him, all Diversions tire;
There's nothing pleases, nothing can inspire
A blythsome Smile; he shuns the Shine of Light,
And broken Slumbers make a weary Night.
If silent Sleep attempts to bring him Ease,
His watching Fancy feels the whole Disease:
He dreams a Mountain lies upon his Breast,
Or that he flies the Fury of some Beast;
Sees, at vast Distance, gushing from the Rocks,
The cooling Stream,—while burning Thirst provokes
Him, fainting, to climb up the craggy Edge,
And drag his Limbs through many a thorny Hedge;
Hangs o'er a Precipice, or sinks in Waves:
And all the while he sweats, turns, starts and raves.

How mad's that Man, push'd by his Passions wild,
Who's of his greatest Happiness beguil'd;
Who seems, whate'er he says, by Actions low,
To court Disease, our Pleasure's greatest Foe?

From Paris, deeply skill'd in nice Ragoos,
In Oleos, Salmongundies and Hogoes,
Montanus sends for Cooks, that his large Board
May all invented Luxury afford:
Health's never minded, while the Appetite
Devours the spicy Death with much Delight.
Mean time King Arthur's sav'ry knightd Loyn
Appears a Clown, and's not allow'd to join
The marinated Smelt, and Sturgeon Joles,
Soup Vermecell, souc'd Turbet, Cray and Soals,
Fowls a la daube, and Omelet of Eggs,
The smother'd Coney, and bak'd Padocks Legs,
Pullets a Bisk, and Orangedo Pye,
The larded Peacock, and the Tarts de Moy,
The Collard Veal, and Pike in Cassorole,
Pigs a la Braise, the Tansy and Brusole;
With many a hundred costly mingled Dish,
Wherein the Moiety of Flesh or Fish
Is wholly lost, and vitiate as the Taste
Of them who eat the dangerous Repast;
Until the feeble Stomach's over-cram'd,
The Fibres weaken'd, and the Blood enflam'd.
What aking Heads, what Spleen, and drowzy Eyes,
From undigested Crudities arise?
But when Montano's Paunch is over cloy'd,
The Bagnio, or Emetic Wine's employ'd.
These he imagines Methods the most sure,
After a Surfeit, to complete a Cure:
But never dreams how much the Balm of Life
Is wasted by this forc'd unnat'ral Strife.
Thus Peuther Vessel must by scouring wear,
While Plate more free from Dross continues clear.
Long unconsum'd the Oak can bear the Beams,
Or lie for Ages firm beneath the Streams:
But when alternately the Rain and Rays,
Now dash, then dry the Plank, it soon decays.
Luxurious Man! altho' thou'rt blest with Wealth,
Why shouldst thou use it to destroy thy Health?

Copy Mellantius, if you'd learn the Art,
To feast your Friends, and keep the Souls alart,
One good substantial British Dish or two,
Which sweetly in their natural Juices flow,
Only appear. And here no Danger's found,
To tempt the Appetite beyond its Bound:
And you may eat, or not, as you incline;
And, as you please, drink Water, Beer or Wine.
Here Hunger's safe, and gratefully appeas'd,
The Spleen's forbid, and all the Spirits rais'd,
And Guests arise regal'd, refresh'd and pleas'd.

Grumaldo views, from rais'd Parters around,
A thousand Acres of fat furrow'd Ground,
And all his own;—but these no Pleasure yield,
While Spleen hangs as a Fog o'er every Field:
The lovely Landskip clad with gilded Corn,
The Banks and Meads which Flowers and Groves adorn,
No Relish have; his envious sullen Mind,
Still on the Fret, complains his Fate's unkind:
Something he wants which always flies his Reach,
Which makes him groan beneath his spreading Beach.
When all of Nature, silent, seem to shun
Their Cares, and nod till the returning Sun;
His envious Thoughts forbid refreshing Sleep,
And on the Rack his hopeless Wishes keep:
Fatigu'd and drumbly from the Down he flies,
With skinny Cheek, pale Lips and blood-run Eyes.
Thus toil'd with lab'ring Thoughts he looks agast,
And tasteless loaths the nourishing Repast.
Meager Disease an easy Passage finds,
Where Joy's debarr'd, in such corroded Minds.
Such take no care the Springs of Life to save,
Neglect their Health, and quickly fill a Grave.

Unlike gay Myrtle, who with chearful Air,
Less envious, tho' less rich, no Slave to Care,
Thinks what he has enough, and scorns to fret,
While he sees Thousands less oblig'd to Fate,
And oftner from his Station casts his Eye
On those below him, than on them more high:
Thus Envy finds no Access to his Breast,
To sowr his gen'rous Joys, or break his Rest.
He studies to do Actions just and kind,
Which with the best Reflections chear the Mind:
Which is the first Preservative of Health,
To be preferr'd to Grandeur, Pride and Wealth.
Let all who would pretend to common Sense,
'Gainst Pride and Envy still be on Defence.
Who love their Health, nor would their Joys controul,
Let them ne'er nurse such Furies in their Soul.

Nor wait on strolling Phimos to the Stews,
Phimos who by his livid Colour shews
Him load with vile Diseases, which are fixt
Upon his Bones, and with his Vitals mixt.
Does that Man wear the Image of his God,
Who drives to Death on such an ugly Road?
Behold him clad, like any bright Bridegroom,
In richest Labours of the British Loom;
Embroider'd o'er with Gold, whilst Lace or Lawn
Waves down his Breast, and Rufles o'er his Hand,
Set off with Art, which vilely he employs
In Sinks of Death, for low dear purchas'd Joys:
He grasps the blasted Shadow of the Fair,
Whose sickly Look, vile Breath, and falling Hair,
The flag'd Embrace, and mercenary Squeeze,
The twangs of Guilt, and terrors of Disease,
Might warn him to beware, if wild Desire
Had not set all his thoughtless Soul in Fire.
O poor mistaken Youth! to drain thy Purse,
To gain the most malignant humane Curse!

Think on thy Flannel, and Mercurial Dose,
And future Pains, to save thy Nerve and Nose.
Think, heedless Wight, how thy infected Veins
May plague thee many a Day with loathsome Pains,
When the French Foe his woeful Way has made,
And all within has dire Detachments laid;
There long may lurk, and, with Destruction keen,
Do horrid Havock e'er the Symptom's seen.
But learn to dread the poisonous Disease,
When Heaviness and Spleen thy Spirits seise;
When feeble Limbs to serve thee will decline,
And languid Eyes no more with Sparkles shine;
The Roses from thy Cheek will blasted fade,
And leave a dull Complexion like the Lead:
Then, then expect the terrible Attack
Upon thy Head, thy Conduit, Nose and Back;
Pains through thy Shoulders, Arms, and Throat and Shins,
Will threaten Death, and damp thee with thy Sins.
How frightful is the Loss, and the Disgrace,
When it destroys the Beauties of the Face!
When the arch'd Nose in rotten Ruin lyes,
And all the Venom flames around the Eyes;
When th'Uvula has got it's mortal Wound,
And Tongue and Lips form Words without a Sound;
When Hair drops off, and Bones corrupt and bare,
Through ulcerated Tags of Muscles stare.

But vain we sing Instruction to his Ear,
Who's no more Slave to Reason than to Fear;
Hurried by Passion, and o'ercome with Wine,
He rushes headlong on his vile Design:
The nauseous Bolus, and the bitter Pill,
A Month of spitting, and the Surgeon's Bill,
Are now forgot, whilst he:—But here 'tis best
To let the Curtain drop, and hide the rest
Of the coarse Scene, too shocking for the Sight
Of modest Eyes and Ears, that take Delight

To hear with Pleasure Urban's Praises sung,
Urban the kind, the prudent, gay and young,
Who moves a Man, and wears a rosie Smile,
That can the fairest of a Heart beguile:
A virtuous Love delights him with it's Grace,
Which soon he'll find in Myra's lov'd Embrace,
Enjoying Health, with all it's lovely Train
Of Joys, free from Remorse, or Shame or Pain.

But Talpo sighs with matrimonial Cares,
His Cheeks wear Wrinkles, Silver grow his Hairs;
Before old Age, his Health decays apace,
And very rarely Smiles clear up his Face.
Talpo's a Fool, there's hardly Help for that,
He scarcely knows himself what he'd be at:
He's avaritious to the last Degree,
And thinks his Wife and Children makes too free
With his dear Idol; this creates his Pain,
And breeds Convulsions in his narrow Brain.
He always startled at approaching Fate,
And often jealous of his vertuous Mate;
Is ever anxious, shuns his Friends, to save:
Thus soon he'll fret himself into a Grave;
There let him rot,—worthless the Muse's Lays,
Who never read one Poem in his Days.

I sing to Marlus, Marlus who regards
The well mean'd Verse, and generously rewards
The Poet's Care; observe now, if you can,
Ought in his Carriage, does not speak the Man:
To him his many a Winter wedded Wife
Appears the greatest Solace of his Life.
He views his Offspring with indulgent Love,
Who his superior Conduct all approve.
Smooth glide his Hours, at Fifty he's less old,
Than some who have not half the Number told.
The chearing Glass he with right Friends can share,
But shuns the deep Debauch with cautious Care.

His Sleeps are sound, he sees the Morning rise,
And lifts his Face with Pleasure to the Skies;
And quaffs the Health that's born on Zephyr's Wings,
Or gushes from the Rock in Limpid Springs.
From fragrant Plains he gains the chearing Smell,
While ruddy Beams all distant Dumps repell.
The whole of Nature, to a Mind thus turn'd,
Enjoying Health, with Sweetness seems adorn'd.
To him the whistling Ploughman's artless Tune,
The bleeting Flocks, the Oxens hollow Crune,
The warbling Notes of the small chirping Throng,
Delight him more than the Italian Song.
To him the cheapest Dish of rural Fare,
And Water cool in place of Wine more rare,
Shall prove a Feast. On Straw he'll find more Ease
Than on the Down, even with the least Disease.

Whoever's tempted to transgress the Line,
By Moderation fix'd to enlivening Wine;
View Macro wasted long before his Time,
Whose Head, bow'd down, proclaims his liquid Crime.
The Purple Dye, with Ruby Pimples mixt,
As Witnesses upon his Face are fixt.
A constant Fever wastes his Strength away,
And Limbs enervate gradually decay.
The Gout and Palsy follow in the Rear,
And make his Being burthensome to bear.
His squeamish Stomach loaths the savory Sey,
And nought but Liquids now can find their Way
To animate his Strength, which daily flies,
Till the young Drunkard's past all Hope, and dies.

To practise what we preach, O Goddess-born!
Assist thy Slave, lest Bacchanalians scorn
Thy Inspiration, if the tempting Grape
Shall form the hollow Eye, and Idiot Gape.

But let no wretched Misers, who repine,
And wish there were not such a Juice as Wine,
Imagine here that we are so profane
To think that Heaven gave plenteous Vines in vain.
No; since there's Plenty, Cups may sparkling flow,
And we may drink till our rais'd Spirits glow.
They will befriend our Health, while chearful Rounds
Incline to Mirth, and keep their proper Bounds.
Fools should not drink, I own, who still wish more,
And know not when 'tis proper to give o'er.
Dear Britons, let no Morning Drinks deceive
Your Appetites, which else at Noon would crave
Such proper Aliments, as can support
At Even your hearty Bottle, Health and Sport.

Next view we Sloth (too oft the Child of Wealth)
A seeming Friend, but real Foe to Health.
Lethargus loll's his lazy Hours away,
His Eyes are drowsy, and his Lips are blae;
His soft enfeebl'd Hands supinely hing,
And shaking Knees unus'd, together cling:
Close by the Fire his Easy-Chair stands,
In which all Day he snotters, nods and yawns.
Sometimes he'll drone at Piquet, hoping Gain,
But you must deal his Cards, that's too much Pain.
He speaks but seldom, puffs at every Pause,
Words being a Labour to his Tongue and Jaws.
Nor must his Friends discourse above their Breath,
For the least Noise stounds through his Ears like Death.
He causes stop each Cranny in his Room,
And heaps on Cloaths, to save him from the Rheum:
Free Air he dreads as his most dangerous Foe,
And trembles at the Sight of Ice or Snow.
The Warming-Pan each Night glows o'er his Sheets,
Then he beneath a Load of Blankets sweats;
The which (instead of shutting) opes the Door,
And lets in Cold at each dilated Pore.

Thus does the Sluggard Health and Vigour waste,
With heavy Indolence; till at the last,
Sciatick, Jaundice, Dropsie, or the Stone,
Alternate makes the lazy Lubard grone.

But active Hilaris much rather loves,
With eager Stride to trace the Wilds and Groves;
To start the Covy, or the bounding Roe,
Or work destructive Reynard's Overthrow:
The Race delights him, Horses are his Care,
And a stout ambling Pad his easiest Chair.
Sometimes to firm his Nerves he'll plunge the Deep,
And with expanded Arms the Billows sweep:
Then on the Links, or in the Estler Walls,
He drives the Gowff, or strikes the Tennis Balls.
From Ice with Pleasure he can brush the Snow,
And run rejoycing with his Curling Throw;
Or send the whizzing Arrow from the String,
A manly Game, which by it self I sing.
Thus chearfully he'll walk, ride, dance or game,
Nor mind the Northern Blast, or Southern Flame.
East Winds may blow, and sullen Fogs may fall,
But his hale Constitution's Proof to all.
He knows no Change of Weather by a Corn,
Nor minds the black, the blew or ruddy Morn.

Here let no Youth extravagantly given,
Who values neither Gold, nor Health, nor Heaven,
Think that our Song encourages the Crime
Of setting deep, or wasting too much Time
On furious Game; which makes the Passions boil,
And the fair Mean of Health a weakning Toil,
By Violence excessive, or the Pain
Which ruin'd Losers ever must sustain.

Our Hilaris despises Wealth so won;
Nor does he love to be himself undone,
But from his Sport, can with a Smile retire,
And warm his Genius at Apollo's Fire;
Find useful Learning in the inspired Strains,
And bless the generous Poet for his Pains.
Thus he by Lit'rature and Exercise,
Improves his Soul, and wards off each Disease.

Health's op'ner Foes, we've taken Care to show,
Which make Diseases in full Torrents flow:
But when these Ills intrude, do what we will,
Then hope for Health from Clark's approven Skill;
To such well seen in Nature's darker Laws,
That for Disorders can assign a Cause:
Who know the Virtues of salubrious Plants,
And what each different Constitution wants,
Apply for Health.—But shun the vagrant Quack,
Who gulls the Crowd with Andrew's comick Clack;
Or him that charges Gazettes with his Bills,
His Anadoyns, Elixirs, Tinctures, Pills,
Who rarely ever cures, but often kills.
Nor trust thy Life to the old Woman's Charms,
Who binds with knotted Tape thy Legs or Arms,
Which they pretend will purple Fevers cool;
And thus impose on some believing Fool.
When Agues shake, or Fevers raise a Flame,
Let your Physician be a Man of Fame;
Of well known Learning, and in good Respect,
For Prudence, Honour, and a Mind erect:
Nor scrimply save from what's to Merit duè;
He saves your whole Estate who succours you.

Be grateful, Britons, for your temp'rate Beams,
Your fertile Plains, green Hills, and silver Streams,
O'erclad with Corns, with Groves, and many a Mead;
Where rise green Heights, where Herds in Millions feed:
Here useful Plenty mitigates our Care,
And Health with freshest Sweets embalms the Air.

Upon those Shores, where Months of circling Rays
Glance feebly on the Snow, and frozen Bays;
Where, wrapt in Fur, the starving Lapland Brood
Scarce keep the Cold from curdling of their Blood:
Here meager Want, in all its pinching Forms,
Combines with lengthned Night and bleakest Storms,
To combate joyful Health and calm Repose,
Which from an equal Warmth and Plenty flows.

Yet rather, O great Ruler of the Day,
Bear me to Weygate, or to Hudson's Bay,
Than scorch me on these dry and blasted Plains,
Where Rays direct inflame the boiling Veins
Of gloomy Negroes, who're oblig'd to breathe
A thickned Air, with pestilential Death,
Where range out o'er th'unhospitable Wastes,
The Hunger edg'd, and fierce devouring Beasts;
Where Serpents crawl, which sure Destruction bring,
Or in the envenom'd Tooth or forked Sting;
Where fleeting Sands ne'er yield to industrious Toil
The golden Sheave, or Plants for Wine and Oil:
Health must be here a Stranger, where the Rage
Of fev'rish Beams forbid a lengthen'd Age.

Ye Dutch, enjoy your Dams, your Bulwarks boast,
And war with Neptune for a sandy Coast,
Whilst frighted by these deep tumultuous Powers,
You scarce dare sleep in your subaqueous Bowers:
Raise high your Beds, and shun your croaking Frogs,
And battle with Tobacco Smoak your Fogs;
Soak on your Stoves, with Spirits charge your Veins,
To ward off Agues and Rheumatick Pains.

Let the proud Spaniard strut on naked Hills,
And vainly trace the Plain for Christal Rills,
Starve on a Sallet, or a Garlick Head,
Pray for his daily Roots, not daily Bread;
Be sowr, and jealous of his Friend and Wife,
Till Want and Spleen cut short his Threed of Life.

Whilst we on our auspicious Island find
What e'er can please the Sense, or chear the Mind.
Blest Queen of Isles! with a devout Regard,
Allow me to kneel down and kiss thy Sward,
Thy Flow'ry Sward, and offer Heaven a Vow,
Which Gratitude and Love to thee makes due:
If e'er I from thy Healthful Limits stray,
Or by a Wish, or Word, a Thought betray,
Against thy Int'rest, or thy fair Renown;
May never Daphne furnish me a Crown,
Nor may the first-rate Judges of our Isle,
Or read or on my blythsome Numbers smile.

Thalia here, sweet as the Light, retir'd,
Commanding me to sing what she'd inspir'd,
And never mind the glooming Criticks Bray;
The Song was her's,—she spoke,—and I obey.

A Poem on seeing the Archers playing at the Rovers.

Robert, Richy, and Sandy;

A PASTORAL On the Death of MATTHEW PRIOR Esq;

Inscrib'd to the Right Honourable Person design'd by the Old Shepherd.

Robert the good, by a' the Swains rever'd,
Wise are his Words, like Siller is his Beard:
Near saxty shining Simmers he has seen,
Tenting his Hirsle on the Moor-land Green:
Unshaken yet with mony a Winter's Wind,
Stout are his Limbs, and youthfu' is his Mind.
But now he droops, ane wad be wae to see
Him sae cast down; ye wadna trow 'tis he.
By break of Day he seeks the dowy Glen,
That he may Scowth to a' his Mourning len:
Nane but the clinty Craigs and scrogy Briers
Were Witnesses of a' his Granes and Tears;
Howder'd wi' Hills a Crystal Burnie ran,
Where twa young Shepherds fand the good auld Man:
Kind Richy Spec, a Friend to a' distrest,
And Sandy wha of Shepherds sings the best;
With friendly Looks they speer'd wherefore he mourn'd,
He rais'd his Head, and sighing thus return'd.

ROBERT.

O Matt! poor Matt!—My Lads, e'en take a Skair
Of a' my Grief;—Sweet singing Matt's nae mair.
Ah Heavens! did e'er this lyart Head of mine
Think to have seen the cauldrife Mools on thine!

RICHY.
My Heart misga'e me, when I came this Way,
His Dog its lane sat yowling on a Brae;
I cry'd, Isk-isk,—poor Ringwood,—sairy Man;
He wag'd his Tail, cour'd near, and lick'd my Hand:
I clap'd his Head, which eas'd a wee his Pain;
But soon's I gade away, he youl'd again.
Poor kindly Beast. Ah Sirs! how sic should be
Mair tender-hearted mony a time than we!

SANDY.
Last Ouk I dream'd my Tupe that bears the Bell,
And paths the Snaw, out o'er a high Craig fell,
And brak his Leg.—I started frae my Bed,
Awak'd, and leugh.—Ah! now my Dream it's red.
How dreigh's our Cares, our Joys how soon away,
Like Sun-blinks on a cloudy Winter's Day!
Flow fast, ye Tears, ye have free Leave for me;
Dear sweet-tongu'd Matt, Thousands shall greet for thee.

ROBERT.
Thanks to my Friends, for ilka briny Tear
Ye shed for him; he to us a' was dear:
Sandy, I'm eas'd to see thee look sae wan;
Ricky, thy Sighs bespeak the kindly Man.

RICHY.
But twice the Simmer's Sun has thaw'd the Snaw,
Since frae our Heights Eddie was tane awa':
Fast Matt has follow'd.—Of sic twa bereft,
To smooth our Sauls, alake! wha have we left!
Waes me! o'er short a Tack of six is given,
But wha may contradict the Will of Heaven?
Yet mony a Year he liv'd to hear the Dale
Sing o'er his Sangs, and tell his merry Tale.
Last Year I had a stately tall Ash-tree,
Braid were its Branches, a sweet Shade to me;
I thought it might have flowrish'd on the Brae,
(Tho' past its Prime) yet twenty Years or sae:
But ae rough Night the blat'ring Winds blew snell,
Torn frae its Roots, adown it souchan fell;
Twin'd of its Nourishment, it lifeless lay,
Mixing its wither'd Leaves amang the Clay.
Sae flowrish'd Matt: But where's the Tongue can tell
How fair he grew? how much lamented fell?

SANDY.
How snackly cou'd he gi'e a Fool Reproof,
E'en wi' a canty Tale he'd tell aff loof?
How did he Warning to the Dosen'd sing,
By auld Purganty, and the Dutchman's Ring?
And Lucky's Siller Ladle shaws how aft
Our greatest Wishes are but vain and daft.
The wad-be Wits, he bade them a' but pap
Their crazy Heads into Tam Tinman's Shap;
There they wad see a Squirrel wi' his Bells
Ay wrestling up, yet rising like themsells.
Thousands of Things he wittily cou'd say,
With Fancy strang, and Saul as clear as Day;
Smart were his Tales: But where's the Tongue can tell
How blyth he was? how much lamented fell?

RICHY.
And as he blythsome was, sae was he wise,
Our Laird himsell wa'd aft take his Advice.
E'en Cheek for Chew he'd seat him 'mang them a',
And tak his Mind 'bout kittle Points of Law.
When Clan Red-yards, ye ken, wi' wicked Feud,
Had skaild of ours, but mair of his ain Blood;
When I, and mony mae that were right crouse,
Wad fain about his Lugs have burnt his House:
Yet Lady ANNE, a Woman meek and kind,
A Fae to Wiers, and of a peacefu' Mind;
Since mony in the Fray had got their dead,
To make the Peace, our Friend was sent wi' Speed.
The very Faes had for him just Regard,
Tho' sair he jyb'd their foremost singing Bard.
Careful was Matt: But where's the Tongue can tell
How wise he was? how much lamented fell?

SANDY.
Wha cou'd, like him, in a short Sang define
The bonny Lass, and her young Lover's Pine.
I'll ne'er forget that ane he made on May,
Wha brang the poor blate Symie to his Clay;
To gratifie the paughty Wench's Pride,
The silly Shepherd bow'd, obey'd and dy'd.
Sic constant Lasses as the Nit Brown Maid,
Shall never want just Praises duly paid;
Sic claim'd his Sang, and still it was his Care
With pleasing Words to guide and ruse the Fair.
How sweet his Voice, when Beauty was in View,
Smooth ran his Lines, ay grac'd wi' something new;
Nae Word stood wrang: But where's the Tongue can tell
How saft he sung? how much lamented fell?

RICHY.
And when he had a mind to be mair grave,
A Minister nae better cou'd behave;
Far out of Sight of sic he aften flew,
When he of haly Wonders took a View.
Well cou'd he praise the Power that made us a',
And bids us in Return but tent his Law;
Wha guides us when we're waking or asleep,
With thousand times mair Care than we our Sheep.
While he of Pleasure, Power and Wisdom sang,
My Heart lap high, my Lugs wi' Pleasure rang:
These to repeat, braid-spoken I wad spill,
Altho' I should employ my utmost Skill.
He towr'd aboon: But ah! what Tongue can tell
How high he flew? how much lamented fell?

ROBERT.

My Bennison, dear Lads, light on ye baith,
Wha ha'e sae true a Feeling of our Skaith:
O Sandy, draw his Likeness in smooth Verse,
As well ye can;—then Shepherds shall rehearse
His Merit, while the Sun mets out the Day,
While Ews shall bleet, and little Lambkins mae.

I've been a Fauter, now three Days are past,
While I for Grief have hardly broke my fast:
Come to my Shiel, there let's forget our Care,
I dinna want a Rowth of Country-fare,
Sic as it is, ye're welcome to a Skair.
Besides, my Lads, I have a Browst of Tip,
As good as ever wuish a Shepherd's Lip;
We'll tak a Scour o't to put aff our Pain,
For a' our Tears and Sighs are but in vain:
Come, help me up;—yon sooty Cloud shores Rain.

Secretary Addison, whose Obsequies are sung in a Scots Pastoral Vol. I. p. 106.

Lewis XIV. King of France.

Boileau, whose Ode on the taking Namure by the French 1692 he burlesqu'd, on its being retaken by the British 1695.

Robert late Earl of Oxford.

To Mr. Pope.

Three times I've read your Iliad o'er:
The first time pleas'd me well;
New Beauties unobserv'd before,
Next pleas'd me better still.

Again I try'd to find a Flaw,
Examin'd ilka Line;
The third time pleas'd me best of a',
The Labour seem'd divine.

Henceforward I'll not tempt my Fate,
On dazling Rays to stare,
Lest I should tine dear Self-conceit,
And read and write nae mair.

EPISTLE To the Honourable DUNCAN FORBES, Lord Advocate.

Shut in a Closet six Foot square,
No fash'd with meikle Wealth or Care,
I pass the live lang Day;
Yet some ambitious Thoughts I have,
Which will attend me to my Grave,
Sic busked Baits they lay.

These keep my Fancy on the Wing,
Something that's blyth and snack to sing,
And smooth the runkled Brow:
Thus Care I happily beguile,
Hoping a Plaudit and a Smile,
Frae best of Men, like You.

You, wha in kittle Casts of State,
When Property demands Debate,
Can right what is dung wrang;
Yet blythly can, when ye think fit,
Enjoy your Friend, and judge the Wit
And Slidness of a Sang.

How mony, your Reverse, unblest,
Whase Minds gae wandring through a Mist,
Proud as the Thief in Hell,
Pretend, forsooth, they're gentle Fowk,
'Cause Chance gi'es them of Gear the Yowk,
And better Cheils the Shell?

I've seen a We'an aft vex it sell,
And greet, because it was not tall:
Heez'd on a Board, O than!
Rejoicing in the artfu' Height,
How smirky look'd the little Wight!
And thought it sell a Man.

Sic Bairns are some blawn up a wee
With Splendor, Wealth and Quality,
Upon these Stilts grown vain;
They o'er the Pows of poor Fowk stride,
And neither are to had nor bide,
Thinking this Height their ain.

Now shou'd ane speer at sic a Puff,
What gars thee look sae big and bluff?
Is't an attending Menzie?
Or fifty Dishes on your Table?
Or fifty Horses in your Stable?
Or Heaps of glancing Cunzie?

Are these the things thou ca's thy sell?
Come, vain gigantick Shadow, tell,
If thou sayest, Yes—I'll shaw
Thy Picture.—Mean's thy silly Mind,
Thy Wit's a croil, thy Judgment blind,
And Love worth nought ava.

Accept our Praise, ye nobly born,
Whom Heaven takes Pleasure to adorn
With ilka manly Gift;
In Courts or Camps to serve your Nation,
Warm'd with that generous Emulation
Which your Forbears did lift.

In Duty, with Delight, to You
Th'inferior World justly bow,
While You're the maist deny'd;
Yet shall Your Worth be ever priz'd,
When struting Nathings are despis'd
With a' their stinkan Pride.

This to set aff as I am able,
I'll frae a Frenchman thigg a Fable,
And busk it in a Plaid:
And tho' it be a Bairn of Motte's,
When I have taught it to speak Scots,
I am its second Dad.

“Twa Books, near Neighbours in a Shop,
“The tane a guilded Turky Fop,
“The tither's Face was weather-beaten,
“And Caf-skin Jacket sair worm-eaten.
“The Corky, proud of his braw Suit,
“Curl'd up his Nose, and thus cry'd out,
“Ah! place me on some fresher Binks,
“Figh! how this mouldy Creature stinks!
“How can a gentle Book like me
“Endure sic scoundrel Company?
“What may Fowk say to see me cling
“Sae close to this auld ugly thing;
“But that I'm of a simple Spirit,
“And disregard my proper Merit?

“Quoth Gray-baird, Whisht, Sir, with your Din,
“For a' your meritorious Skin,
“I doubt if you be worth within.
“For as auld fashion'd as I look,
“May be I am the better Book.

“O Heavens! I canna thole the Clash
“Of this impertinent auld Hash;
“I winna stay ae Moment langer.
“My Lord, please to command your Anger;
“Pray only let me tell you that—
“What wad this insolent be at!
“Rot out your Tongue—Pray', Master Symmer,
“Remove me frae this dinsome Rhimer:
“If you regard your Reputation,
“And us of a distinguish'd Station,
“Hence frae this Beast let me be hurried,
“For with his Stour and Stink I'm worried.

“Scarce had he shook his paughty Crap,
“When in a Customer did pap;
“He up douse Stanza lifts, and ey's him,
“Turns o'er his Leaves, admires, and buys him:
“This Book, said he, is good and scarce,
“The Saul of Sense in sweetest Verse.
“But reading Title of gilt cleathing,
“Cries, Gods! wha buys this bonny naithing?
“Nought duller e'er was put in Print:
“Wow! what a deal of Turky's tint!”

Now, Sir, t'apply what we've invented,
You are the Buyer represented:
And, may your Servant hope
My Lays shall merit your Regard,
I'll thank the Gods for my Reward,
And smile at ilka Fop.

Mons. la Motte, who has written lately a curious Collection of Fables, from which the following is imitated.

The Clock and Dial.

Ae Day a Clock wad brag a Dial,
And put his Qualities to trial;
Spake to him thus,—My Neibour, pray,
Can'st tell me what's the time of Day?
The Dial said, “I dinna ken.”—
Alake! what stand ye there for then?—
“I wait here till the Sun shines bright,
“For nought I ken but by his Light.”
Wait on, quoth Clock, I scorn his Help,
Baith Night and Day my lane I skelp;
Wind up my Weights but anes a-week,
Without him I can gang and speak:
Nor like an useless Sumph I stand,
But constantly wheel round my Hand:
Hark, hark, I strike just now the Hour;
And I am right, Ane,—Twa,—Three,—Four.

While thus the Clock was boasting loud,
The bleezing Sun brak throw a Cloud;
The Dial, faithfu' to his Guide,
Spake Truth, and laid the Thumper's Pride:
“Ye see, said he, I've dung you fair,
“'Tis four Hours and three Quarters mair.
“My Friend, he added, count again,
“And learn a wee to be less vain:
“Ne'er brag of constant clavering Cant,
“And that you Answers never want;
“For you're not ay to be believ'd:
“Wha trust to you may be deceiv'd.
“Be counsell'd to behave like me;
“For when I dinna clearly see,
“I always own I dinna ken;
“And that's the way of wisest Men.”

AN ODE To the Memory of Lady Margaret Anstruther.

All in her Bloom the graceful Fair,
LUCINDA, leaves this mortal Round;
Her Loss a thousand Mourners share,
And Beauty feels the cruel Wound.
Now Grief and Tears o'er all our Joys prevail,
Viewing her Rosy Cheeks all cold and pale.

Thus some fair Star distinguish'd bright,
Which decks the Heavens, and guides the Main;
When Clouds obscure its glorious Light,
It leaves the gloomy World in Pain.
So sudden Death has vail'd LUCINDA's Eyes,
And left us lost in Darkness and Surprize.

Nor Sweetness, Beauty, Youth nor Wealth,
Nor Blood, tho' nobly high it springs;
Not Virtue's self can purchase Health,
When Death severe his Summons brings:
Else might the fair LUCINDA, young and gay,
Have blest the World with a much longer Stay.

But say, sweet Shade, was it thy Choice
To leave this low unconstant Globe;
Tyr'd with its vain, its jangling Noise,
Thou wisely dropt thy humane Robe:
Or tell us, Guardian Angels, tell us true,
Did ye not claim her hence as one of you?

Yes, well we know it is your Way,
When here below such Beings shine,
To gridge us even our earthly Clay,
Which form'd like her becomes divine.
Such you demand, and free from Cares and Fears,
Unmindful of our fruitless Sighs and Tears.

Yet daign, ye Friends to humane Kind,
The lonely Consort to attend;
O sooth the Anguish of his Mind,
And let his killing Sorrows end.
Tell him, his Sighs and Mourning to asswage,
Each Day she dwelt with him was worth an Age.

Ye lovely Virgins who excell,
Ye Fair to whom such Strains belong,
In melting Notes her Beauties tell,
And weep her Virtues in a Song:
See that ye place her Merit in true Light;
For singing her's, your own will shine more bright.

Let East and West, and South and North,
Aloud the mournful Musick hear,
How Beauty's fallen beyond the Forth;
Let Britain's Genius Cypress Wear.
Yet Britain's happy, who such Beauty yields,
As forc'd from her's, will grace Elysium's Fields.

ELEGY On the Right Honourable James Lord Carnegie,

Who died the 7th January 1722, the Eighth Year of his Age.

As Poets feign, and Painters draw,
Love and the Paphian Bride;
Sae we the fair SOUTHESKA saw,
CARNEGIE by her Side.

Now sever'd frae his Sweets by Death,
Her Grief wha can express?
What Muse can tell the waefu' Skaith,
Or Mother's deep Distress!

Sae Roses wither in their Buds,
Kill'd by an Eastlen Blast,
And sweetest Dawns in May with Clouds
And Storms are soon o'ercast.

Ah checquer'd Life! Ae Day gives Joy,
The niest our Hearts maun bleed:
Heaven caus'd a Seraph turn a Boy,
Now gars us trow he's dead.

Wha can reflect on's ilka Grace,
The Sweetness of his Tongue,
His manly Looks, his lovely Face,
And Judgment ripe sae young;

And yet forbear to make a doubt,
As did the Royal Swain,
When he with Grief of Heart cry'd out,
That Man was made in vain?

Mortals the Ways of Providence
But very scrimply scan;
The changing Scene eludes the Sense
And Reasonings of Man.

How mony Thousands ilka Year,
Of hopefu' Children, crave
Our Love and Care, then disappear,
To glut a gaping Grave.

What is this Grave? A Wardrobe poor,
Which hads our rotting Duds;
Th'immortal Mind, serene and pure,
Is cleath'd aboon the Clouds.

Then cease to grieve, dejected Fair,
You had him but in trust;
He was your beauteous Son, your Heir,
Yet still ae haff was Dust.

The other to its native Skies
Now wings its happy Way;
With glorious Speed and Joy he flys,
There blessfully to stray.

CARNEGIE then but changes Clay,
For fair Celestial Rays:
He mounts up to eternal Day,
And, as he parts, he says,
Adieu, Mamma, forget my tender Fate,
These rushing Tears are vain, they flow too late.
This said, he hasted hence with pleasing Joy;
I saw the Gods embrace their darling Boy.

AN ODE Sacred to the Memory of the Right Honourable ANNE Lady Gairlies.

How vain are our Attempts to know?
How poor, alas! is Reason's Skill?
We blindly wander here below,
Yet fondly search Heaven's secret Will.
Each Day we see the Young, the Great, the Small,
The Good, the Bad, without Distinction, fall.

Yet such as have the Rest out-shin'd,
We should be faulty to neglect;
Each Grace of beauteous GARLIA's Mind
Deserves the Muse's high Respect.
But how shall she such Worth and Goodness paint?
A loving Daughter, virtuous Wife and Saint?

Some Seraph who in endless Day
With Themes sublime employ the Lyre,
Dart in my Breast a shining Ray,
And all my Soul with her inspire;
Else sing your selves so fair a Frame and Mind,
As now supplies a Place among your Kind.

As we the glorious Sun admire,
Whose Beams make ev'ry Joy arise;
Yet dare not view the dazling Fire,
Without much hazarding our Eyes:
So did her Beauties ev'ry Heart allure,
While her bright Virtues kill'd each Thought impure.

She breath'd more Sweetness than the East,
While ev'ry Sentence was divine;
Her Smiles could calm each jarring Breast;
Her Soul was a Celestial Mine,
Where all the precious Veins of Virtue lay;
Too vast a Treasure long to lodge in Clay.

Tho' sprung from an heroick Race,
Which from the World Respect does claim;
Yet wanted she no borrowed Grace,
Her own demands immortal Fame:
Worthy as those who shun the vulgar Roads,
Start from the Crowd, and rise amongst the Gods.

Such Pains as weaker Minds possess,
Could in her Breast no Access find;
But lowly Meekness did confess
A steady and superior Mind.
Unmov'd she bore these Honours due the Great,
Nor could have been depress'd with a more humble Fate.

As to the Fields the Huntsman hies,
With joyful Shouts he wakes the Morn;
While Nature smiles, serene the Skies,
Swift fly his Hounds, shrill blows his Horn:
When suddenly the thund'ring Cloud pours Rain,
Defaces Day, and drives him from the Plain.

Thus young BRIGANTIUS circling Arms
Grasp'd all that's lovely to his Heart,
Rejoyc'd o'er his dear ANNA's Charms;
But not expecting soon to part:
When rigid Fate, for Reasons known above,
Snatch'd from his Breast the Object of his Love.

Ah GARLIES! once the happiest Man,
Than e'er before BRIGANTINE Chief,
Now sever'd from your lovely ANNE,
'Tis hard indeed to stem your Grief:
Yet mind what you might often from her hear,
What Heaven designs, submissive we should bear.

Oh! ne'er forget that tender Care,
Those Heaven-born Thoughts she did employ,
To point those Ways how you may share
Above with her immortal Joy.
Such a bright Pattern of what's Good and Great,
Even Angels need not blush to imitate.

She was Daughter of the Earl Marischal of Scotland.

THE Lovely Lass and the Mirror.

A Nymph, with ilka Beauty grac'd,
Ae Morning by her Toilet plac'd,
Where the leal-hearted Looking-glass
With Truths addresst the lovely Lass;—
To do ye Justice, heavenly Fair,
Amaist in Charms ye may compare
With Venus sell.—But mind amaist:
For tho' you're happily possest
Of ilka Grace which claims Respect,
Yet I see Faults ye should correct;
I own they only Trifles are,
Yet of Importance to the Fair.

What signifies that Patch o'er braid,
With which your rosie Cheek's o'erlaid?
Your natural Beauties you beguile,
By that too much affected Smile:
Saften that Look,—move ay with Ease,
And you can never fail to please.

Those kind Advices she approv'd,
And mair her Monitor she lov'd;
Till in came Visitants a Threave:
To entertain them, she maun leave
Her Looking-glass.—They fleetching praise
Her Looks,—her Dress,—and a' she says,
Be't right or wrang; she's hale compleat,
And fails in naithing fair or sweet.
Sae much was said, the bonny Lass
Forgat her faithfu' Looking-glass.

CLARINDA, this dear Beauty's You,
The Mirror is, Ane good and wise,
Wha, by his Counsels just, can shew
How Nobles may to Greatness rise.
God bless the Wark:—If you're opprest
By Parasites with fause Design,
Then will sic faithfu' Mirrors best
These Underplotters countermine.

JUPITER's Lottery.

Anes JOVE, by ae great Act of Grace,
Wad gratify his humane Race,
And order'd Hermes, in his Name,
With Tout of Trumpets to proclaim
A Royal Lott'ry frae the Skies,
Where ilka Ticket was a Prize.

Nor was there Need for Ten per Cent,
To pay Advance for Money lent:
Nor Brokers nor Stockjobbers here
Were thol'd to cheat Fowk of their Gear.
The first-rate Benefits were, Health,
Pleasures, Honours, Empire and Wealth;
But happy he to whom wad fa'
Wisdom, the highest Prize of a':
Hopes of attaining Things the best,
Made up the maist feck of the rest.
Now ilka Ticket sald with Ease,
At Altars for a Sacrifice;
JOVE a' receiv'd, Ky, Gates and Ews,
Moor-cocks, Lambs, Dows or Bawby-rows;
Nor wad debar e'en a poor Droll,
Wha nought cou'd gi'e but his Parol.
Sae kind was he no to exclude
Poor Wights for want of Wealth or Blood;
Even whiles the Gods, as Record tells,
Bought several Tickets for themsells.
When Fou and Lots put in the Wheel,
Aft were they turn'd, to mix them well;
Blind Chance to draw JOVE order'd syne,
That nane with Reason might repine:
He drew, and Mercury was Clark,
The Number, Prize and Name to mark.
Now Hopes by Millions fast came forth,
But seldom Prizes of mair Worth,
Sic as Dominion, wealth and State,
True Friends, and Lovers fortunate.
Wisdom, at last, the greatest Prize,
Comes up:—Aloud Clark Hermes crys,—
Number Ten Thousand,—Come, let's see
The Person blest.—Quoth Pallas, ME.—
Then a' the Gods for Blythness sang,
Throw Heaven glad Acclamations rang;
While Mankind grumbling laid the wyte
On them, and ca'd the hale a Byte.

Yes! cry'd ilk ane, with sobing Heart,
Kind JOVE has play'd a Parent's Part,
Wha did this Prize to Pallas send,
While we're sneg'd off at the Wob End.

Soon to their Clamours JOVE took tent,
To punish which, to wark he went,
He straight with Follies fill'd the Wheel,
In Wisdom's Place they did as well;
For ilka ane wha Folly drew,
In their Conceit, a' Sages grew:
Sae thus contented, a' retir'd,
And ilka Fool himself admir'd.

The Miser and Minos.

Short syne there was a wretched Miser,
With pinching had scrap'd up a Treasure;
Yet frae his Hoords he doughtna take
As much wou'd buy a Mutton-stake,
Or take a Glass to comfort Nature;
But scrimply fed on Crumbs and Water:
In short, he famish'd 'midst his Plenty;
Which made surviving Kindred canty,
Wha scarcely for him pat on Black,
And only in his Loof a Plack,
Which even they grudg'd: Sic is the Way
Of them wha fa' upon the Prey;
They'll scarce row up the Wretch's Feet,
Sae scrimp they make his Winding-sheet,
Tho' he shou'd leave a vast Estate,
And Heaps of Gowd like Arthur's Seat.

Well, down the starving Ghaist did sink,
Till it fell on the Stygian Brink;
Where auld Van Charon stood and raught
His wither'd Loof out for his Fraught;
But them that wanted wherewitha',
He dang them back to stand and blaw.
The Miser lang being us'd to save,
Fand this, and wadna Passage crave,
But shaw'd the Ferry-man a Knack,
Jumpt in,—swam o'er,—and hain'd his Plack.
Charon might damn, and sink and rore;
But a' in vain,—he gain'd the Shore,—
Arriv'd:—The three pow'd Dog of Hell
Gowl'd terrible a treeple Yell;
Which rouz'd the snaky Sisters three,
Wha furious on this Wight did flie,
Wha'd play'd the Smugler on their Coast,
By which Pluto his Dues had lost:
Then brought him for this Trick sae hainous
Afore the Bench of Justice Minos.

The Case was new, and very kittle,
Which puzzl'd a' the Court na little;
Thought after Thought with unco' Speed
Flew round within the Judge's Head,
To find what Punishment was due
For sic a daring Crime and new.
Shou'd he the Plague of Tantal feel,
Or stented be on Ixion's Wheel,
Or stung wi' bauld Prometheus' Pain,
Or help Sysiph to row his Stane,
Or sent amang the wicked Rout
To fill the Tub that ay rins out?
No, no, continues Minos, no,
Weak are our Punishments below,
For sic a Crime;—he maun be hurl'd
Straight back again into the World.
I sentence him to see and hear,
What Use his Friends make of his Gear.

The Ape and the Leopard.

The Ape and Leopard, Beasts for Show,
The first a Wit, the last a Beau;
To make a Penny at a Fair,
Advertis'd a' their Parts sae rare.
The tane gae out with meikle Wind,
His Beauty 'boon the brutal Kind;
Said he, I'm kend baith far and near,
Even Kings are pleas'd when I appear:
And when I yield my vital Puff,
Queens of my Skin will make a Muff;
My Fur sae delicate and fine,
With various Spots does sleekly shine.—

Now Lads and Lasses fast did rin
To see the Beast with bonny Skin:
His Keeper shaw'd him round about;
They saw him soon, and soon came out.

But Master Monky with an Air
Hapt out, and thus harangu'd the Fair;
Come, Gentlemen, and Ladies bonny,
I'll give ye Pastime for your Money:
I can perform, to raise your wonder,
Of pawky Tricks mae than a hunder.
My Cousin Spottie, true he's braw,
He has a curious Suit to shaw,
And nathing mair.—But frae my Mind
Ye shall blyth Satisfaction find.
Sometimes I'll act a Cheil that's dull,
Look thoughtfu', grave, and wag my Scull;
Then mimick a light-headed Rake,
When on a Tow my Houghs I shake:
Sometime, like modern Monks, I'll seem
To make a Speech, and nathing mean.

But come away, ye needna speer
What ye're to pay; I'se no be dear:
And if ye grudge for want of Sport,
I'll give it back t'ye at the Port.
The Ape succeeded, in Fowk went,—
Stay'd long,—and came out well content.
Sae much will Wit and Spirit please,
Beyond our Shape, and brawest Claiths.
How mony, ah! of our fine Gallants
Are only Leopard in their Talents!

The Ass and Brock.

Upon a time a solemn Ass
Was dand'ring throw a narrow Pass,
Where he forgether'd with a Brock,
Wha him saluted frae a Rock;
Speer'd how he did,—how Markets gade,—
What's a' ye'r News,—and how is Trade,—
How does Jock Stot and Lucky Yad,
Tam Tup, and Bucky honest Lad?
Reply'd the Ass, and made a Heel,
E'en a' the better that ye'r weel.
But Jackanapes and snarling Fitty
Are grown sae wicked, (some ca's't witty)
That we wha solid are and grave,
Nae Peace on our ain Howms can have;
While we are bisy gathering Gear,
Upon a Brae they'll sit and sneer.
If ane shou'd chance to breathe behin',
Or ha'e some Slaver at his Chin,
Or 'gainst a Tree shou'd rub his Arse;
That's Subject for a winsome Farce:

There draw they me, as void of thinking,
And you, my Dear, famous for stinking;
And the bauld birsy Bair your Frien',
A Glutton dirty to the Een,
By laughing Dogs and Apes abus'd,
Wha is't can thole to be sae us'd!

Dear me! heh! wow!—and say ye sae,—
Return'd the Brock,—I'm unko wae
To see this Flood of Wit break in,
O scour about, and ca't a Sin;
Stout are your Lungs, your Voice is loud;
And ought will pass upon the Crowd.

The Ass thought this Advice was right,
And bang'd away with a' his Might;
Stood on a Know amang the Cattle,
And furiously 'gainst Wit did rattle:
Pour'd out a Deluge of dull Phrases,
While Dogs and Apes leugh, and made Faces.
Thus a' the angry Ass held forth,
Serv'd only to augment their Mirth.

The Fox and Rat.

The Lyon and the Tyger lang maintain'd
A bloody Weir;—at last the Lyon gain'd.
The Royal Victor strak the Earth with Aw,
And the four-footed World obey'd his Law:
Frae ilka Species Deputies were sent,
To pay their Homage due, and compliment
Their Sovereign Liege, wha'd gart the Rebels cour,
And own his Royal Right, and Princely Power.

After Dispute, the moniest Votes agree,
That Reynard should address his Majesty,
Ulysses like, in Name of a' the Lave;
Wha thus went on,—“O Prince, allow thy Slave
“To roose thy brave Atchievments and Renown;
“Nane but thy daring Front shou'd wear the Crown,
“Wha art like Jove, whase Thunderbowt can make
“The Heavens be hush, and a' the Earth to shake;
“Whase very Gloom, if he but angry nods,
“Commands a Peace, and flegs the inferior Gods.
“Thus thou, great King, hast by thy conqu'ring Paw,
“Gi'en Earth a Shog, and made thy Will a Law:
“Thee a' the Animals with Fear adore,
“And tremble if thou with Displeasure rore;
“O'er a' thou canst us eith thy Sceptre sway,
“As Badrans can with cheeping Rottans play.”

This Sentence vex'd the Envoy Rottan sair;
He threw his Gab, and girn'd; but durst nae mair.
The Monarch pleas'd with Lowry, wha durst gloom?
A Warrant's order'd for a good round Sum,
Which Dragon, Lord Chief Treasurer, must pay
To sly-tongu'd Fleechy on a certain Day;
Which Secretary Ape in Form wrote down,
Sign'd Lyon, and a wee beneath, Baboon.
'Tis given the Fox.—Now Bobtail tap o' Kin,
Made rich at anes, is nor to had nor bind;
He dreams of nought, but Pleasure, Joy and Peace,
Now blest with Wealth, to purchase Hens and Geese.
Yet in his Loof he hadna tell'd the Gowd,
And yet the Rottan's Breast with Anger glow'd;
He vow'd Revenge, and watch'd it Night and Day,
He took the Tid, when Lowry was away,
And throw a Hole into his Closet slips,
There chews the Warrant a' in little Nips.
Thus what the Fox had for his Flatt'ry gotten,
Ev'n frae a Lyon, was made nought by an offended Rottan.

The Caterpillar and the Ant.

A pensy Ant, right trig and clean,
Came ae Day whiding o'er the Green;
Where to advance her Pride, she saw
A Caterpillar moving slaw:
Good-e'en t'ye, Mistress Ant, said he,
How's a' at hame? I'm blyth to s'ye.—
The sawcy Ant view'd him with Scorn,
Nor wad Civilities return;
But gecking up her Head, quoth she,
Poor Animal, I pity thee,
Wha scarce can claim to be a Creature,
But some Experiment of Nature,
Whase silly Shape displeas'd her Eye,
And thus unfinish'd was flung by.
For me, I'm made with better Grace,
With active Limbs, and lively Face;
And cleverly can move with Ease
Frae Place to Place where e'er I please:
Can foot a Minuet or Jig,
And snoov't like ony Whirly-gig;
Which gars my Jo aft grip my Hand
Till his Heart pitty-pattys, and—
But laigh my Qualities I bring,
To stand up clashing with a Thing,
A creeping Thing, the like of thee,
Not worthy of a Farewell t'ye.
The airy Ant syne turn'd awa,
And left him with a proud Gaffa.
The Caterpillar was struck dumb,
And never answer'd her a Mum:
The humble Reptile fand some Pain
Thus to be banter'd with Disdain.

But tent neist time the Ant came by
The Worm was grown a Butterfly;
Transparent were his Wings and fair,
Which bare him flightering throw the Air:
Upon a Flower he stapt his Flight,
And thinking on his former Slight,
Thus to the Ant himsell addrest,
Pray, Madam, will ye please to rest,
And notice what I now advise,
Inferiors ne'er too much despise;
For Fortune may gi'e sic a Turn,
To raise aboon ye what ye scorn:
For instance, now I spread my Wing
In Air, while you're a creeping Thing.

The twa Cats and the Cheese.

Twa Cats anes on a Cheese did light,
To which baith had an equal Right;
But Disputes, sic as aft arise,
Fell out a sharing of the Prize.
Fair Paly, said ane, ye bite o'er thick,
Thae Teeth of your's gang wonder quick:
Let's part it, else lang or the Moon
Be chang'd, the Kebuck will be done.
But wha's to do't;—they're Parties baith,
And ane may do the other Skaith.
Sae with Consent away they trudge,
And laid the Cheese before a Judge:
A Monkey with a campsho Face,
Clerk to a Justice of the Peace,
A Judge he seem'd in Justice skill'd,
When he his Master's Chair fill'd;
Now Umpire chosen for Division,
Baith sware to stand by his Decision.

Demure he looks.—The Cheese he pales,—
He prives it good,—Ca's for the Scales;
His Knife whops throw't,—in twa it fell;
He puts ilk haff in either Shell:
Said he, We'll truly weigh the Case,
And strictest Justice shall have Place;
Then lifting up the Scales, he fand
The tane bang up, the other stand:
Syne out he took the heaviest haff,
And ate a Knoost o't quickly aff,
And try'd it syne;—it now prov'd light:
Friend Cats, said he, we'll do ye right.
Then to the ither haff he fell,
And laid till't teughly Tooth and Nail,
Till weigh'd again it lightest prov'd.
The Judge wha this sweet Process lov'd,
Still weigh'd the Case, and still ate on,
'Till Clients baith were weary grown,
And tenting how the Matter went,
Cry'd, Come, come, Sir, we're baith content.
Ye Fools, quoth he, and Justice too,
Maun be content as well as you.
Thus grumbled they, thus he went on,
Till baith the Haves were near hand done:
Poor Pousies now the Daffine saw
Of gawn for Nignyes to the Law;
And bill'd the Judge, that he wad please
To give them the remaining Cheese:
To which his Worship grave reply'd,
The Dues of Court maun first be paid.
Now Justice pleas'd:—What's to the fore
Will but right scrimply clear your Score:
That's our Decreet;—gae hame and sleep,
And thank us ye're win aff sae cheap.

The Chamaeleon.

Twa Travellers, as they were wa'king,
'Bout the Chamaeleon fell a ta'king,
(Sic think it shaws them mettl'd Men,
To say I've seen, and ought to ken;)
Says ane, 'Tis a strange Beast indeed,
Four-footed, with a Fish's Head;
A little Bowk, with a lang Tail,
And moves far slawer than a Snail;
Of Colour like a Blawart blue;—
Reply'd his Nibour, That's no true;
For well I wat his Colour's Green,
If ane may true his ain twa Een;
For I in Sun-shine saw him fair,
When he was dining on the Air.—
Excuse me, says the ither Blade,
I saw him better in the Shade,
And he is Blue.—He's Green I'm sure.—
Ye lied.—And ye're the Son of a Whore.—
Frae Words there had been Cuff and Kick,
Had not a Third come in the Nick,
Wha tenting them in this rough Mood,
Cry'd, Gentlemen, what! are ye wood?
What's ye'r Quarrel, and't may be speer't?
Truth, says the tane, Sir, ye shall hear't:
The Chamaeleon, I say, he's Blue;
He threaps he's Green.—Now, what say you?
Ne'er fash ye'r sells about the Matter,
Says the sagacious Arbitrator,
He's Black.—Sae nane of you are right,
I view'd him well with Candle-light;
And have it in my Pocket here,
Row'd in my Napkin hale and feer.
Fy! said ae Cangler, What d'ye mean?
I'll lay my Lugs on't, that he's Green.

Said th'ither, were I gawn to Death,
I'd swear he's Blue with my last Breath.
He's Black, the Judge maintain'd ay stout;
And to convince them, whop'd him out:
But to Surprise of ane and a',
The Animal was White as Snaw,
And thus reprov'd them, “Shallow Boys,
“Away, away, make nae mair Noise;
“Ye're a' three wrang, and a' three right,
“But learn to own your Nibours Sight
“As good as yours.—Your Judgment speak,
“But never be sae daftly weak
“T'imagine ithers will by Force
“Submit their Sentiments to yours;
“As things in various Lights ye see,
“They'll ilka ane resemble me.”

The twa Lizards.

Beneath a Tree, ae shining Day,
On a Burn-bank twa Lizards lay
Beeking themsells now in the Beams,
Then drinking of the cauller Streams.
Waes me, says ane of them to th'ither,
How mean and silly live we, Brither?
Beneath the Moon is ought sae poor,
Regarded less, or mair obscure!
We breathe indeed, and that's just a';
But forc'd by Destiny's hard Law
On Earth like Worms to creep and sprawl
Curst Fate to ane that has a Saul!
Forby, gin we may trow Report,
In Nilus Giant Lizards sport,

Ca'd Crocodiles:—Ah! had I been
Of sic a Size, upon the Green,
Then might I had my Skair of Fame,
Honour, Respect, and a great Name;
And Man with gaping Jaws have shor'd,
Syne like a Pa-god been ador'd.

Ah Friend! replies the ither Lizard,
What makes this grumbling in thy Gizzard?
What Cause have ye to be uneasy?
Cannot the Sweets of Freedom please ye?
We free frae Trouble, Toil or Care,
Enjoy the Sun, the Earth and Air,
The Crystal Spring, and Green-Wood Shaw,
And beildy Holes, when Tempests blaw.
Why shou'd we fret, look blae or wan,
Tho' we're contemn'd by paughty Man?
If sae, let's in Return be wise,
And that proud Animal despise.

O fy! returns th'ambitious Beast,
How weak a Fire now warms thy Breast?
It breaks my Heart to live sae mean;
I'd like t'attract the Gazer's Een,
And be admir'd.—What stately Horns
The Deer's majestick Brow adorn!
He claims our Wonder and our Dread,
Where e'er he heaves his haughty Head.
What Envy a' my Spirit fires,
When he in clearest Pools admires
His various Beauties with Delyte;
I'm like to drown my sell with Spite.
Thus he held forth,—when straight a Pack
Of Hounds, and Hunters at their Back,
Ran down a Deer before their Face,
Breathless and wearied with the Chace.
The Dogs upon the Victim seise,
And Bougles sound his Obsequies.

But neither Men nor Dogs took tent
Of our wee Lizards on the Bent,
While hungry Bawty, Buff and Tray,
Devour'd the Paunches of the Prey.

Soon as the bloody Deed was past,
The Lizard wise the Proud addrest,
Dear Cousin, now pray let me hear
How wad ye like to be a Deer?

Ohon! quoth he, convinc'd and wae,
Wha wad have thought it anes a Day!
Well, be a private Life my Fate,
I'll never envy mair the Great:
That we are little Fowk, that's true;
But sae's our Cares and Dangers too.

Mercury in Quest of Peace.

The Gods coost out, as Story gaes,
Some being Friends, some being Faes,
To Men in a besieged City;
Thus some frae Spite, and some frae Pity,
Stood to their Point with canker'd Strictness,
And leftna ither in Dogs Likeness.
Juno ca'd Venus Whore and Bawd,
Venus ca'd Juno scauldin Jad,
E'en cripple Vulcan blew the Low,
Apollo ran to bend his Bow,
Dis shook his Fork, Pallas her Shield,
Neptune his Grape began to wield.
What Plague, crys Jupiter, Heh hoy!
Maun this Town prove anither Troy?
What, will you ever be at odds,
Till Mankind think us foolish Gods?

Hey! Mistris Peace, make haste,—appear.—
But Madam was nae there to hear:
Come, Hermes, wing thy Heels and Head,
And find her out with a' thy Speed:
Trowth this is bonny Wark indeed.

Hermes obeys, and staptna short,
But flys directly to the Court;
For sure, thought he, she will be found,
On that fair complimenting Ground,
Where Praises and Embraces ran
Like current Coin 'tween Man and Man.
But soon, alake! he was beguil'd,
And fand that Courtiers only smil'd,
And with a formal Flat'ry treat ye,
That they mair sickerly might cheat ye:
Peace was na there, nor e'er could dwell,
Where hidden Envy makes a Hell.

Niest to the Ha', where Justice stands
With Sword and Ballance in her Hands,
He flew;—no that he thought to find her
Between th'Accuser and Defender;
But sure he thought to find the Wench
Amang the Fowk that fill the Bench;
Sae muckle Gravity and Grace
Appear'd in ilka Judge's Face:
Even here he was deceiv'd again,
For ilka Judge stack to his ain
Interpretation of the Law,
And vex'd themsells with Had and Draw.

Frae thence he flew straight to the Kirk:
In this he prov'd as daft a Stirk,
To look for Peace, where never three
In ev'ry Point cou'd e'er agree;

Ane his ain Gate explain'd a Text,
Quite contrair to his Neighbour next,
And teughly toolied Day and Night,
To gar Believers trow them right.

Then sair he sigh'd,—where can she be?—
Well thought,—the University,
Science is ane these maun agree.
There did he bend his Strides right clever,
But is as far mistane as ever:
For here Contention and ill Nature
Had runkl'd ilka learned Feature;
Ae Party stood for ancient Rules,
Anither ca'd the Ancients Fools;
Here ane wad set his Shanks aspar,
And roose the Man sang Troy War,
Anither ca's him Robin Kar.

Well, she's no here;—away he flies
To seek her amangst Families.
Tout, what shou'd she do there I wonder?
Dwells she with matrimonial Thunder,
Where Mates, some greedy, some deep Drinkers,
Contend with thriftless Mates or Jinkers?
This says, 'tis Black; and that, wi' Spite,
Stifly maintains and threeps 'tis White.

Weary'd at last, quoth he, Let's see
How Branches with their Stocks agree:
But here he fand still his Mistake;
Some Parents cruel were, some weak;
While Bairns ungratefu' did behave,
And wish'd their Parents in the Grave.

Has Jove then sent me amang thir Fowk,
Cry'd Hermes, here to hunt the Gowk?
Well, I have made a waly Round,
To seek what is na to be found.

Just on the Wing,—towards a Burn
A wee Piece aff his Looks did turn;
There Mistris Peace he chanc'd to see,
Sitting beneath a Willow Tree:
And have I found ye at the last?
He cry'd aloud, and held her fast.
Here I reside, quoth she, and smil'd,
With an auld Hermite in this Wild.
Well, Madam, said he, I perceive,
That ane may lang your Presence crave,
And miss ye still;—but this seems plain,
To have ye, ane maun be alane.

The Spring and the Syke.

Fed by a living Spring, a Rill
Flow'd easily adown a Hill;
A thousand Flowers upon its Bank
Flourish'd fu' fair, and grew right rank:
Near to its Course a Syke did ly,
Whilk was in Simmer aften dry,
And ne'er recover'd Life again,
But after soaking Showers of Rain:
Then wad he swell, look big and sprush,
And o'er his Margine proudly gush.
Ae Day, after great Waughts of Weet,
He with the Chrystal Current met,
And ran him down with unco' Din,
Said he, How poorly does thou rin?
See with what State I dash the Brae,
Whilst thou canst hardly make thy Way.

The Spring, with a superior Air,
Said, Sir, your Brag gives me nae Care;
For soon's ye want your foreign Aid,
Your paughty Cracks will soon be laid.
Frae my ain Head I have Supply;
But you must borrow, else rin dry.

The Daft Bargain.

A Tale.

At Market anes, I watna how,
Twa Herds between them coft a Cow:
Driving her hame, the needfu' Hacky
But Ceremony chanc'd to k---.
Quoth Rab right ravingly to Raff,
Gin ye'll eat that digested Draff
Of Crummy, I shall quat my Part.—
A Bargain be't, with a' my Heart,
Raff soon reply'd, and lick'd his Thumb,
To gorble't up without a Gloom:
Syne till't he fell, and seem'd right yap
His Mealtith quickly up to gawp;
Haff done, his Heart began to scunner,
But lootna on till Rab strak under;
Wha fearing Skair of Cow to tine,
At his daft Bargain did repine.
Well, well, quoth Raff, tho' ye was rash,
I'll scorn to wrang ye, senseless Hash;
Come fa' to Wark, as I ha'e done,
And eat the ither haff as soon,
Ye's save ye'r Part.—Content, quoth Rab.—
And slerg'd the rest o't in his Gab:

Now what was tint, or what was won,
Is eithly seen.—My Story's done.—
Yet frae this Tale confed'rate States may learn
To save their Cow, and yet no eat her Sharn.

The twa Cut-Purses.

A Tale.

In Borrows-town there was a Fair,
And mony a Landart Coof was there
Baith Lads and Lasses busked brawly,
To glowr at ilka Bonny-waly,
And lay out ony ora Bodles
On sma' Gimcracks that pleas'd their Nodles;
Sic as a Jocktaleg, or Sheers,
Confeckit Ginger, Plums or Pears.

These gaping Gowks twa Rogues survey,
And on their Cash this Plot they lay;
The tane, less like a Knave than Fool,
Unbidden clam the high Cockstool,
And pat his Head and baith his Hands
Throw Holes where the Ill-Doer stands.
Now a' the Crowd with Mouth and Een
Cry'd out, What does the Idiot mean?
They glowr'd and leugh, and gather'd thick,
And never thought upon a Trick,
Till he beneath had done his Job,
By tooming Poutches of the Mob;
Wha now possest of Rowth of Gear,
Scour'd aff as lang's the Cost was clear.

But wow? the Ferly quickly chang'd,
When throw their empty Fobs they rang'd;
Some girn'd, and some look'd blae wi' Grief,
While some cry'd out, Fy had the Thief.
But ne'er a Thief or Thief was there,
Or cou'd be found in a' the Fair.
The Jip wha stood aboon them a',
His Innocence began to shaw;
Said he, my Friends, I'm very sorry
To hear your melancholy Story;
But sure whate'er your Tinsel be,
Ye canna lay the Wyte on me.

EPISTLE TO Robert Yarde of Devonshire, Esquire.

Frae Northern Mountains clad with Snaw,
Where whistling Winds incessant blaw,
In time now when the Curling-stane
Slides murm'ring o'er the icy Plain,
What sprightly Tale in Verse can Yarde
Expect frae a cauld Scottish Bard,
With Brose and Bannocks poorly fed,
In Hoden Gray right hashly cled,
Skelping o'er frozen Hags with Pingle,
Picking up Peets to beet his Ingle,
While Sleet that freezes as it fa's,
Theeks as with Glass the Divot Waws
Of a laigh Hut, where sax thegither,
Ly Heads and Thraws on Craps of Heather?

Thus, Sir, of us the Story gaes,
By our mair dull and scornfu' Faes:
But let them tauk, and Gowks believe,
While we laugh at them in our Sleeve;
For we, nor barbarous nor rude,
Ne'er want good Wine to warm our Blood,
Have Tables crown'd,—and hartsome Biels,
And can in Cumin's, Don's or Steil's,

Be serv'd as plenteously and civil,
As you in London at the Devil.
You, Sir, your self wha came and saw,
Own'd that we wanted nought at a',
To make us as content a Nation,
As any is in the Creation.

This Point premis'd, my canty Muse
Cocks up her Crest without Excuse,
And scorns to screen her natural Flaws,
With If's and But's, and dull Because;
She pukes her Pens, and aims a Flight
Throu' Regions of internal Light,
Frae Fancy's Field, these Truths to bring
That you shou'd hear, and she shou'd sing.

Langsyne, when Love and Innocence
Were humane Nature's best Defence,
E'er Party-jars made Lateth less,
By cleathing't in a Monkish Dress;
Then Poets shaw'd these evenly Roads,
That lead to Dwellings of the Gods.
In these dear Days, well ken'd to Fame,
Divini Vates was their Name:
It was, and is, and shall be ay,
While they move in fair Vertue's Way.
Tho' rarely we to Stipends reach,
Yet nane dare hinder us to preach.

Believe me, Sir, the nearest Way
To Happiness, is to be gay;
For Spleen indulg'd will banish Rest
Far frae the Bosoms of the best;
Thousands a-year's no worth a Prin,
When e'er this fashous Guest gets in:
But a fair competent Estate
Can keep a Man frae looking blate,
Sae eithly it lays to his Hand
What his just Appetites demand.

Wha has, and can enjoy, O wow!
How smoothly may his Minutes flow?
A Youth thus blest with manly Frame,
Enliven'd with a lively Flame,
Will ne'er with sordid Pinch controul
The Satisfaction of his Soul.
Poor is that Mind, ay discontent,
That canna use what God has lent;
But envious girns at a' he sees,
That are a Crown richer than he's;
Which gars him pitifully hane,
And Hell's Ase-middings rake for Gain;
Yet never kens a blythsome Hour,
Is ever wanting, ever sowr.

Yet ae Extreme shou'd never make
A Man the gowden Mien forsake.
It shaws as much a shallow Mind,
And ane extravagantly blind,
If careless of his future Fate,
He daftly waste a good Estate,
And never thinks till Thoughts are vain,
And can afford him nought but Pain.
Thus will a Joiner's Shavings bleez,
Their Low will for some Seconds please;
But soon the glaring Leam is past,
And cauldrife Darkness follows fast:
While slaw the Fagots large expire,
And warn us with a lasting Fire.
Then neither, as I ken ye will,
With idle Fears your Pleasures spill,
Nor with neglecting prudent Care,
Do Skaith to your succeeding Heir.
Thus steering cannily throw Life,
Your Joys shall lasting be and rife:
Give a your Passions room to reel,
As lang as Reason guides the Wheel.

Desires, tho' ardent, are nae Crime,
When they harmoniously keep Time:
But when they spang o'er Reason's Fence,
We smart for't at our ain Expence
To recreate us we're allow'd,
But gaming deep boils up the Blood,
And gars ane at Groomporters ban
The Being that made him a Man,
When his fair Gardens, House and Lands,
Are fa'n amongst the Sharpers Hands.
A cheerfu' Bottle sooths the Mind,
Gars Carles grow canty, free and kind;
Defeats our Care, and hales our Strife,
And brawly oyls the Wheels of Life:
But when just Quantums we transgress,
Our Blessing turns the quite Reverse.

To love the bonny smiling Fair,
Nane can their Passions better ware;
Yet Love is kittle and unruly,
And shou'd move tentily and hooly:
For if it get o'er meikle Head,
'Tis fair to gallop ane to dead:
O'er ilka Hedge it wildly bounds,
And grazes on forbidden Grounds;
Where constantly, like Furies, range,
Poortith, Diseases, Death, Revenge:
To toom anes Pouch to Dunty clever,
Or have wrang'd Husband prob ane's Liver,
Or void ane's Saul out throw a Shanker;
In faith 'twad any Mortal canker.

Then wale a Virgin worthy you,
Worthy your Love and nuptial Vow:
Syne frankly range o'er a' her Charms,
Drink deep of Joy within her Arms;
Be still delighted with her Breast,
And on her Love with Rapture feast.

May she be blooming, saft and young,
With Graces melting from her Tongue;
Prudent and yielding to retain
Your Love, as well as you her ain.

Thus with your Leave, Sir, I've made free
To give Advice to ane can gi'e
As good again.—But as Mess John
Said, when the Sand tald Time was done,
“Ha'e Patience, my dear Friends a wee,
“And take ae ither Glas frae me;
“And if ye think there's Doublets due,
“I shanna bauk the like frae you.”

THE LAST SPEECH OF A Wretched Miser.

O dool! and am I forc'd to die,
And nae mair my dear Siller see,
That glanc'd sae sweetly in my Eye!
It breaks my Heart;
My Gowd! my Bands! alackanie!
That we shou'd part.

For you I labour'd Night and Day,
For you I did my Friends betray,
For you on stinking Caff I lay,
And Blankets thin;
And for your Sake fed mony a Flea
Upon my Skin.

Like Tantalus I lang have stood
Chin deep into a Siller Flood;
Yet ne'er was able for my Blood,
But Pain and Strife,
To ware ae Drap on Claiths or Food,
To cherish Life.

Or like the wissen'd beardless Wights,
Wha herd the Wives of Eastern Knights,
Yet ne'er enjoy the saft Delights
Of Lasses bony;
Thus did I watch lang Days and Nights
My lovely Money.

Altho' my Annualrents cou'd feed
Thrice forty Fowk that stood in Need,
I grudg'd my sell my daily Bread:
And if frae hame,
My Pouch produc'd an Ingan Head,
To please my Wame.

To keep you cosie in a Hoord,
This Hunger I with Ease endur'd;
And never dought a Doit afford
To ane of Skill,
Wha for a Dollar might have cur'd
Me of this Ill.

I never wore my Claiths with brushing,
Nor wrung away my Sarks with washing;
Nor ever sat in Taverns dashing
Away my Coin,
To find out Wit or Mirth by clashing
O'er dearthfu' Wine.

Abiet my Pow was bald and bare,
I wore nae frizl'd Limmer's Hair,
Which takes of Flower to keep it fair
Frae reesting free,
As meikle as wad dine and mair
The like of me.

Nor kept I Servants, Tales to tell,
But toom'd my Coodies a' my sell;
To hane in Candle I had a Spell
Baith cheap and bright,
A Fish-head, when it 'gins to smell,
Gives curious Light.

What Reason can I shaw, quo' ye,
To save and starve, to cheat and lie,
To live a Beggar, and to die
Sae rich in Coin?
That's mair than can be gi'en by me,
Tho' Belzie join.

Some said my Looks were groff and sowr,
Fretfu', drumbly, dull and dowr:
I own it was na in my Power,
My Fears to ding;
Wherefore I never cou'd endure
To laugh or sing.

I ever hated bookish reading,
And musical or dancing breeding,
And what's in either Face or Cleading,
Of painted things;
I thought nae Pictures worth the heeding,
Except the King's.

Now of a' them the Eard e'er bure,
I never Rhimers cou'd endure,
They're sic a sneering Pack, and poor,
I hate to ken 'em;
For 'gainst us thrifty Sauls they're sure
To spit their Venom.

But waster Wives, the warst of a',
Without a Youk they gar ane claw,
When wickedly they bid us draw
Our Siller Spungs,
For this and that, to make them braw,
And lay their Tongues.

Some loo the Courts, some loo the Kirks,
Some loo to keep their Skins frae Lirks,
Some loo to woo beneath the Birks
Their Lemans bony;
For me, I took them a' for Stirks
That loo'd na Money.

They ca'd me Slave to Usury,
Squeez, cleave the Hair, and peel the Flee,
Clek, flae the Flint, and Penury,
And sauless Wretch;
But that ne'er skaith'd or troubled me,
Gin I grew rich.

On Profit a' my Thoughts were bent,
And mony Thousands have I lent,
But sickerly I took good tent,
That double Pawns,
With a Cudeigh, and ten per Cint
Lay in my Hands.

When Borrow'rs brak, the Pawns were Rug,
Rings, Beads of Pearl, or Siller Jug,
I sald them aff, ne'er fash'd my Lug
With Girns or Curses,
The mair they whing'd, it gart me hug
My swelling Purses.

Sometimes I'd sigh, and ape a Saint,
And with a lang Rat-rhime of Cant,
Wad make a Mane for them in want;
But for ought mair,
I never was the Fool to grant
Them ony Skair.

I thought ane freely might pronounce
That Chiel a very silly Dunce,
That cou'd not Honesty renounce,
With Ease and Joys,
At ony time, to win an Ounce
Of yellow Boys.

When young I some Remorse did feel,
And liv'd in Terror of the Deel,
His Furnace, Whips, and racking Wheel;
But by Degrees,
My Conscience grown as hard as Steel,
Gave me some Ease.

But Fears of Want, and carking Care
To save my Stock,—and Thirst for mair,
By Night and Day opprest me sair,
And turn'd my Head;
While Friends appear'd like Harpies Gare,
That wish'd me dead.

For fear of Thieves I aft lay waking
The live lang Night till Day was breaking,
Syne throu' my Sleep, with Heart sair aking,
I've aften started,
Thinking I heard my Windows cracking,
When Elspa f---.

O Gear! I held ye lang thegither;
For you I starv'd my good auld Mither,
And to Virginia sald my Brither,
And crush'd my Wife:
But now I'm gawn I kenna whither,
To leave my Life.

My Life! my God! my Spirit earns,
Not on my Kindred, Wife or Bairns,
Sic are but very laigh Concerns,
Compar'd with thee!
When now this mortal Rotle warns
Me I maun die.

It to my Heart gaes like a Gun,
To see my Kin and graceless Son,
Like Rooks already are begun
To thumb my Gear,
And Cash that has not seen the Sun
This fifty Year.

Oh, oh! that spendthrift Son of mine,
Wha can on roasted Moorfowl dine,
And like Dub-water skink the Wine,
And dance and sing;
He'll soon gar my dear Darlings dwine
Down to nathing.

To that same Place, where e'er I gang,
O cou'd I bear my Wealth alang!
Nae Heir shou'd e'er a Farthing fang,
That thus carouses,
Tho' they shou'd a' on Woodies hang,
For breaking Houses.

Perdition! Sathan! is that you!
I sink!—am dizzy!—Candle blue.
Wi' that he never mair play'd pew,
But with a Rair,
Away his wretched Spirit flew,
It maksna where.

Tit for Tat.

Be-south our Channel, where 'tis common
To be Priest-ridden, Man and Woman;
A Father, anes in grave Procession,
Went to receive a Wight's Confession,
Whase Sins, lang-gather'd, now began
To burden sair his inner Man.
But happy they that can with Ease
Sling aff sic Laids when e'er they please.
Lug out your Sins, and eke your Purses,
And soon your kind spiritual Nurses
Will ease you of these heavy Turses.

Cries Hodge, and sighs, Ah! Father Ghostly,
I lang'd anes for some Jewels costly,
And staw them frae a sneaking Miser,
Wha was a wicked cheating Squeezer,
And much had me and others wrang'd,
For which I aften wish'd him hang'd.
The Father says, I own, my Son,
To rob or pilfer is ill done;
But I can eith forgive the Faut,
Since it is only Tit for Tat.

The sighing Penitent gade furder,
And own'd his anes designing Murder;
That he had lent ane's Guts a Skreed,
Wha had gi'en him a broken Head.
Replies the Priest, My Son, 'tis plain
That's only Tit for Tat again.

But still the Sinner sighs and sobs,
And cries, Ah! these are venial Jobs
To the black Crime that yet behind
Lyes like Auld Nick upon my Mind:
I dare na name't; I'd lure be strung
Up by the Neck, or by the Tongue,
As speak it out to you: Believe me,
The Faut you never wad forgive me.
The haly Man, with pious Care,
Intreated, pray'd, and spake him fair,
Conjur'd him, as he hop'd for Heaven,
To tell his Crime, and be forgiven.

Well then, says Hodge, if it maun be,
Prepare to hear a Tale frae me,
That when 'tis tald, I'm unko feard
Ye'll wish it never had been heard.
Ah me! your Reverence's Sister,
Ten times I carnally have—kist her.
All's fair, returns the Reverend Brother,
I've done the samen with your Mother
Three times as aft; and sae for that
We're on a Level, Tit for Tat.

EPISTLE From Mr. William Starrat

Teacher of Mathematicks at Straban in Ireland.

Ae windy Day last Owk, I'll ne'er forget,
I think I hear the Hailstanes rattling yet;
On Crochan Buss my Hirdsell took the Lee,
As ane wad wish, just a' beneath my Ee:
I in the Beild of yon auld Birk-tree Side
Poor cauldrife Coly whing'd aneath my Plaid,
Right tozylie was set to ease my Stumps,
Well hap'd with Bountith-hose and twa soll'd Pumps;
Syne on my Four-hours Luntion chew'd my Cude,
Sic Kilter pat me in a merry Mood:
My Whistle frae my Blanket-nook I drew,
And lilted owre thir twa three Lines to you.

Blaw up my Heart-strings ye Pierian Quines,
That ga'e the Grecian Bards their bony Rimes,
And learn'd the Latin Lowns sic Springs to play,
As gars the Warld gang dancing to this Day.

In vain I seek your Help; 'tis bootless Toil
With sic dead Ase to muck a Moorland Soil,
Give me the Muse that calls past Ages back,
And shaws proud Southren Sangsters their Mistake,
That frae their Thames can fetch the Laurel North,
And big Parnassus on the Frith of Forth.

Thy Breast alane this gladsome Guest does fill
With Strains, that warm our Hearts like Cannel Gill,
And learns thee in thy umquhile Gutcher's Tongue,
The blythest Lilts that e'er my Lugs heard sung.
RAMSAY! for ever live: For wha like you
In deathless Sang sic Life-like Pictures drew?
Not he wha whilome with his Harp cou'd ca'
The dancing Stanes to big the Theban Wa';
Nor he (shamefa's Fool Head) as Stories tell
Could whistle back an auld dead Wife frae Hell;
Nor e'en the loyal Brooker of Bell-Trees,
Wha sang with hungry Wame his want of Fees;
Nor Haby's Dron cou'd with thy Wind-pipe please,
When in his well kend Clink thou manes the Death
Of Lucky Wood and Spence (a matchless Skaith
To Canigate) sae gash thy Gab-trees gang,
The Carlines live for ever in thy Sang.

Or when the Country Bridal thou pursues,
To redd the Regal Tulzie sets thy Muse,
Thy soothing Sangs bring canker'd Carles to Ease,
Some lowps to Lutter's Pipe, some birls Bawbies.

But gin to graver Notes thou tunes thy Breath,
And sings poor Sandy's Grief for Edie's Death,
Or Matthew's Loss; the Lambs in Consort mae,
And lanesome Ringwood youls upon the Brae.

Good God! what tuneless Heart-strings wadna twang,
When Love and Beauty animates thy Sang?
Skies echoe back, when thou blaws up thy Reed,
In Burchet's Praise, for clapping of thy Head:
And when thou bids the paughty Czar stand yon,
The Wandought seems beneath thee on his Throne.
Now, be my Saul, and I have nought behin,
And weil I wat fause Swearing is a Sin,
I'd rather have thy Pipe, and twa three Sheep,
Than a' the Gold the Monarchs Coffers keep.

COLY, look out, the few we have's gane wrang,
This se'nteen Owks I have not play'd sae lang;
Ha, Crummy, ha—trowth I maun quat my Sang.
But, Lad, neist Mirk we'll to the Haining Drive,
When in fresh Lizar they get Spleet and rive;
The Royts will rest, and gin ye like my Play,
I'll whistle to thee all the live lang Day.

To Mr. William Starrat, on receiving the above Epistle.

Frae fertile Fields, where nae curs'd Ethers creep,
To stang the Herds that in Rash-busses sleep;
Frae where Saint Patrick's Blessing freed the Bogs
Frae Taids, and Asks, and ugly creeping Frogs;
Welcome to me's the Sound of STARRAT's Pipe,
Welcome, as Westlen Winds, or Berries ripe,
When speeling up the Hill, the Dog-days Heat
Gars a young thirsty Shepherd pant and sweat:
Thus while I climb the Muses Mount with Care,
Sic friendly Praises give refreshing Air.
O! may the Lasses loo thee for thy Pains,
And may thou lang breathe healsome o'er the Plains:
Lang mayst thou teach, with round and nooked Lines,
Substantial Skill, that's worth rich Siller Mines;
To shaw how Wheels can gang with greatest Ease,
And what Kind Barks sails smoothest o'er the Seas;
How Wind-mills shou'd be made,—and how they work
The Thumper that tells Hours upon the Kirk:
How Wedges rive the Aik:—How Pullieses
Can lift on highest Roofs the greatest Trees;

Rug frae its Roots the Craig of Edinburgh Castle,
As easily as I cou'd break my Whistle.—
What Pleughs fits a wet Soil, and whilk the dry;
And mony a thousand useful Things forby.

I own 'tis cauld Encouragement to sing,
When round ane's Lugs the blatran Hailstanes ring;
But feckfu' Folk can front the bauldest Wind,
And slonk thro' Moors, and never fash their Mind.
Aft have I wid throu' Glens with chorking Feet,
When neither Plaid nor Kelt cou'd fend the Weet;
Yet blythly wald I bang out o'er the Brae,
And stend o'er Burns as light as ony Rae,
Hoping the Morn might prove a better Day.
Then let's to Lairds and Ladies leave the Spleen,
While we can dance and whistle o'er the Green.
Mankind's Account of Good and Ill's a Jest,
Fancy's the Rudder, and Content's a Feast.

Dear Friend of mine, ye but o'er meikle roose
The lawly Mints of my poor moorland Muse,
Wha looks but blate, when even'd to either twa,
That lull'd the Deel, or bigg'd the Theban Wa';
But trowth 'tis natural for us a' to wink
At our ain Fauts, and Praises frankly drink:
Fair fa' ye then, and may your Flocks grow rife,
And may nae Elf twin Crummy of her Life.

The Sun shines sweetly, a' the Lift looks blue,
O'er Glens hing hovering Clouds of rising Dew;
Maggy, the bonniest Lass of a' our Town,
Brent is her Brow, her Hair a curly brown,
I have a Tryst with her, and maun away,
Then ye'll excuse me till anither Day,
When I've mair Time; for shortly I'm to sing
Some dainty Sangs, that sall round Crochan ring.

Bonny Christy.

How sweetly smells the Simmer Green?
Sweet taste the Peach and Cherry;
Painting and Order please our Een,
And Claret makes us merry:
But finest Colours, Fruits and Flowers,
And Wine, tho' I be thirsty,
Lose a' their Charms and weaker Powers,
Compar'd with those of Christy.

When wand'ring o'er the flowry Park,
No nat'ral Beauty wanting;
How lightsome is't to hear the Lark,
And Birds in Consort chanting?
But if my Christy tunes her Voice,
I'm rapt in Admiration;
My Thoughts with Extasies rejoice,
And drap the hale Creation.

When e'er she smiles a kindly Glance,
I take the happy Omen,
And aften mint to make Advance,
Hoping she'll prove a Woman.
But dubious of my ain Desert,
My Sentiments I smother,
With secret Sighs I vex my Heart,
For fear she love another.

Thus sang blate Edie by a Burn,
His Christy did o'er-hear him;
She doughtna let her Lover mourn,
But e'er he wist drew near him.
She spake her Favour with a Look,
Which left nae Room to doubt her;
He wisely this white Minute took,
And flang his Arms about her.

My Christy!—witness bony Stream,
Sic Joys frae Tears arising;
I wish this may na be a Dream:
O Love the maist surprising
Time was too precious now for Tauk,
This Point of a' his Wishes;
He wadna with set Speeches bauk,
But wair'd it a' on Kisses.

The bonny Scot

[_]

To the Tune of, The Boat-man.

Ye Gales that gently wave the Sea,
And please the canny Boat-man,
Bear me frae hence, or bring to me
My brave, my bonny Scot—Man.
In haly Bands
We join'd our Hands;
Yet may not this discover,
While Parents rate
A large Estate,
Before a faithfu' Lover.

But I loor chuse in Highland Glens
To herd the Kid and Goat—Man,
E'er I cou'd for sic little Ends
Refuse my bonny Scot—Man.
Wae worth the Man
Wha first began
The base ungenerous Fashion,
Frae greedy Views,
Love's Art to use,
While Strangers to its Passion.

Frae foreign Fields, my lovely Youth,
Haste to thy longing Lassie,
Wha pants to press thy bawmy Mouth,
And in her Bosom hawse thee.
Love gi'es the Word,
Then haste on Board,
Fair Winds and tenty Boat-man,
Waft o'er, waft o'er
Frae yonder Shore,
My blyth, my bonny Scot—Man.

Love Inviting Reason.

[_]

A Song to the Tune of, I am Asleep, do not waken me.

When innocent Pastime our Pleasure did crown,
Upon a green Meadow, or under a Tree,
E'er Annie became a fine Lady in Town,
How lovely, and loving, and bonny was she!
Rouze up thy Reason, my beautifu' Annie,
Let ne'er a new Whim ding thy Fancy a-jee;
O! as thou art bonny, be faithfu' and canny,
And favour thy Jamie, wha doats upon thee.

Does the Death of a Lintwhite give Annie the Spleen?
Can tyning of Trifles be uneasy to thee?
Can Lap-dogs and Monkies draw Tears frae these Een,
That look with Indifference on poor dying me?
Rouze up thy Reason, my beautifu' Annie,
And dinna prefer a Paroquet to me;
O! as thou art bonny, be prudent and canny,
And think on thy Jamie, wha doats upon thee.

Ah! shou'd a new Gown, or a Flanders Lace Head,
Or yet a wee Coatie, tho' never sae fine,
Gar thee grow forgetfu', and let his Heart bleed,
That anes had some Hope of purchasing thine?
Rouze up thy Reason, my beautifu' Annie,
And dinna prefer ye'r Fleegeries to me;
O! as thou art bonny, be solid and canny,
And tent a true Lover that doats upon thee.

Shall a Paris Edition of new fangle Sany,
Tho' gilt o'er wi' laces and Fringes he be,
By adoring himself, be admir'd by fair Annie,
And aim at these Bennisons promis'd to me?
Rouze up thy Reason, my beautifu' Annie,
And never prefer a light Dancer to me;
O! as thou art bonny, be constant and canny,
Love only thy Jamie, wha doats upon thee.

O! think, my dear Charmer, on ilka sweet Hour,
That slade away saftly between thee and me,
E'er Squirrels, or Beaus, or Fopery had Power,
To rival my Love, and impose upon thee.
Rouze up thy Reason, my beautifu' Annie,
And let thy Desires be a' center'd in me;
O! as thou art bonny, be faithfu' and canny,
And love him wha's langing to center in thee.

The Bob of Dunblane.

Lassie, lend me your braw Hemp Heckle,
And I'll lend you my Thripling Kame;
For Fainness, Deary, I'll gar ye keckle,
If ye'll go dance the Bob of Dunblane.

Haste ye, gang to the Ground of ye'r Trunkies,
Busk ye braw, and dinna think shame;
Consider in Time, if leading of Monkies,
Be better than dancing the Bob of Dunblane.

Be frank, my Lassie, lest I grow fickle,
And take my Word and Offer again;
Syne ye may chance to repent it miekle,
Ye did na accept of the Bob of Dunblane.
The Dinner, the Piper and Priest shall be ready,
And I'm grown dowie with lying my lane;
Away then leave baith Minny and Dady,
And try with me the Bob of Dunblane.

Throw the Wood Laddie.

O Sandy, why leaves thou thy Nelly to mourn?
Thy Presence cou'd ease me,
When nathing can please me;
Now dowie I sigh on the Bank of the Burn,
Or throw the Wood, Laddie, until thou return.

Tho' Woods now are bonny, and Mornings are clear,
While Lavrocks are singing,
And Primroses springing;
Yet nane of them pleases my Eye or my Ear,
When throw the Wood, Laddie, ye dinna appear.

That I am forsaken, some spare no to tell;
I'm fash'd wi' their Scorning,
Baith Ev'ning and Morning:
Their jeering gaes aft to my Heart wi' a Knell,
When throw the Wood, Laddie, I wander my sell.

Then stay, my dear Sandy, nae langer away,
But quick as an Arrow,
Haste here to thy Marrow,
Wha's living in Langour till that happy Day;
When throw the Wood, Laddie, we'll dance, sing and play.

Ann thou were my ain Thing.

Ann thou were my ain Thing,
I would love thee, I would love thee;
Ann thou were my ain Thing,
How dearly would I love thee.

Like Bees that suck the Morning Dew
Frae Flowers of sweetest Scent and Hew,
Sae wad I dwell upo' thy Mou,
And gar the Gods envy me.
Ann thou were, &c.

Sae lang's I had the Use of Light,
I'd on thy Beauties feast my Sight,
Syne in saft Whispers through the Night,
I'd tell how much I loo'd thee.
Ann thou were, &c.

How fair and ruddy is my Jean!
She moves a Goddess o'er the Green:
Were I a King, thou shou'd be Queen,
Nane but my sell aboon thee.
Ann thou were, &c.

I'd grasp thee to this Breast of mine,
Whilst thou, like Ivy, or the Vine,
Around my stronger Limbs shou'd twine,
Form'd hardy to defend thee.
Ann thou were, &c.

Time's on the Wing, and will not stay,
In shining Youth let's make our Hay,
Since Love admits of no Delay,
O! let na Scorn undo thee.
Ann thou were, &c.

While Love does at his Altar stand,
Hae there's my Heart, gi'e me thy Hand,
And with ilk Smile thou shalt command
The Will of him wha loves thee.
Ann thou were, &c.

There's my Thumb I'll ne'er beguile Thee.

My sweetest May, let Love incline thee
T'accept a Heart which he designs thee,
And as your constant Slave regard it,
Syne for its Faithfulness reward it;
'Tis Proof a-shot to Birth or Money,
But yields to what is sweet and bonny:
Receive it then with a Kiss and a Smily,
There's my Thumb it will ne'er beguile ye.

How tempting sweet these Lips of thine are!
Thy Bosom white, and Legs sae fine are,
That when in Pools I see thee clean 'em,
They carry away my Heart between 'em.
I wish, and I wish, while it gaes duntin,
O gin I had thee on a Mountain;
Tho' Kith and Kin, and a' shou'd revile thee,
There's my Thumb I'll ne'er beguile thee.

Alane through flow'ry Hows I dander,
Tenting my Flocks, lest they shou'd wander;
Gin thou'll gae alang, I'll dawt thee gaylie,
And gi'e my Thumb I'll ne'er beguile thee.
O my dear Lassie, it is but Daffin
To had thy Woer up ay niff naffin:
That Na, na, na, I hate it most vilely;
O say, Yes, and I'll ne'er beguile thee.

The Highland Laddie.

The Lawland Lads think they are fine,
But O they're vain and idly gaudy!
How much unlike that gracefu' Mein,
And manly Looks of my Highland Laddie?

O my bonny, bonny Highland Laddie,
My handsome charming Highland Laddie:
May Heaven still guard, and Love reward
Our Lawland Lass and her Highland Laddie.

If I were free at Will to chuse
To be the wealthiest Lawland Lady,
I'd take young Donald without Trews,
With Bonnet blew, and belted Plaidy.

O my bonny, &c.

The brawest Beau in Borrows-town,
In a' his Airs, with Art made ready,
Compar'd to him, he's but a Clown;
He's finer far in's Tartan Plaidy.

O my bonny, &c.

O'er benty Hill with him I'll run,
And leave my Lawland Kin and Dady;
Frae Winter's Cauld and Summer's Sun,
He'll screen me with his Highland Plaidy.

O my bonny, &c.

A painted Room and silken Bed,
May please a Lawland Laird and Lady;
But I can kiss, and be as glad
Behind a Bush in's Highland Plaidy.

O my bonny, &c.

Few Compliments between us pass,
I ca' him my dear Highland Laddie;
And he ca's me his Lawland Lass:
Syne rows me in his Highland Plaidy.

O my bonny, &c.

Nae greater Joy I'll e'er pretend,
Than that his Love prove true and steady,
Like mine to him; which ne'er shall end,
While Heaven preserve my Highland Laddie.

O my bonny, &c.

The Coalier's bonny Lassie.

The Coalier has a Daughter,
And O she's wonder bonny;
A Laird he was that sought her,
Rich baith in Lands and Money.
The Tutors watch'd the Motion
Of this young honest Lover:
But Love is like the Ocean;
Wha can its Depth discover?

He had the Art to please ye,
And was by a' respected;
His Airs sat round him easy,
Genteel, but unaffected.
The Coalier's bonny Lassie
Fair as the new blown Lilly,
Ay sweet, and never saucy,
Secur'd the Heart of Willy.

He lov'd beyond Expression
The Charms that were about her,
And panted for Possession;
His Life was dull without her.
After mature resolving,
Close to his Breast he held her,
In saftest Flames dissolving,
He tenderly thus tell'd her;

My bonny Coalier's Daughter,
Let nathing discompose ye,
'Tis not your scanty Tocher
Shall ever make me lose ye;
For I have Gear in Plenty,
And Love says, 'tis my Duty
To ware what Heaven has lent me
Upon your Wit and Beauty.

To L. L. in Mourning.

[_]

To the Tune of, Where Helen lyes.

Ah! why those Tears in Nelly's Eyes?
To hear thy tender Sighs and Cries,
The Gods stand list'ning from the Skies,
Pleas'd with thy Piety.
To mourn the Dead, dear Nymph, forbear,
And of one dying take a Care,
Who views thee as an Angel fair,
Or some Divinity.

O be less graceful or more kind,
And cool this Fever of my Mind,
Caused by the Boy severe and blind,
Wounded I sigh for thee;
While hardly dare I hope to rise
To such a Height, by Hymen's Tyes,
To lay me down where Helen lyes,
And with thy Charms be free.

Then must I hide my Love and die,
When such a sovereign Cure is by?
No, she can love, and I'll go try,
Whate'er my Fate may be.
Which soon I'll read in her bright Eyes;
With those dear Agents I'll advise,
They tell the Truth, when Tongues tell Lies,
The least believ'd by me.

AN ODE, With a Pastoral Recitative on the Marriage of the Right Honourable, James Earl of Wemyss and Mrs. Janet Charteris.

RECITATIVE.
Last Morn young Rosalind, with laughing Een,
Met with the singing Shepherd on the Green;
Armyas height, wha us'd with tunefu' Lay
To please the Ear, when he began to play:
Him with a Smile the blooming Lass addrest;
Her chearfu' Look her inward Joy confest.

ROSALIND.
Dear Shepherd, now exert your wonted Fire,
I'll tell you News that shall your Thoughts inspire.

ARMYAS.
Out wi' them, bonny Lass, and if they'll bear,
But Ceremony you a Sang shall hear.

ROSALIND.
They'll bear, and do invite the blythest Strains,
The beauteous CHARTERISSA of these Plains,
Still to them dear, wha late made us sae wae,
When we heard tell she was far aff to gae,
And leave our heartsome Fields, her native Land,
Now's ta'en in time, and fixt by Hymen's Band.

ARMYAS.
To whom? Speak fast;—I hope ye dinna jeer.

ROSALIND.
No, no, my Dear, 'tis true, as we stand here.
The Thane of Fife, wha lately wi' his Flane,
And Vizy leel, made the Blyth Bowl his ain:
He, the Delight of baith the Sma' and Great,
Wha's bright Beginning spae his sonsy Fate,
Has gain'd her Heart; and now their mutual Flame
Retains the Fair, and a' her Wealth, at Hame.

ARMYAS.
Now Rosalind, may never Sorrow twine
Sae near your Heart, as Joys arise in mine.
Come kiss me, Lassie, and you's hear me sing
A Bridal Sang that thro' the Woods shall ring.

ROSALIND.
Ye'r ay sae daft, come take it, and hae done;
Let a' the Lines be saft, and sweet the Tune.

Armyas Sings.

Come, Shepherds, a' your Whistles join,
And shaw your blythest Faces;
The Nymph that we were like to tine,
At hame her Pleasure places.
Lilt up your Notes baith loud and gay,
Yet sweet as Philomella's,
And yearly solemnize the Day
When this good Luck befell us,

Hail to the Thane descended frae
MACDUFF renown'd in Story,
Wha Albion, frae tyrannick Sway,
Restor'd to ancient Glory:
His early Blossoms loud proclaim,
That frae this Stem he rises,
Whase Merit gives him Right to Fame,
And to the highest Prizes.

His lovely Countess sing, ye Swains,
Nae Subject can be sweeter;
The best of Blood flows in her Veins,
Which makes ilk Grace compleater:
Bright are the Beauties of her Mind,
Which frae her Dawn of Reason,
With a' the Rays of Wit hath shin'd,
Which Vertue still did season.

Straight as the Plane her Features fair,
And bonny to a Wonder;
Were Jove rampaging in the Air,
Her Smiles might stap his Thunder.
Rejoice in her then, Happy Youth;
Her innate Worth's a Treasure;
Her Sweetness a' your Cares will sooth,
And furnish endless Pleasure.

Lang may ye live t'enjoy her Charms,
And lang lang may they blossom,
Securely screen'd within your Arms,
And lodged in your Bosom.
Thrice happy Parents, justly may
Your Breasts with Joy be fired,
When you the darling Pair survey,
By a' the Warld admired.

On seeing the ARCHERS diverting themselves at the Buts and Rovers, &c.

At the Desire of Sir William Bennet.

Neque semper arcum tendit Apollo.
Apollo aft flings by his Bows,
And plays the Broom of Cowden-knows;
He sometimes drinks, ------

His Demand.

“The Rovers and the Buts you saw,
“And him who gives Despotick Law;
“In Numbers sing what you have seen
“Both in the Garden and the Green,
“And how with Wine they clos'd the Day
“In harmless Toasts, both blyth and gay:
“This to remember be 't thy Care,
“How they did Justice to the Fair.”

Th Answer.

Sir, I with much Delight beheld
The Royal Archers on the Field;
Their Garb, their Manner and their Game,
Wakes in the Mind a martial Flame.
To see them draw the bended Yew,
Brings bygane Ages to our View,

When burnish'd Swords and whizzing Flanes
Forbade the Norwegens and Danes,
Romans and Saxons, to invade
A Nation of nae Faes afraid;
Whose Virtue and true Valour sav'd
Them bravely from their being enslav'd:
esteeming 't greater not to be,
Than lose their darling Liberty.
How much unlike!—But mum for that,
Some Beaus may snarl if we should prat.
When Av'rice, Luxury and Ease,
A Tea-fac'd Generation please,
Whase pithless Limbs in Silks o'erclad,
Scarce bear the Lady-handed Lad
Frae's Looking-glass into the Chair,
Which bears him to blaflum the Fair,
Wha by their Actions come to ken
Sic are but in appearance Men.
These ill cou'd bruik, without a Beild,
To sleep in Boots upon the Field;
Yet rise as glorious as the Sun,
To end what greatly they begun.
Nor cou'd it suit their Taste and Pride
To eat an Ox boild in his Hide;
Or quaff pure Element, ah me!
Without Ream, Sugar and Bohee.

Hail noble Ghosts of each brave Sire!
Whose Sauls glow'd with a God-like Fire!
If you're to Guardian Posts assign'd,
And can with Greatness warm the Mind:
Breathe manly Ardours in your Race,
Communicate that martial Grace,
By which through Ages you maintain'd
The Caledonian Rights unstain'd;
That when our Nation makes Demands,
She may ne'er want brave Hearts and Hands.

Here, Sir, I must your Pardon ask,
If I have started from my Task;
For when the Fancy takes a Flight,
We seldom ken where it will light.

But we return to view the Band,
Under the regular Command
Of ane wha arbitrarly sways,
And makes it Law whate'er he says:
Him Honour and true Reason rule,
Which makes Submission to his Will
Nae Slav'ry, but a just Delight,
While he takes care to keep them right;
Wha never lets a Cause depend
Till the Pursuer's Power's at End;
But, like a Minister of Fate,
He speaks, and there's no more Debate:
Best Government, were Subjects sure
To find a Prince fit for sic Pow'r.

But drop we Cases not desir'd,
To paint the Archers, now retir'd
From healthfu' Sport, to chearfu' Wine,
Strength to recruit, and Wit refine;
Where innocent and blythsome Tale
Permits nae Sourness to prevail:
Here, Sir, you never fail to please,
Wha can in Phrase adapt with Ease,
Draw to the Life a' Kind of Fowks,
Proud Shaups, dull Coofs, and gabbling Gowks,
Gielaingers, and each greedy Wight,
You place them in their proper Light;
And when true Merit comes in view,
You fully pay them what's their due.

While circling wheels the hearty Glass,
Well flavour'd with some lovely Lass,
Or with the bonny fruitfu' Dame,
Wha brightens in the nuptial Flame.

My Lord, your Toast, the Præses crys:
To Lady Charlotte, he replys.
Now, Sir, let's hear your Beauty bright:
To Lady Jean, returns the Knight.
To Hamilton a Health gaes round,
And one to Eglinton is crown'd.
How sweet they taste!—Now, Sir, you say:
Then drink to her that's far away,
The lov'd Southesk. Neist, Sir, you name:
I give you Basil's handsome Dame.
Is't come to me?—then toast the Fair
That's fawn, O Cockburn, to thy Skair.
How hearty went these Healths about!
How blythly were they waughted out!
To a' the Stately, Fair and Young,
Frae Haddington and Hoptoun sprung,
To Lithgow's Daughter in her Bloom,
To dear Mackay, and comely Home,
To Creightons every way divine,
To Haldane straight as any Pine.
O how delicious was the Glass
Which was perfum'd with lovely Bess!
And sae these Rounds were flowing gi'en,
To Sisters Nisbet, Nell and Jean.
To sweet Montgomery shining fair,
To Priestfield Twins, delightfu' Pair.
To Katies Four of beauteous Fame,
Stuart and Cochran Lady claim,
Third Hamilton, Fourth Ardress Name.
To Peggies Pentland, Bang and Bell,
To Minto's Mate, and lively Nell:
To Gordons ravishingly sweet,
To Maule in whom the Graces meet,

To Hepburn wha has Charms in store,
To Pringle Harmony all o'er,
To the polite Kinloch and Hay,
To Wallace beautifu' and gay,
To Campbell, Skeen and Rutherfoord,
To Maitland fair the much ador'd,
To Lockhart with the sparkling Een,
To bonny Crawford ever green,
To Stuarts mony a dazling Bairn,
Of Invernytie and Denairn.
To gracefu' Sleigh, and Oliphant,
To Nasmith, Baird, Scot, Grier and Grant,
To Clerk, Anstruther, Frank and Graham,
To Deans agreeing with her Name.
Where are we now—. Come, to the best
In Christendom, and a' the rest.
(Dear Nymphs unnam'd, lay not the Blame
On us, or on your want of Fame,
That in this List you do not stand;
For Heads gave way:—But there's my Hand,
The neist time we have sic a Night,
We'll not neglect to do ye Right.)

Thus Beauties rare, and Virgins fine,
With blooming Belles enliven'd our Wine,
Till a' our Noses 'gan to shine.

Then down we look'd upon the Great,
Who're plagu'd with guiding of the State,
And pity'd each flegmatick Wight,
Whose creeping Sauls ken nae Delight,
But keep themsells ay on the Gloom,
Startled with Fears of what's to come.
Poor Passion! sure by Fate design'd
The Mark of an inferior Mind.
To Heaven a filial Fear we awe,
But Fears nane else a Man shou'd shaw.

Lads, cock your Bonnets, bend your Bows,
And, or in earnest, or in mows,
Be still successful, ever glad,
In Mars's or in Venus' Bed;
Sae Bards aloud shall chant your Praise,
And Ladies shall your Spirits raise.

Thus, Sir, I've sung what you requir'd,
As Mars and Venus have inspir'd.
While they inspire, and you approve,
I'll sing brave Deeds, and safter Love;
Till great Apollo say well done,
And own me for his native Son.

Mr. David Drummond President of the Council.

Wrote on Lady Somervile's Book of Scots Sangs.

Gae, canty Book, and win a Name;
Nae Lyricks e'er shall ding thee:
Hope large Esteem, and lasting Fame,
If SOMERVILLA sing thee.
If she thy sinless Faults forgive,
Which her sweet Voice can cover,
Thou shalt in spite of Criticks live
Still grateful to each Lover.

THE NUPTIALS,

A MASQUE on the Marriage of his Grace James Duke of Hamilton and Brandon, &c.

Calliope,
playing upon a Violencello, sings,

Joy to the Bridegroom, Prince of Clyde,
Lang may his Bliss and Greatness blossom;
Joy to his virtuous charming Bride,
Who gains this Day his Grace's Bosom.

Appear, great Genius of his Line,
And bear a Part in the Rejoicing;
Behold your Ward, by Powers Divine,
Join'd with a Mate of their ain choosing.

Forsake a while the Cyprian Scene,
Fair Queen of Smiles and saft Embraces,
And hither come, with a' your Train
Of Beauties, Loves, and Sports, and Graces.

Come, Hymen, bless their Nuptial Vow,
And them with mutual Joys inspire.
Descend, Minerva, for 'tis you
With Virtue beets the haly Fire.

At the Close of this Song, enters the Genius of the Family, clad in a Scarlet Robe, with a Duke's Coronet on his Head, a Shield on his left Arm, with the proper Bearing of Hamilton.

GENIUS.
Fair Mistris of harmonious Sounds, we hear
Thy Invitation gratefu' to the Ear;
Of a' the Gods, who from the Olympian Height
Bow down their Heads, and in thy Notes delight,
Jove keeps this Day in his Imperial Dome,
And I to lead th'invited Guests am come.

Enter Venus, attended by three Graces, with Minerva and Hymen, all in their proper Dresses.
CALLIOPE.
Welcome, ye bright Divinities, that guard
The Brave and Fair, and faithfu' Love reward;
All hail, immortal Progeny of Jove,
Who plant, preserve and prosper sacred Love.

GENIUS.
Be still auspicious to th'united Pair,
And let their purest Pleasures be your Care;
Your Stores of genial Blessings here employ,
To crown th'Illustrious Youth and Fair-ane's Joy.

VENUS.
I'll breathe eternal Sweets in ev'ry Air;
HE shall look always Great, SHE ever Fair;
Kind Rays shall mix the Sparkles of his Eye,
Round her the Loves in smiling Crowds shall fly,
And bear frae ilka Glance, on douny Wings,
Into his ravish'd Heart the saftest Things:
And soon as Hymen has perform'd his Rites,
I'll show'r on them my hale Idalian Sweets
They shall possess,
In each Caress,
Delights shall tire
The Muses Sire,
In highest Numbers to express.

HYMEN.
I'll busk their Bow'r, and lay them gently down,
Syne ilka langing Wish with Raptures crown;
The gloomy Nights shall ne'er unwelcome prove,
That leads them to the silent Scenes of Love.

The Sun at Morn shall dart his kindest Rays,
To chear and animate each dear Embrace:
Fond of the Fair, he falds her in his Arms;
She blushes secret, conscious of her Charms.
Rejoice, brave Youth,
In sic a Fouth
Of Joys the Gods for thee provide;
The rosy Dawn,
The flow'ry Lawn,
That Spring has dress'd in a' its Pride,
Claim nae Regard
When they're compar'd
With blooming Beauties of thy Bride.

MINERVA.
Fairest of a' the Goddesses, and thou
That links the Lovers to be ever true,
The Gods and Mortals awn your mighty Power,
But 'tis not you can make their Sweets secure:
That be my Task, to make a Friendship rise,
Shall raise their Loves aboon the vulgar Size.
Those near related to the brutal Kind,
Ken nathing of the Wedlock of the Mind;
'Tis I can make a Life a hinny Moon,
And mould a Love shall last like that aboon.
A' these sma' Springs, whence cauld Reserve and Spleen
Take their first Rise, and favour'd flow mair keen,
I shall discover in a proper View,
To keep their Joys unmix'd, and ever new.
Nor Jealousy, nor envious Mouth,
Shall dare to blast their Love;
But Wisdom, Constancy and Truth,
Shall ev'ry Bliss improve.

GENIUS.
Thrice happy Chief, sae much the Care
Of a' the Family of Jove,
A thousand Blessings wait the Fair,
Who is found worthy of his Love.
Lang may the fair Attractions of her Mind
Make Her still lovelier, Him for ever kind.

MINERVA.
The Ancestors of mightiest Chiefs and Kings,
Nae higher can derive than humane Springs;
Yet frae the common Soil each wondrous Root,
Aloft to Heaven their spreading Branches shoot:
Bauld in my Aid, these triumph'd over Fate,
Fam'd for unbounded Thought or stern Debate,
Born high upon an undertaking Mind,
Superior raise, and left the Crowd behind.

GENIUS.

Frae these descending, laurel'd with Renown,
My Charge throw Ages draws his Lineage down.
The Paths of sic Forbeers lang may He trace,
And She be Mother to as fam'd a Race.

When blew Diseases fill the drumly Air,
And red het Bowts throw Flaughts of Lightning rair,
Or madning Faction shakes the sanguine Sword,
With watchfu' Eye I'll tent my darling Lord,
And his lov'd Mate,—tho' Furies shou'd break loose,
Awake or sleeping, shall enjoy Repose.

I. GRACE.
While Gods keep Haly-day, and Mortals smile,
Let Nature with Delights adorn the Isle:
Be hush, bauld North, Favonius only blaw,
And cease, bleak Clouds, to shed or Weet or Snaw;
Shine bright, thou radiant Ruler of the Year,
And gar the Spring with earlier Pride appear.

II. GRACE.
Thy Month, great Queen of Goddesses, make gay,
Which gains new Honours frae this Marriage Day.
On Glotta's Banks, ye healthfu' Hynds, resort,
And with the Landart Lasses blythly sport.

III. GRACE.
Wear your best Faces and your Sunday's Weeds,
And rouse the Dance with your maist tunefu' Reeds;
Let tunefu' Voices join the rural Sound,
And wake responsive Echo all around.

I. GRACE.
Sing your great Master, Scotia's eldest Son,
And the lov'd Angel that his Heart has won;
Come, Sisters, let's frae Arts hale Stores collect
Whatever can her native Beauties deck,
That in the Day she may eclipse the Light,
And ding the Constellations of the Night.

VENUS.
Cease, busy Maids, your artfu' Buskings raise,
But small Addition to her genuine Rays;
Tho' ilka Plain and ilka Sea combine
To make her with their richest Product shine,

100

Her lip, her Bosom, and her sparkling Een,
Excel the Ruby, Pearl, and Diamond sheen:
These lesser Ornaments, illustrious Bride,
As Bars to safter Blessings, fling aside,
Steal frae them sweetly to your Nuptial Bed,
As frae its Body slides the sainted Shade;
Frae loath'd Restraint to Liberty above,
Where all is Harmony, and all is Love:
Haste to these Blessings,—kiss the Night away,
And make it ten times pleasanter than Day.

HYMEN.
The Whisper and Caress shall shorten Hours,
While kindly as the Beams on dewy Flowers;
Thy Sun, like him who the fresh Bevrage sips,
Shall feast upon the Sweetness of thy Lips:
My haly Hand maun chastly now unloose
That Zone which a' thy Virgin Charms enclose:
That Zone shou'd be less gratefu' to the Fair
Than easy Bands of safter Wedlock are.
That lang unbuckled grows a hatefu' thing,
The langer These are bound, they mair of Honour bring.

MINERVA.
Yes, happy Pair, what e'er the Gods inspire,
Pursue, and gratify each just Desire:
Enjoy your Passions, with full Transports mixt;
But still observe the Bounds by Vertue fixt.

Enter
BACCHUS.
What brings Minerva here this rantin Night?
She's good for nathing but to preach or fight:
Is this a Time for either!—Swith away,
Or learn like us to be a thought mair gay.

101

MINERVA.
Peace, Theban Roarer, while the milder Powers
Give Entertainment, there's nae need of yours;
The pure Reflection of our calmer Joys
Has mair of Heaven than a' thy flashy Noise.

BACCHUS.
Ye canna want it, Faith! You that appear
Anes at a Bridal but in twenty Year:
A Ferly 'tis your Dortiship to see;
But where was e'er a Wedding without me?
Blew Een, remember, I'm baith Hap and Saul
To Venus there, but me she'd starve o' Caul.

VENUS.
We awn the Truth,—Minerva, cease to check
Our jolly Brother with your Disrespect;
He's never absent at the Treats of Jove,
And shou'd be present at this Feast of Love.

GENIUS.
Maist welcome Power, that chears the vital Streams,
When Pallas guards thee frae thy wild Extremes;
Thy rosy Visage at these solemn Rites,
My generous Charge with open Smiling greets.

BACCHUS.
I'm nae great Dab at Speeches that maun clink,
But there's my Paw I shall fou tightly drink
A hearty Health to thir same lovely Twa,
That are sae meikle dauted by you a';
Then with my Juice a reeming Bicquor crown,
I'll gie the Toast, and see it fairly round.

102

Enter Ganymed, with a Flagon in one Hand, and a Glass in the other,—speaks.
[GANYMED.]
To you, blyth Beings, the benign Director
Of Gods and Men,—to keep your Sauls in tift,—
Has sent you here a Present of his Nectar,
As good as e'er was browen aboon the Lift.

BACCHUS.

Ha, Gany! Come, my dainty Boy,
Skink 't up, and let us prive;
Without it Life wad be a Toy:
Here, gi'e me't in my Nive.

(Takes the Glass)

Good Health to Hamilton, and his
Lov'd Mate:—O Father Jove, we crave
Thou'lt grant them a lang Tack of Bliss,
And Rowth of bonny Bairns and brave.

Pour on them, frae thy endless Store,
A' Bennisons that are divine,
With as good Will as I waught o'er
This flowing Glass of heav'nly Wine.

(Drinks, and causes all the Company to drink round.)

Come, see 't about, and syne let's all advance,
Mortals and Gods be Pairs, and tak a Dance;
Minerva mim, for a' your Morals stoor,
Ye shall with Billy Bacchus fit the Floor:
Play up there, Lassie, some blyth Scottish Tune,
Syne a' be blyth, when Wine and Wit gae round.

The Health about, Musick and Dancing begin.—The Dancing over before her Grace retires with the Ladies to be undress'd; Calliope sings the

EPITHALAMIUM.

Bright is the Low of Lawfu' Love,
Which shining Sauls impart;
It to Perfection mounts above,
And glows about the Heart.

103

It is the Flame gives lasting Worth,
To Greatness, Beauty, Wealth, and Birth,—
On You, illustrious youthfu' Pair,
Who are high Heavens Delight and Care;
The blessfu' Beam darts warm and fair,
And shall improve the rest
Of a' these Gifts baith great and rare,
Of which ye are possest.

BACCHUS, bear off your dinsome Gang,
Hark, frae yon Howms the rural Thrang
Invite you now away;
While ilka Hynd,
And Maiden kind,
Dance in a Ring,
While Shepherds sing
In Honour of the Day;
Gae drink and dance
Till Morn advance,
And set the twinkling Fires,
While we prepare
To lead the Fair
And Brave to their Desires.

Gae, Loves and Graces, take your Place,
Around the Nuptial Bed abide;
Fair Venus heighten each Embrace,
And smoothly make their Minutes slide.
Gae, Hymen, put the Couch in Case,
Minerva thither lead the Bride;
Neist, all attend his youthfu' Grace,
And lay him sweetly by her Side.

An unknown ingenious Friend did me the Honour of the following Introduction to the London Edition of this Masque; and being a Poet, my Vanity will be pardoned for incerting of it here.

“The present Poem being a Revival of a good old Form of Poetry in high Repute with us, it may not be amiss to say something of a Diversion once so agreeable, and so long interrupted, or disused. The Original of Masques seems to be an Imitation of the Interludes of the Ancients, presented on Occasion of some Ceremony performed in a great and noble Family. The Actors in this Kind of Half-Dramatic Poetry have formerly been even Kings, Princes, and the first Personages of the Kingdom; and in private Families, the noblest and nearest Branches. The Machinery was of the greatest Magnificence; very shewy, costly, and not uncommonly contrived by the ablest Architects, as well as the best Poets. Thus we see in Ben. Johnson the Name of Inigo Jones, and the same in Carew; whether as the Modeller only, or as Poet in Conjunction with them, seems to be doubtful, there being nothing of our English Vitruvius left (that I know of) that places him in the Class of Writers. These Shews we trace backwards as far as Henry VIII, from thence to Q. Elizabeth, and her Successor K. James, who was both a great Encourager and Admirer of them. The last Masque, and the best ever written, was that of Milton, presented at Ludlow Castle, in the Praise of which no Words can be too many: And I remember to have heard the late excellent Mr Addison agree with me in that Opinion. Coronations, Princely Nuptials, Public Feasts, the Entertainment of foreign Quality, were the usual Occasions of this Performance, and the best Poet of the Age was courted to be the Author. Mr. Ramsay has made a noble and successful Attempt to revive this kind of Poesy, on a late celebrated Account, And tho' he is often to be admired in all his Writings, yet, I think, never more than in his present Composition. A particular Friend gave it a Second Edition in England, which, I fancy, the Public will agree that it deserved.”

104

ODE On the Marriage of the Right Honourable George Lord Ramsay and Lady Jean Maule.

Hail to the brave apparent Chief,
Boast of the RAMSAYS Clanish Name,
Whose Ancestors stood the Relief
Of SCOTLAND, Ages known to Fame.

Hail to the lovely She, whose Charms,
Complete in Graces, meets His Love;
Adorn'd with all that Greatness warms,
And makes Him grateful bow to Jove.

Both from a Line of Patriots rise,
Chiefs of DALHOUSIE and PANMURE,
Whose loyal Fames shall Stains despise,
While Ocean flows and Orbs endure.

The RAMSAYS! Caledonia's Prop;
The MAULES! struck still her Foes with Dread:
Now joyn'd; we, from the Union, hope
A Race of Heroes shall succeed.

Let meaner Souls transgress the Rules
That's fix'd by Honour, Love and Truth,
While little Views proclaim them Fools,
Unworthy Beauty, Sense and Youth.

Whil'st You, blest Pair, belov'd by all
The Powers above, and Best below,
Shall have Delights attend Your Call,
And lasting Pleasures on You flow.

105

What Fate has fix'd, and Love has done,
The Guardians of Mankind approve:
Well may they finish what's begun,
And from Your Joys all Cares remove.

We wish'd,—When straight a heavenly Voice
Inspir'd,—we heard the Blew-ey'd Maid
Cry, Who dare quarrel with the Choice?
The Choice is mine, be mine their Aid.

Be thine their Aid, O wisest Power,
And soon again we hope to see
Their Plains return, splendid their Tower,
And blossom broad the Edge-well-Tree.

Whilst He with manly Merits stor'd,
Shall rise the Glory of His Clan;
She for Celestial Sweets ador'd,
Shall ever charm the gracefu' Man.

Soon may their Royal Bird extend
His sable Plumes, and Lordships claim,
Which to His valiant Sires pertain'd,
E'er Earls in Albion were a Name.

Ye Parents of the happy Pair,
With gen'rous Smiles consenting, own
That they deserve Your kindest Care:
Thus with the Gods their Pleasure crown.

Haste, ev'ry Grace, each Love and Smile,
From fragrant Cyprus spread the Wing;
To deck their Couch, exhaust your Isle
Of all the Beauties of the Spring.

On them attend with Homage due.
In Him are Mars and Phœbus seen;
And in the Noble Nymph you'll view
The sage Minerva, and your Queen.

See Note, Vol. I., p. 177.

The Spread Eagle Sable, on a Field Argent, is the Arms of the Earl of Dalhousie.

106

ODE On the Birth of the Most Honourable Marquis of Dumlanrig .

Help me, some God, with sic a Muse
As Pope and Granvile aft employ,
That I may flowing Numbers chuse,
To hail the welcome Princely Boy.

But, bred up far frae shining Courts,
In Moorland Glens, where nought I see,
But now and then some Landart Lass,
What Sounds polite can flow frae me?

Yet my blyth Lass, amang the lave,
With honest Heart her Homage pays;
Tho' no sae nice she can behave,
Yet always as she thinks she says.

Arise, ye Nymphs, on Nytha's Plains,
And gar the Craigs and Mountains ring;
Rouse up the Sauls of a' the Swains,
While you the lovely Infant sing.

Keep Haly-day on ilka Howm,
With Gowan Garlands gird your Brows;
Out o'er the Dales in Dances roam,
And shout around the jovial News.

107

By the good Bennison of Heaven,
To free you frae the future Fright
Of foreign Lords, a Babe is given,
To guard your Int'rest and your Right.

With Pleasure view your Prince, who late
Up to the state of Manhood run,
Now, to complete his happy Fate,
Sees his ain Image in a Son.

A Son, for whom be this your Pray'r,
Ilk Morning soon as Dawn appears,
GOD grant him an unmeasur'd Skair
Of a' that grac'd his great Forbeers:

That his Great Sire may live to see,
Frae his delightfu' Infant spring,
A wise and stalwart Progeny,
To fence their Country and their King.

Still bless her Grace frae whom he sprung,
With blythsome Heal her Strength renew,
That throw lang Life she may be young,
And bring forth Cautioners enow.

Watch well, ye Tenants of the Air,
Wha hover round our Heads unseen;
Let dear DUMLANRIG be your Care,
Or when he lifts or steeks his Een.

Ye hardy Heroes, whase brave Pains
Defeated ay th'invading Rout,
Forsake a wee th'Elisian Plains,
View, smile and bless your lovely Sprout.

Ye Fair, wha've kend the Joys of Love,
And glow with chearfu' Heal and Youth,
Sic as of auld might nurse a Jove,
Or lay the Breast t'Alcide's Mouth;

108

The best and bonniest of ye a'
Take the sweet Babie in your Arms;
May he nought frae your Bosoms draw,
But Nectar to nurse up his Charms.

Harmoniously the Notes express,
When singing you his Dumps debar,
That Discord never may impress
Upon his blooming Mind a Jar.

Sound a' the Poet in his Ears,
E'en while he's hanging at the Breast:
Thus moulded, when he comes to Years,
With an exalted Gust he'll feast

On Lays immortal, which forbid
The Death of DOUGLAS' doughty Name,
Or in Oblivion let ly hid
The HYDES their Beauty and their Fame.

109

EPISTLE To Mr. JOHN GAY, Author of the Shepherd's Week, on hearing her Grace Dutchess of Queensberry commend some of his Poems.

Dear Lad, wha linkan o'er the Lee,
Sang Blowzalind and Bowzybee,
And, like the Lavrock, merrily
Wak'd up the Morn,
When thou didst tune, with heartsome Glee,
Thy Bog-reed-horn.

To thee, frae Edge of Pentland Height,
Where Fawns and Fairies take Delight,
And revel a' the live lang Night,
O'er Glens and Braes,
A Bard that has the second Sight
Thy Fortune spaes.

Now, lend thy Lug, and tent me, GAY,
Thy Fate appears like Flow'rs in May,
Fresh flowrishing, and lasting ay,
Firm as the Aik,
Which envious Winds, when Criticks bray,
Shall never shake.

Come, shaw your Loof.—Ay, there's the Line
Fortells thy Verse shall ever shine,
Dawted whilst living by the Nine,
And a' the Best,
And be, when past the mortal Line,
Of Fame possest.

110

Immortal Pope, and skilfu' John,
The learned Leach frae Callidon,
With mony a witty Dame and Don,
O'er lang to name,
Are of your Roundels very fon,
And sound your Fame.

And sae do I, wha roose but few,
Which nae sma' Favour is to you:
For to my Friends I stand right true,
With Shanks a spar;
And my good Word (ne'er gi'en but due)
Gangs unko far.

Here mettled Men my Muse mantain,
And ilka Beauty is my Friend;
Which keeps me canty, brisk and bein,
Ilk wheeling Hour,
And a sworn Fae to hatefu' Spleen,
And a' that's sour.

But bide ye Boy, the main's to say,
Clarinda bright as rising Day,
Divinely Bonny, Great and Gay,
Of thinking even,
Whase Words and Looks, and Smiles display
Full Views of Heaven.

To rumage Nature for what's braw,
Like Lillies, Roses, Gems and Snaw;
Compar'd with her's, their Lustre fa',
And bauchly tell
Her Beauties: She excels them a',
And's like her sell.

111

As fair a Form as e'er was blest,
To have an Angel for a Guest;
Happy the Prince who is possest
Of sic a Prize,
Whose Vertues place her with the best
Beneath the Skies.

O sonsy GAY! this heavenly born,
Whom ev'ry Grace strives to adorn,
Looks not upon thy Lays with Scorn;
Then bend thy Knees,
And bless the Day that ye was born
With Arts to please.

She says, Thy Sonnet smoothly sings,
Sae ye may craw and clap your Wings,
And smile at Ether-capite Stings
With careless Pride,
When sae much Wit and Beauty brings
Strength to your Side.

Lilt up your Pipes, and rise aboon
Your Trivia and your Moorland Tune,
And sing Clarinda late and soon,
In touring Strains,
Till gratefu' Gods cry out, Well done,
And praise thy Pains.

Exalt thy Voice, that all around,
May echo back the lovely Sound,
Frae Dover Cliffs, with Samphire crown'd,
To Thule's Shore,
Where Northward no more Britain's found
But seas that rore.

112

Thus sing,—whil'st I frae Arthur's Height,
O'er Chiviot glowr with tyr'd Sight,
And langing wish, like raving Wight,
To be set down,
Frae Coach and sax, baith trim and tight,
In London Town.

But lang I'll gove and bleer my Ee,
Before, alake! that Sight I see;
Then, best Relief, I'll strive to be
Quiet and content,
And streek my Limbs down easylie
Upon the Bent.

There sing the Gowans, Broom and Trees,
The Crystal Burn and Westlin Breez,
The bleeting Flocks, and bisy Bees,
And blythsome Swains,
Wha rant and dance, with kiltit Dees,
O'er Mossy Plains.

Farewell;—but, e'er we part, let's pray,
GOD save Clarinda Night and Day,
And grant her a' she'd wish to ha'e,
Withoutten End!—
Nae mair at present I've to say,
But am your Friend.

Dr. Arbuthnot.

113

ODE To the Right Honourable Grace Countess of Aboyn,

On her Marriage Day.

In Martial Fields the Heroe toils,
And wades throw Blood to purchase Fame;
O'er dreadful Waves, from distant Soils,
The Merchant brings his Treasures hame.

But Fame and Wealth no Joys bestow,
If plac'd alane they Cyphers stand;
'Tis to the Figure Love they owe
The real Joys that they command.

Blest He who Love and Beauty gains,
Gains what contesting Kings might claim,
Might bring brave Armies to the Plains,
And loudly swell the Blast of Fame.

How happy then is young ABOYN!
Of how much Heaven is he possest!
How much the Care of Pow'rs divine,
Who lyes in lovely LOCKHART's Breast!

Gazing in Raptures on thy Charms,
Thy sparkling Beauty, Shape and Youth,
He grasps all Softness in his Arms,
And sips the Nectar from thy Mouth.

If sympathetick Likeness crave
Indulgent Parents to be kind,
Each Pow'r shall guard the Charm they gave,
Venus thy Face, Pallas thy Mind.

114

O Muse, we could,—but stay thy Flight;
The Field is sacred as 'tis sweet;
Who dares to paint the ardent Night,
When ravish'd Youth and Beauty meet?

Here we must draw a Veil between,
And shade those Joys too dazling clear,
By ev'ry Eye not to be seen,
Not to be heard by ev'ry Ear.

Still in her Smiles, ye Cupids, play;
Still in her Eyes your Revels keep;
Her Pleasure be your Care by Day,
And whisper Sweetness in her Sleep.

Be banish'd, each ill natur'd Care,
Base Offspring of fantastick Spleen;
Of Access here you must despair,
Her Breast for you is too serene.

May Guardian Angels hover round
Thy Head, and ward aff all Annoy;
Be all thy Days with Raptures crown'd,
And all thy Nights be blest with Joy.

EPIGRAM.

[Minerva wandring in a Myrtle Grove]

Minerva wandring in a Myrtle Grove,
Accosted thus the smiling Queen of Love,
Revenge your self, you've Cause to be afraid,
Your boasted Pow'r yields to a British Maid:
She seems a Goddess, all her Graces shine;
Love leads her Beauty, which eclipses thine.
Each Youth, I know (says Venus) thinks she's me;
Immediately she speaks, they think she's thee:
Good Pallas, thus you're foil'd as well as I.
Ha, ha! (crys Cupid) that's my MALY SLEIGH.

115

On the Marriage of Alexander Brodie of Brodie, Lord Lyon King of Arms, and Mrs. Mary Sleigh.

When Time was young, and Innocence,
With tender Love govern'd this Round,
No mean Design to give Offence
To Constancy and Truth was found;
All free from Fraud, upon the flow'ry Sward,
Lovers carest with fond and chast Regard.

From easy Labours of the Day
Each Pair to Leafy Bowers retir'd;
Contentment kept them ever gay,
While kind connubial Sweets conspir'd,
With smiling Quiet and balmy Health throu' Life,
To make the happy Husband and the Wife.

Our modern Wits in Wisdom less,
With Spirits weak, and wavering Minds,
Void of Resolve, poorly confess
They cannot relish aught that binds.
Let Libertines of Taste sae wond'rous nice,
Despise to be confin'd in Paradise.

While BRODIE with his beauteous SLEIGH,
On purest Love can safely feast,
Quaff Raptures from her sparkling Eye,
And judge of Heaven within her Breast:
No dubious Cloud to gloom upon his Joy,
Possessing of what's Good can never cloy.

Her Beauty might for ever warm,
Altho' her Soul were less divine,
The Brightness of her Mind could charm,
Did less her graceful Beauties shine:
But both united, with full Force inspire
The warmest Wish, and the most lasting Fire.

116

In your accomplish'd Mate, young Thane,
Without Reserve ye may rejoice;
The Heavens your Happiness sustain,
And all that think, admire your Choice.
Around your Treasure circling Arms entwine,
Be all thy Pleasure her's, and her's be thine.

Rejoice, dear MARY, in thy Youth,
The first of his brave ancient Clan,
Whose Soul delights in Love and Truth,
And view'd in every Light a Man
To whom the Fates with liberal Hand have given
Good Sense, true Honour, and a Temper even.

When Love and Reason thus unite
An equal Pair in sacred Ties,
They gain the humane Bliss complete,
And Approbation from the Skies.
Since you approve, kind Heaven, upon them pour
The best of Blessings to their latest Hour.

To you who rule above the Sun,
To you who fly in fluid Air,
We leave to finish what's begun,
Still to reward and watch the Pair.
Thus far the Muse, who did an Answer wait,
And heard the Gods name Happiness their Fate.

To Josiah Burchet Esq;

On his being chosen Member of Parliament.

My BURCHET's Name! well pleas'd, I saw
Amang the chosen Leet,
Wha are to give Britannia Law,
And keep her Rights complete.

117

O may the rest wha fill the House
Be of a Mind with thee,
And British Liberty espouse;
We glorious Days may see.

The Name of Patriot is mair great
Than Heaps of ill win Gear:
What boots an opulent Estate,
Without a Conscience clear?

While sneaking Sauls for Cash wad troke
Their Country, GOD and King,
With Pleasure we the Villain mock,
And hate the worthless thing.

With a' your Pith, the like of you,
Superior to what's mean,
Shou'd gar the truckling Rogues look blew,
And cow them laigh and clean.

Down with them,—down with a' that dare
Oppose the Nation's Right;
Sae may your Fame like a fair Star
Throu' future Times shine bright.

Sae may kind Heaven propitious prove,
And grant what e'er ye crave;
And him a Corner in your Love,
Wha is your humble Slave.

118

The General Mistake:

A Satyre. Inscrib'd to the Right Honourable Lord Erskine.

The finish'd Mind in all its Movements bright,
Surveys the self-made Sumph in proper Light,
Allows for native Weakness, but disdains
Him who the Character with Labour gains:
Permit me then, my Lord (since you arise
With a clear Saul aboon the common Size)
To place the following Sketches in your View;
The Warld will like me, if I'm roos'd by You.

Is there a Fool, frae Senator to Swain?
Take ilk ane's Verdict for himsell,—there's nane.
A thousand other Wants make thousands fret,
But nane for want of Wisdom quarrels Fate.
Alas! how gen'ral prove the great Mistake,
When others throu' their Neighbours Failings rake?
Detraction then, by Spite, is born too far,
And represents Men warse than what they are.
Come then, Impartial Satyre, fill the Stage
With Fools of ilka Station, Sex and Age;
Point out the Folly, hide the Person's Name,
Since Obduration follows publick Shame:
Silent Conviction calmly can reform,
While open Scandal rages to a Storm.

Proceed, but in the List, poor things forbear,
Who only in the humane Form appear,
Scarce animated with that heavenly Fire
Which makes the Soul with boundless Thoughts aspire;

119

Such move our Pity,—Nature is to blame—
'Tis Fools, in some things wise, that Satyre claim:
Such as Nugator, mark his solemn Mien,
Stay'd are his Features, scarcely move his Een,
Which deep beneath his knoted Eye-brows sink,
And he appears as ane wad guess to think;
Even sae he does, and can exactly shaw
How mony Beans make five, take three awa!
Deep read in Latin Folio's, four Inch thick,
He probs your crabit Points into the quick;
Delights in dubious things to give Advice,
Admires your Judgment, if you think him wise:
And stifly stands by what he anes thought right,
Altho' oppos'd with Reason's clearest Light.
On him ilk Argument is thrown away,
Speak what ye will, he tents not what you say:
He hears himsell, and currently runs o'er
All on the Subject he has said before;
'Till glad to ease his Jaws and tired Tongue,
Th'Opponent rests,—Nugator thinks him dung.
Thou solemn Trifler,—ken thou art despis'd,
Thy stiff Pretence to Wisdom, nathing priz'd
By sic as can their Notions fause decline,
When Truth darts on them with convicting shine.
How hateful's dull Opinion! prop'd with Words,
That nought to any ane of Sense affords,
But tiresome Jargon.—Learn to laugh, at least,
That Part of what thou says may pass for Jest.

Now turn your Eye to smooth Chicander next,
In whom good Sense seems with good Humour mixt;
But only seems:—For Envy, Malice, Guile,
And sic base Vices, crowd behind his Smile.
Nor can his Thoughts beyond mean Quirks extend,
He thinks a Trick nae Crime that gains his End:
A Crime! No, 'tis his Brag; he names it Wit,
And triumphs o'er a better Man he 'as bit.

120

Think shame Chicander of your creeping Slights,
True Wisdom in Sincerity delights;
The sumphish Mob of Penetration shawl,
May gape and ferly at your cunning Saul,
And make ye fancy that there is Desert
In thus employing a' your sneaking Art.
But do not think that Men of clearer Sense
Will e'er admit of sic a vile Pretence,
To that which dignifies the humane Mind,
And acts in Honour with the bright and blind.

Reverse of this fause Face, observe yon Youth,
A strict plain Dealer, aft o'er stretching Truth;
Severely sowr, he's ready to reprove
The least wrang Step in those who have his Love:
Yet what's of Worth in them he over-rates;
But much they're to be pitied whom he hates.
Here his Mistake, his weakest Side appears,
When he a Character in Pieces tears;
He gives nae Quarter, nor to great or sma',
Even Beauty guards in vain; he lays at a'.
This Humour, aften flowing o'er due Bounds,
Too deeply mony a Reputation wounds;
For which he's hated by the suffering Crowd,
Who jointly 'gree to rail at him aloud,
And as much shun his Sight and bitter Tongue,
As they wad do a Wasp that had them stung.
Censorious learn sometimes at Faults to wink,
The wisest ever speak less than they think;
Tho' thus superior Judgment you may vaunt,
Yet this proud Worm-wood show o't, speaks a Want:
A Want in which your Folly will be seen,
Till you increase in Wit, and have less Spleen.

Make way there,—when a mortal God appears!
Why do ye laugh? King Midas wore sic Ears—
How wise he looks? Well, wad he never speak,
People wad think him neither dull nor weak:

121

But ah! he fancies, 'cause he's chosen a Tool,
That a furr'd Gown can free him frae the Fool;
Straight he, with paughty Mien, and lordly Glooms,
A vile affected Air, not his, assumes;
Stawks stifly by, when better Men salute,
Discovering less of Senator than Brute.
Yet, is there e'er a wiser Man than he?
Speer at himsell; and, if he will be free,
He'll tell you, Nane.—Will Judges tell a Lie?

But let him pass, and with a Smile observe
Yon tatter'd Shadow, almaist like to starve;
And yet he strutes, proud of his vast Ingine,
He is an Author, writes exquisite fine:
Sae fine, in Faith! that every vulgar Head
Cannot conceive his Meaning while they read.
He hates the World for this;—with bitter Rage
He damns the stupid Dulness of the Age.
The Printer is unpaid.—Booksellers swear,
Ten Copies will not sell in ten lang Year:
And wad not that sair fret a learned Mind,
To see those shou'd be Patrons prove sae blind,
Not to approve of what cost meikle Pains,
Neglect of Bus'ness, Sleep, and waste of Brains?
And a' for nought, but to be vilely us'd,
As Pages are whilk Buyers have refus'd.
Ah! Fellow Lab'rers for the Press, take heed,
And force nae Fame that Way, if ye wad speed:
Mankind must be (we have nae other) Judge,
And if they are displeas'd, why should we grudge?
If happily you gain them to your Side,
Then bauldly mount your Pegasus, and ride:
Value your sell only what they desire;
What does not take, commit it to the Fire.

Next him a Penman with a bluffer Air,
Stands 'tween this twa best Friends that lull his Care,
Nam'd Money in baith Pouches—with three Lines
Yclipt a Bill, he digs the Indian Mines,

122

Jobs, changes, lends, extorses, cheats and grips,
And no ae Turn of gainfu' Us'ry slips,
Till he has won, by wise Pretence and snell,
As meikle as may drive his Bairns to Hell,
His ain lang Hame.—This Sucker thinks nane wise,
But him who can to immense Riches rise:
Lear, Honour, Vertue, and sic heavenly Beams,
To him appear but idle airy Dreams,
Nor fit for Men of Business to mind,
That are for great and golden Ends design'd.
Send for him, Deel!—till then, good Men, take care
To keep at Distance frae his Hook and Snare;
He has nae Rewth, if Coin comes in the play,
He'll draw, indorse, and horn to Death his Prey.

Not thus Macsomno pushes after Praise,
He treats, and is admir'd in all he says;
Cash well bestow'd, which helps a Man to pass
For wise in his ain thinking, that's an Ass:
Poor Skybalds, curs'd with less of Wealth than Wit,
Blyth of a gratis Gaudeamus, sit
With Look attentive, ready all about,
To give the Laugh when his dull Joke comes out;
Accustom'd with his Conversation bright,
They ken as by a Watch the time of Night,
When he's at sic a Point of sic a Tale,
Which to these Parasites grows never stale,
Tho' often tald.—Like Lethe's Stream, his Wine
Makes them forget!—that he again may shine.
“Fy! Satyre hald thy Tongue, thou art too rude
“To jeer a Character that seems sae good:
“This Man may beet the Poet bare and clung,
“That rarely has a Shilling in his Spung.”
Hang him!—there's Patrons of good Sense enew
To cherish and support the tuneful few,
Whose Penetration's never at a Loss
In right distinguishing of Gold frae Dross:
Employ me freely, if thou'd Laurels wear,
Experience may teach thee not to fear.

123

But see anither gives mair Cause for Dread,
He thraws his Gab, and aft he shakes his Head;
A Slave to Self-conceit, and a' that's sowr,
T'acknowledge Merit, is not in his Power:
He reads,—but ne'er the Author's Beauties minds,
And has nae Pleasure where nae Faults he finds.
Much hated Gowk, tho' vers'd in kittle Rules,
To be a Wirry-kow to writing Fools,
Thy sell the greatest, only learn'd in Words,
Which naithing but the cauld and dry affords.
Dar'st thou of a' thy Betters slighting speak,
That have na grutten sae meikle learning Greek:
Thy Depths well kend, and a' thy silly Vaunts,
To ilka solid Thinker shaw thy Wants.
Thus Cowards deave us with a thousand Lies
Of dangerous Vict'ries they have won in Pleas.
Sae shallow Upstarts strive with Care to hide
Their mean Descent (which inly gaws their Pride)
By counting Kin, and making endless Faird,
If that their Grany's Uncle's Oye's a Laird.
Scar-crows, Hen-hearted, and ye meanly born,
Appear just what ye are, and dread nae Scorn;
Labour in Words,—keep hale your Skins: Why not?
Do well, and nane your laigh Extract will quote,
But to your Praise.—Walk aff, till we remark

Yon little coxy Wight, that makes sic Wark
With Tongue and Gate: How crously does he stand?
His Taes turn'd out, on his left Haunch his Hand;
The right beats Time a hundred various Ways,
And points the Pathos out in a' he says.
Wow! but he's proud! when almaist out of Breath,
At ony time he clatters a Man to Death,
Wha is oblig'd sometime t'attend the Sot,
To save the captiv'd Buttons of his Coat.
Thou dinsome Jack-daw, ken 'tis a Disease
This Palsy in thy Tongue that ne'er can please;
Of a' Mankind, thou art the maist mistane
To think this Way the Name of Sage to gain.

124

Now, lest I shou'd be thought too much like thee,
I'll give my Readers leave to breathe a wee;
If they allow my Pictur's like the Life,
Mae shall be drawn; Originals are rife.

The Phœnix and the Owl.

Phoenix the first, th'Arabian Lord,
And Chief of all the feather'd Kind,
A hundred Ages had ador'd
The Sun, with Sanctity of Mind.

Yet, mortal, he maun yield to Fate,
He heard the Summons with a Smile,
And unalarm'd, without Regret,
He form'd himsell a Fun'ral Pile.

A Howlet, Bird of mean Degree,
Poor, dosen'd, lame, and doited auld,
Lay lurking in a neighb'ring Tree,
Cursing the Sun loot him be cauld.

Said Phœnix, Brother, why so griev'd,
To ban the Being gives thee Breath?
Learn to die better than thou'st liv'd;
Believe me, there's nae Ill in Death.

Believe ye that? the Owl reply'd;
Preach as ye will, Death is an Ill:
When young I ilka Pleasure try'd,
But now I die against my Will.

For you, a Species by your sell,
Near Eeldins with the Sun your God,
Nae Ferly 'tis to hear you tell,
Ye're tired, and incline to nod.

125

It shou'd be sae; for had I been
As lang upon the Warld as ye,
Nae Tears shou'd e'er drap frae my Een,
For Tinsel of my hollow Tree.

And what, return'd the Arabian Sage,
Have ye t'observe ye have not seen?
Ae Day's the Picture of an Age,
'Tis ay the same thing o'er again.

Come, let us baith togither die:
Bow to the Sun that gave thee Life;
Repent thou frae his Beams did flee,
And end thy Poortith, Pain and Strife.

Thou wha in Darkness took Delight,
Frae Twangs of Guilt could'st ne'er be free:
What won thou by thy shunning Light?—
But Time flees on;—I haste to die.

Ye'r Servant, Sir, reply'd the Owl,
I likena in the Dark to lowp:
The Byword ca's that Cheil a Fool,
That slips a Certainty for Hope.

Then straight the zealous feather'd King
To's Aromatick Nest retir'd,
Collected Sun-beams with his Wing,
And in a spicy Flame expir'd.

Mean time there blew a Westlin Gale,
Which to the Howlet bore a Coal;
The Saint departed on his Pile,
But the Blasphemer in his Hole.

He died for ever,—fair and bright;
The Phœnix frae his Ashes sprang,
Thus wicked Men sink down to Night,
While just Men join the glorious Thrang.

126

To the Honourable Sir John Clerk of Pennycuik Baronet, one of the Barons of Exchequer, on the Death of his most accomplished Son John Clerk Esq; who died the 20th Year of his Age.

If Tears can ever be a Duty found,
'Tis when the Deaths of dear Relations wound;
Then you must weep, you have too just a Ground.

A Son whom all the Good and Wise admir'd,
Shining with ev'ry Grace to be desir'd;
Rais'd high your joyful Hopes, and then retir'd.

Nature must yield, when such a weighty Load
Rouzes the Passions, and makes Reason nod:
But who may contradict the Will of GOD!

By his great Author, Man was sent below,
Some Things to learn, great Pains to undergo,
To fit him for what further he's to know.

This End obtain'd, without regarding Time,
He calls the Soul home to its native Clime,
To Happiness and Knowledge more sublime.

Thus some in Youth like Eagles mount the Steep,
Which leads to Man, and fathom Learning's Deep;
Others thro' Age with reptile Motion creep.

Like lazy Streams which fill the Fenny Strand,
In muddy Pools they long unactive stand,
Till spent in Vapour, or immers'd in Sand.

But down its flinty Channel, without Stain,
The Mountain Rill flows eagerly to gain,
With a full Tide, its Origine the Main.

127

Thus your lov'd Youth, whose bright aspiring Mind
Could not to lazy Minutes be confin'd,
Sail'd down the Stream of Life before the Wind.

Perform'd the Task of Man, so well, so soon,
He reach'd the Sea of Bliss before his Noon,
And to his Memory lasting Laurels won.

When Life's tempestuous Billows ceas'd to rore,
And e'er his broken Vessel was no more,
His Soul serenely view'd the heavenly Shore.

Bravely resign'd, obeying Fate's Command,
He fix'd his Eyes on the immortal Land,
Where crowding Seraphs reach'd him out the Hand.

SOUTHESKA's smiling Cherub first appear'd,
With GARLIES' Consort , who vast Pleasures shar'd,
Conducting him where Vertue finds Reward.

Think in the World of Sp'rits, with how much Joy
His tender Mother would receive her Boy.
Where Fate no more their Union can destroy.

His good Grandsire, who lately went to Rest,
How fondly would he grasp him to his Breast,
And welcome him to Regions of the Blest!

From us, 'tis true, his youthful Sweets are gone,
Which may plead for our Weakness, when we moan;
The Loss indeed is ours, he can have none.

Thus Sailors with a crazy Vessel crost,
Expecting every Minute to be lost,
With weeping Eyes behold a Sunny Coast.

Where happy Land-men safely breathe the Air,
Bask in the Sun, or to cool Shades repair,
They longing sigh, and wish themselves were there.

128

But who would after Death to Bliss lay Claim,
Must, like your Son, each vicious Passion tame,
Fly from the Crowd, and at Perfection aim.

Then grieve no more, nor vex your self in vain,
To latest Age the Character maintain
You now possess, you'll find your Son again.

James Lord Carnegie. See p. 31.

Lady Garlies, p. 33; both his near relations.

On receiving a Letter to be present at the Burial of Mr. Robert Alexander of Blackhouse.

Thou sable border'd Sheet be gone,
Harbour to thee I must refuse;
Sure thou canst Welcome find from none,
Who carries such ungrateful News.

Who can attend thy mournful Tale,
And ward his Soul from piercing Woe?
In viewing thee, Grief must prevail,
And Tears from gushing Eyes o'erflow

From Eyes of all that knew the Man,
And in his Friendship had a Share;
Who all the World's Affections won,
By Vertues that all natural were.

His Merits dazle, while we view,
His Goodness is a Theme so full,
The Muse wants Strength to pay what's due,
While Estimation prompts the Will.

But she endeavours to make known
To farest down Posterity,
That good BLACKHOUSE was such an one
As every one should wish to be.

129

The Fair Assembly:

A Poem.

Awake, Thalia, and defend,
With chearfu' carrolling,
Thy bonny Care,—thy Wings extend,
And bear me to your Spring;
That Harmony full Force may lend
To Reasons that I bring:—
Now Caledonian Nymphs attend,
For 'tis to you I sing.

As lang as Minds maun Organs wear,
Compos'd of Flesh and Blood,
We ought to keep them hale and clear,
With Exercise and Food.
Then, but Debate, it will appear
That Dancing must be good,
It stagnant Humours sets a steer,
And fines the purple Flood.

Diseases, Heaviness and Spleen,
And ill things mony mae,
That gar the Lazy fret and grane,
With Visage dull and blae.
'Tis Dancing can do mair alane,
Than Drugs frae far away,
To ward aff these, make nightly Pain,
And sowr the shining Day.

130

Health is a Prize;—yet meikle mair
In Dancing we may find;
It adds a Lustre to the Fair,
And, when the Fates unkind
Cloud with a blate and aukward Air
A Genius right refin'd,
The sprightly Art helps to repair
This Blemish on the Mind.

How mony do we daily see,
Right scrimp of Wit and Sense,
Wha gain their Aims aft easily
By well bred Confidence?
Then what e'er helps to qualifie
A rustick Negligence,
Maun without doubt a Duty be,
And shou'd give nae Offence.

Hell's Doctrine's dung, when equal Pairs
Together join their Hands,
And vow to sooth ilk other's Cares,
In haly Wedlock Bands:
Sae when to dance the Maid prepares,
And flush'd with Sweetness stands,
At her the wounded Lover stares,
And yields to Heaven's Commands.

131

The first Command he soon obeys,
While Love inspires ilk Notion;
His wishing Look his Heart displays,
While his lov'd Mate's in Motion:
He views her with a blyth Amaze,
And drinks with deep Devotion
That happy Draught, that throu' our Days
Is own'd a cordial Potion.

The Cordial which conserves our Life,
And makes it smooth and easy:
Then, ilka Wanter, wale a Wife,
E'er Eild and Humdrums seize ye,
Whase Charms can silence Dumps or Strife,
And frae the Rake release ye,
Attend th'Assembly, where there's Rife
Of vertuous Maids to please ye.

These modest Maids inspire the Muse,
In flowing Strains to shaw
Their Beauties, which she likes to roose,
And let the Envious blaw:
That Task she canna well refuse,
Wha sinle says them Na.—
To paint Bellinda first we chuse,
With Breasts like driven Snaw.

Like Lilly-banks see how they rise,
With a fair Glen between,
Where living Streams, blew as the Skies,
Are branching upward seen,
To warm her Mouth, where Rapture lyes,
And Smiles, that banish Spleen,
Wha strikes with Love and saft Surprise,
Where e'er she turns her Een.

132

SABELLA gracefully complete,
Straight as the Mountain Pine,
Like Pearls and Rubies set in Jet,
Her lovely Features shine:
In her the Gay and Solid meet,
And blended are sae fine,
That when she moves her Lips or Feet,
She seems some Power Divine.

O Daphne! sweeter than the Dawn,
When Rays glance on the Height,
Diffusing Gladness o'er the Lawn,
With Strakes of rising Light.
The dewy Flowers when newly blawn,
Come short of that Delight,
Which thy far fresher Beauties can
Afford our joyfu' Sight.

How easy sits sweet Celia's Dress,
Her Gate how gently free;
Her Steps, throu'out the Dance, express
The justest Harmony:
And when she sings, all must confess,
Wha're blest to hear and see,
They'd deem't their greatest Happiness
T'enjoy her Company.

And wha can ca' his Heart his ain,
That hears Aminta speak?
Against Love's Arrows, Shields are vain,
When he aims frae her Cheek;
Her Cheek, where Roses free from Stain,
In Glows of Youdith beek:
Unmingl'd Sweets her Lips retain;
These Lips she ne'er shou'd steek,

133

Unless when fervent Kisses close
That Av'new of her Mind,
Thro' which true Wit in Torrents flows,
As speaks the Nymph design'd:
The Brag and Toast of Wits and Beaus,
And Wonder of Mankind;
Whase Breast will prove a blest Repose
To him with whom she'll bind.

See with what Gayety, yet grave,
Serena swims alang;
She moves a Goddess 'mang the lave,
Distinguish'd in the Thrang.
Ye Sourocks, hafflines Fool, haf Knave,
Wha hate a Dance or Sang,
To see this stately Maid behave,
'Twad gi'e your Hearts a Twang.

Your Hearts! said I, trowth I'm to blame,
I had amaist forgotten,
That ye to nae sic Organ claim;
Or if ye do, 'tis rotten.
A Saul with sic a thowless Flame,
Is sure a silly Sot ane:
Ye scandalize the humane Frame,
When in our Shape begotten.

These Lurdanes came just in my Light,
As I was tenting Chloe,
With jet black Een that sparkle bright,
She's all o'er form'd for Joy;
With Neck and Waist, and Limbs as tight
As her's wha drew the Boy,
Frae feeding Flocks upon the Height,
And fled with him to Troy.

134

Now Myra dances; mark her Mien,
Sae disengag'd and gay,
Mixt with that Innocence that's seen
In bonny Ew-bught May,
Wha wins the Garland on the Green
Upon some Bridal-Day;
Yet she has Graces for a Queen,
And might a Scepter sway.

What Lays, Calista, can commend
The Beauties of thy Face!
Whase Fancy can sae touring stend,
Thy Merits a' to trace!
Frae 'boon the Starns, some Bard, descend,
And sing her ev'ry Grace,
Whase wondrous Worth may recommend
Her to a God's Embrace.

A Seraph wad our Aikman paint,
Or draw a lively Wit;
The Features of a happy Saint,
Say, art thou fond to hit?
Or a Madona compliment,
With Lineaments maist fit?
Fair Copies thou need'st never want,
If bright Calista sit.

MELLA the heaviest Heart can heez,
And sowrest Thoughts expell,
Her Station grants her Rowth and Ease,
Yet is the sprightly Belle
As active as the eydent Bees,
Wha rear the Waxen Cell;
And, place her in what Light you please,
She still appears hersell.

135

Beauties on Beauties come in view
Sae thick, that I'm afraid
I shall not pay to Ilk their Due,
Till Phœbus lend mair Aid:
But this in gen'ral will had true,
And may be safely said,
There's ay a Something shining new
In ilk delicious Maid.

Sic as against th'Assembly speak,
The rudest Sauls betray,
When Matrons noble, wise and meek,
Conduct the healthfu' Play:
Where they appear, nae Vice dare keek,
But to what's good gives way,
Like Night, soon as the Morning Creek
Has usher'd in the Day.

Dear Ed'nburgh, shaw thy Gratitude,
And of sic Friends make sure,
Wha strive to make our Minds less rude,
And help our Wants to cure;
Acting a gen'rous Part and good,
In Bounty to the Poor:
Sic Vertues, if right understood,
Shou'd ev'ry Heart alure.

The Wise for Health on Exercise depend,
GOD never made his Works for Man to mend.

Dryd.

Since nothing appears to me to give Children so much becoming Confidence and Behaviour, and so raise them to the Conversation of those above their Age, as Dancing; I think they should be taught to dance as soon as they are capable of learning it. For tho' this consists only in outward Gracefulness of Motion; yet I know not how, it gives manly Thoughts and Carriage more than any thing. Lock.

It is certain, that for want of a competent Knowledge in this Art of Dancing, which should have been learned when young, the Publick loses many a Man of exquisite Intellectuals and unbyass'd Probity, purely for Want of that so necessary Accomplishment, Assurance; while the pressing Knave or Fool shoulders him out, and gets the Prize. Mr. Weaver.

Dixit eis Deus, Fœtificate, augescite & implete terram.

136

On the Royal Company of Archers, shooting for the Bowl, July 6th, 1724.

On which Day his Grace JAMES Duke of Hamilton was chosen their Captain General; and Mr. David Drummond their Præses won the Prize.

Again the Year returns the Day,
That's dedicate to Joy and Play,
To Bonnets, Bows and Wine.
Let all who wear a sullen Face,
This Day meet with a due Disgrace,
And in their Sowrness pine;
Be shun'd as Serpents, that wad stang
The Hand that gi'es them Food:
Sic we debar frae lasting Sang,
And all their grumbling Brood.

While, to gain Sport and halesome Air,
The blythsome Spirit draps dull Care,
And starts frae Bus'ness free:
Now to the Fields the Archers bend,
With friendly Minds the Day to spend,
In manly Game and Glee;
First striving wha shall win the Bowl,
And then gar't flow with Wine:
Sic manly Sport refresh'd the Soul
Of stalwart Men lang syne.

137

E'er Parties thrawn, and Int'rest vile,
Debauch'd the Grandeur of our Isle,
And made ev'n Brethren Faes:
Syne Truth frae Friendship was exil'd,
And fause the honest Hearts beguil'd,
And led them in a Maze
Of Politicks;—with cunning Craft,
The Issachars of State,
Frae haly Drums first dang us daft,
Then drown'd us in Debate.

Drap this unpleasing Thought, dear Muse;
Come, view the Men thou likes to roose;
To Bruntsfield Green let's hy,
And see the Royal Bowmen strive,
Wha far the feather'd Arrows drive,
All soughing thro' the Sky;
Ilk ettling with his utmost Skill,
With artfu' Draught and stark,
Extending Nerves with hearty Will,
In hopes to hit the Mark.

See HAMILTON, wha moves with Grace,
Chief of the Caledonian Race
Of Peers; to whom is due
All Honours, and a' fair Renown;
Wha lays aside his Ducal Crown,
Sometime to shade his Brow
Beneath St. Andrew's Bonnet blew,
And joins to gain the Prize:
Which shaws true Merit match'd by few,
Great, affable and wise.

This Day, with universal Voice,
The Archers Him their Chiftain chose;
Consenting Powers divine,
They blest the Day with general Joy,
By giving him a princely Boy,
To beautify his Line;

138

Whose Birth-day, in immortal Sang
Shall stand in fair Record,
While bended Strings the Archers twang,
And Beauty is ador'd.

Next DRUMMOND view, who gives their Law;
It glads our Hearts to see him draw
The Bow, and guide the Band;
He, like the Saul of a' the lave,
Does with sic Honour still behave,
As merits to command.
Blyth be his Hours, heal be his Heart,
And lang may he preside:
Lang the just Fame of his Desert
Shall unborn Archers read.

How on this fair propitious Day,
With Conquest leal he bore away
The Bowl victoriously;
With following Shafts in Number four,
Success the like ne'er kend before,
The Prize to dignify.
Haste to the Garden then bedeen,
The Rose and Laurel pow,
And plet a Wreath of white and green,
To busk the Victor's Brow.

The Victor crown, who with his Bow,
In Spring of Youth and am'rous Glow,
Just fifty Years sinsyne,
The Silver Arrow made his Prize,
Yet ceases not in Fame to rise,
And with new Feats to shine.
May every Archer strive to fill
His Bonnet, and observe
The Pattern he has set with Skill,
And Praise like him deserve.

139

On the Royal Company of Archers, marching under the Command of his Grace Duke of Hamilton, in their proper Habits, to shoot for the Arrow at Musselburgh, August 4, 1724.

Apollo, Patron of the Lyre,
And of the valiant Archers Bow,
Me with sic Sentiments inspire,
As may appear from thee they flow,
When, by thy special Will, and high Command,
I sing the Merits of the Royal Band.

Now like themsells again the Archers raise
The Bow, in brave Aray, and claim our Lays.
Phœbus well pleased, shines from the blew Serene,
Glents on the Stream, and guilds the checquer'd Green.
The Winds ly hush in their remotest Caves,
And Forth with gentle Swell his Margin leaves.
See to his Shore, the gathering Thousands roll,
As if one gen'ral Sp'rit inform'd the whole.
The bonniest Fair of a' Great Britain's Isle,
From Chariots and the crowded Casements smile;
Whilst Horse and Foot promiscuous form a Lane,
Extending far along the destin'd Plain,
Where, like Bellona's Troops, or Guards of Love,
The Archers in their proper Habits move.

Their Guardian Saint, from yon etherial Height,
Displays th'auspicious Cross of blazing Light;
While on his Care he chearfully looks down,
The pointed Thistle wears his ruby Crown,

140

And seems to threat, arm'd ready to engage,
No Man unpunish'd shall provoke my Rage.
Well pleas'd the rampant Lyon smooths his Mane,
And gambols gay upon his golden Plain.

Likeas the Sun, when wintry Clouds are past,
And fragrant Gales succeed the stormy Blast,
Shines on the Earth, the Fields look fresh and gay;
So seem the Archers on this joyful Day:
Whilst with his graceful Mien, and Aspect kind,
Their Leader raises every Follower's Mind,
Who love the Conduct of a Youth, whose Birth
To nothing yields but his superior Worth;
And happier is with his selected Train,
Than Philip's Son who strove a World to gain.
That Prince whole Nations to Destruction drove,
This Prince delights his Country to improve.
A Monarch rais'd upon a Throne may nod,
And pass amongst the Vulgar for a God;
Whilst Men of Penetration justly blame
Those who hang on their Ancestors for Fame;
But own the Dignity of high Descent,
When the Successor's Spirit keeps the Bent,
Which through revolving Ages grac'd the Line,
With all those Qualities that brightest shine:
The Archers Chiftain thus with active Mind,
In all that's worthy never falls behind
These noble Characters, from whom he sprung,
In Hist'ry fam'd: Whom ancient Bards have sung.
See, from his steady Hand, and aiming Eye,
How straight in equal Lengths the Arrows fly:
Both at one End close by the Mark they stand,
Which points him worthy of his brave Command;
That as they to his num'rous Merits bow,
This Victory makes Homage fully due.

141

Sage Drummond next, the Chief, with Counsel grave,
Becomes his Post, instructing all that's brave:
So Pallas seem'd, who Mentor's Form put on,
To make a Heroe of Ulysses' Son.

Each Officer his Character maintains,
While Love and Honour gratify their Pains.
No View inferior brings them to the Field,
To whom great Chiefs of Clans with Pleasure yield.

No hidden Murmure swells the Archer's Heart,
While each with Gladness acts his proper Part.
No factious Strife, nor Plots, the Bane of States,
Give Birth to Jealousies or dire Debates:
Nor less their Pleasure who Obedience pay,
Good Order to preserve, as those who sway.
O smiling Muse, full well thou knows the Fair;
Admire the Courteous, and with Pleasure share
Their Love with him that's generous and brave,
And can with manly Dignity behave;
Then haste to warn thy tender Care with Speed,
Lest by some Random-shaft their Hearts may bleed.
Yon dangerous Youths both Mars and Venus arm,
While with their double Darts they threat and charm;
Those at their Side forbid invading Foes,
With vain Attempt true Courage to oppose;
While Shafts mair subtile, darted from their Eye,
Thro' softer Hearts with silent Conquest fly.

142

To the Right Honourable Earl of Hartford, Lord Peircy, President, and the rest of the Honourable Members of the Society of British Antiquarians.

A Scots Ode.

To HARTFORD and his learned Friends,
Whase Fame for Science far extends,
A Scottish Muse her Duty sends,
From Pictish Towers:
Health, Length of Days, and happy Ends,
Be ever yours.

Your generous Cares make Light arise
From things obscure to vulgar Eyes,
Finding where hidden Knowledge lies,
T'improve the Mind;
And most delightfully surprise,
With Thoughts refin'd.

When you the broke Inscription read,
Or amongst antique Ruins tread,
And view Remains of Princes dead,
In Funeral Piles,
Your Penetration seems decreed
To bless these Isles,

Where Romans form'd their Camps of old,
Their Gods and Urns of curious Mold,
Their Medals struck of Brass or Gold,
'Tis you can show,
And Truth of what's in Story told,
To you we owe.

143

How beneficial is the Care,
That brightens up the Classick Lere!
When you the Documents compare,
With Authors old,
You ravish, when we can so fair
Your Light behold.

Without your Comments, each old Book
By all the World would be forsook:
For who of Thought wou'd deign to look,
On doubtful Works,
'Till by your skilful Hands they're struck
With Sterling Marks?

By this your Learning Men are fir'd
With Love of Glory, and inspir'd
Like ancient Heroes, who ne'er tir'd
To win a Name;
And, by their God-like Acts, aspir'd
T'immortal Fame.

Your useful Labours shall endure,
True Merit shall your Fame secure,
And will Posterity allure,
To search about
For Truth, by Demonstration sure,
Which leaves no Doubt.

The Muse forsees brave HARTFORD's Name
Shall to all Writers be a Theme,
To last while Arts and Greatness claim
Th'Historian's Skill,
Or the chief Instrument of Fame,
The Poet's Quill.

144

PEMBROKE's a Name to Britain dear,
For Learning and brave Deeds of Wier;
The Genius still continues clear
In him whose Art,
In your rare Fellowship can bear
So great a Part.

Bards yet unborn shall tune their Lays,
And Monuments harmonious raise
To WINCHELSEA and DEVON's Praise,
Whose high Desert,
And Vertues bright, like genial Rays,
Can Life impart.

Nor want we Caledonians Sage,
Who read the painted Vellum Page,
No Strangers to each antique Stage,
And Druids Cells,
And sacred Ruins of each Age,
On Plains and Fells.

Amongst all those of the first Rate,
Our learned CLERK blest with the Fate
Of thinking right, can best relate
These Beauties all,
Which bear the Marks of ancient Date,
Be-north the Wall.

The Wall which Hadrian first begun,
And bold Severus carried on,
From Rising to the Setting Sun,
On Britain's Coast,
Our Ancestors fierce Arms to shun,
Which gall'd them most.

145

But now no need of Walls or Towers,
Ag'd Enmity no more endures,
Brave Britain joins her warlike Powers,
That always dare,
To open and to shut the Doors
Of Peace and War.

Advance, great Men, your wise Design,
And prosper in the Task divine;
Draw from Antiquity's deep Mine,
The precious Ore,
And in the British Annals shine,
Till Time's no more.

Sir John Clerk of Pennycuik, Baronet.

On the Marquis of Annandale's conveying me a Present of Guineas in my Snuff-mill, after he had taken all the Snuff.

The Chief requir'd my Snishing-mill,
And well it was bestow'd;
The Patron, by the rarest Skill,
Turn'd all the Snuff to Gowd.

Gowd stampt with Royal Anna's Face,
Piece after Piece came forth;
The Pictures smil'd, gi'en with such Grace,
By ane of so much Worth.

Sure thus the patronizing Roman
Made Horace spread the Wing;
Thus Dorset, by kind Deeds uncommon,
Rais'd Prior up to sing.

That there are Patrons yet for me,
Here's a convincing Proof,
Since ANNANDALE gives Gowd as free,
As I can part with Snuff.

146

The Monk and the Miller's Wife.

A Tale.

Now lend your Lugs, ye Benders fine,
Wha ken the Benefit of Wine;
And you wha laughing scud brown Ale,
Leave Jinks a wee, and hear a Tale.

An honest Miller wond in Fife,
That had a young and wanton Wife,
Wha sometimes thol'd the Parish Priest
To mak her Man a twa-horn'd Beast:
He paid right mony Visits till her;
And to keep in with Hab the Miller,
He endeavour'd aft to mak him happy,
Where e'er he kend the Ale was nappy.
Sic Condescension in a Pastor,
Knit Halbert's Love to him the faster;
And by his Converse, troth 'tis true,
Hab learn'd to preach when he was fou.
Thus all the three were wonder pleas'd,
The Wife well serv'd, the Men well eas'd.
This ground his Corns, and that did cherish
Himsell with dining round the Parish.
Bess the Good-wife thought it nae Skaith,
Since she was able to serve them baith.

When equal is the Night and Day,
And Ceres gives the Schools the Play,
A Youth sprung frae a gentle Pater,
Bred at Saint Andro's Alma Mater,

147

Ae Day gawn hameward, it fell late,
And him benighted by the Gate:
To ly without, Pit-mirk did shore him;
He coudna see his Thumb before him:
But, Clack,—clack,—clack, he heard a Mill,
Whilk led him be the Lugs theretill.
To tak the threed of Tale alang,
This Mill to Halbert did belang.
Not less this Note your Notice claims,
The Scholar's Name was Master James.

Now, smiling Muse, the Prelude past,
Smoothly relate a Tale shall last
As lang as Alps and Grampian Hills,
As lang as Wind or Water-mills.

In enter'd James, Hab saw and kend him,
And offer'd kindly to befriend him
With sic good Chear as he cou'd make,
Baith for his ain and Father's Sake.
The Scholar thought himsell right sped,
And gave him Thanks in Terms well bred.
Quoth Hab, I canna leave my Mill
As yet;—but step ye west the Kill
A Bow-shot, and ye'll find my Hame:
Gae warm ye, and crack with our Dame,
Till I set aff the Mill; syne we
Shall tak what Bessy has to gi'e.
James, in Return, what's handsome said,
O'er lang to tell; and aff he gade.
Out of the House some Light did shine,
Which led him till't as with a Line:
Arriv'd, he knock'd; for Doors were steekit;
Straight throw a Window Bessy keekit,
And cries, “Wha's that gie's Fowk a Fright
“At sic untimous time of Night?”
James with good Humour, maist discreetly,
Tald her his Circumstance completely.

148

“I dinna ken ye, quoth the Wife,
“And up and down the Thieves are rife:
“Within my lane, I'm but a Woman;
“Sae I'll unbar my Door to nae Man.
“But since 'tis very like, my Dow,
“That all ye're telling may be true,
“Hae there's a Key, gang in your Way
“At the neist Door, there's braw Ait Strae;
“Streek down upon't, my Lad, and learn,
“They're no ill lodg'd that get a Barn.”
Thus after meikle Clitter-clatter,
James fand he coudna mend the Matter;
And since it might not better be,
With Resignation took the Key,
Unlockt the Barn,—clam up the Mou,
Where there was an Opening near the Hou,
Throw whilk he saw a Glent of Light,
That gave Diversion to his Sight:
By this he quickly cou'd discern
A thin Wa' separate House and Barn,
And throw this Rive was in the Wa',
All done within the House he saw:
He saw (what ought not to be seen,
And scarce gave Credit to his Een)
The Parish Priest of reverend Fame
In active Courtship with the Dame.—
To lengthen out Description here,
Wou'd but offend the modest Ear,
And beet the lewder youthfu' Flame,
That we by Satyre strive to tame.
Suppose the wicked Action o'er,
And James continuing still to glowre;
Wha saw the Wife, as fast as able,
Spread a clean Servite on the Table,
And syne, frae the Ha' Ingle, bring ben
A pyping het young roasted Hen,
And twa good Bottles stout and clear,
Ane of strong Ale, and ane of Beer.

149

But wicked Luck, just as the Priest
Shot in his Fork in Chucky's Breast,
Th'unwelcome Miller ga'e a Roar,
Cry'd, Bessy, haste ye open the Door.—
With that the haly Letcher fled,
And darn'd himsell behind a Bed;
While Bessy huddl'd a' things by,
That nought the Cuckold might espy;
Syne loot him in;—but out of tune,
Speer'd why he left the Mill sae soon,
I come, said he, as Manners claims,
To crack and wait on Master James,
Whilk I shou'd do, tho' ne'er sae bissy:
I sent him here, Goodwife, where is he?
“Ye sent him here! (quoth Bessy, grumbling;)
“Kend I this James! A Chiel came rumbling:
“But how was I assur'd, when dark,
“That he had been nae thievish Spark,
“Or some rude Wencher, gotten a Dose,
“That a weak Wife cou'd ill oppose?”
And what came of him? speak nae langer,
Crys Halbert in a Highland Anger.
“I sent him to the Barn,” quoth she.
Gae quickly bring him in, quoth he.

JAMES was brought in;—the Wife was bawked;
The Priest stood close;—the Miller cracked:—
Then ask'd his sunkan gloomy Spouse,
What Supper had she in the House,
That might be suitable to gi'e,
Ane of their Lodger's Qualitie?
Quoth she, “Ye may well ken, Goodman,
“Your Feast comes frae the Pottage-Pan:
“The Stov'd or Roasted we afford,
“Are aft great Strangers on our Board.”
Pottage, quoth Hab, ye senseless Tawpie!
Think ye this Youth's a Gilly-gawpy;

150

And that his gentle Stamock's master
To worry up a Pint of Plaister,
Like our Mill Knaves that lift the Laiding,
Whase Kytes can streek out like raw Plaiding.
Swith roast a Hen, or fry some Chickens,
And send for Ale frae Maggy Pickens.
“Hout I, quoth she, ye may well ken,
“'Tis ill brought butt that's no there ben;
“When but last Owk, nae farder gane,
“The Laird got a' to pay his Kain.”

Then James, wha had as good a Guess
Of what was in the House as Bess,
With pawky Smile, this Plea to end,
To please himsell, and ease his Friend,
First open'd with a slee Oration
His wond'rous Skill in Conjuration.
Said he, “By this fell Art I'm able
“To whop aff any great Man's Table
“What e'er I like, to make a Mail of,
“Either in part, or yet the haill off;
“And if ye please, I'll shaw my Art.—”
Crys Halbert, Faith with a' my Heart!
Bess sain'd herself,—cry'd LORD be here!
And near hand fell a swoon for Fear.
James leugh, and bade her nathing dread,
Syne to his Conjuring went with Speed;
And first he draws a Circle round,
Then utters mony a magick Sound,
Of Words part Latin, Greek and Dutch,
Enow to fright a very Witch:
That done, he says, Now, now 'tis come,
And in the Boal beside the Lum:
Now set the Board; Goodwife, gae ben,
Bring frae yon Boal a roasted Hen.
She wadna gang, but Haby ventur'd;
And soon as he the Ambrie enter'd,

151

It smell'd sae well, he short time sought it,
And, wondring, 'tween his Hands he brought it.
He view'd it round, and thrice he smell'd it,
Syne with a gentle Touch he felt it.
Thus ilka Sense he did conveen,
Lest Glamour had beguil'd his Een:
They all, in an united Body,
Declar'd it a fine fat How-towdy.
Nae mair about it, quoth the Miller,
The Fowl looks well, and we'll fa' till her.
Sae be't, says James; and in a doup,
They snapt her up baith Stoup and Roup.

“Neist, O! crys Halbert, cou'd your Skill,
“But help us to a Waught of Ale,
“I'd be oblig'd t'ye a' my Life,
“And offer to the Deel my Wife,
“To see if he'll discreeter make her,
“But that I'm fleed he winna take her.”
Said James, Ye offer very fair;
The Bargain's hadden, say nae mair.

Then thrice he shook a Willow Wand,
With kittle Words thrice gave Command;
That done, with Look baith learn'd and grave,
Said, Now ye'll get what ye wad have;
Twa Bottles of as nappy Liquor,
As ever ream'd in Horn or Bicquor,
Behind the Ark that hads your Meal,
Ye'll find twa standing corkit well.
He said, and fast the Miller flew,
And frae their Nest the Bottles drew;
Then first the Scholar's Health he toasted,
Whase Art had gart him feed on roasted;
His Father's neist,—and a' the rest
Of his good Friends that wish'd him best,
Which were o'er langsome at the time,
On a short Tale to put in Rhime.

152

Thus while the Miller and the Youth,
Were blythly slock'ning of their Drowth,
Bess fretting scarcely held frae greeting,
The Priest enclos'd stood vex'd and sweating.

O wow! said Hab, if ane might speer,
Dear Master James, wha brought our Chear?
Sic Laits appear to us sae awfu',
We hardly think your Learning lawfu'.

“To bring your Doubts to a Conclusion,
“Says James, ken I'm a Rosiecrucian,
“Ane of the Set that never carries
“On traffick with black Deels or Fairies:
“There's mony a Sp'rit that's no a Deel,
“That constantly around us wheel.
“There was a Sage call'd Albumazor,
“Whase Wit was gleg as ony Razor.
“Frae this great Man we learn'd the Skill,
“To bring these Gentry to our Will;
“And they appear when we've a mind,
“In ony Shape of humane Kind:
“Now, if you'll drap your foolish Fear,
“I'll gar my Pacolet appear.”

HAB fidg'd and leugh, his Elbuck clew,
Baith fear'd and fond a Sp'rit to view:
At last his Courage wan the Day,
He to the Scholar's Will gave way.

BESSY be this began to smell
A Rat, but kept her Mind to'r sell:
She pray'd like Howdy in her Drink,
But mean time tipt young James a Wink.
James frae his Eye an Answer sent,
Which made the Wife right well content.
Then turn'd to Hab, and thus advis'd,
“What e'er ye see, be nought surpriz'd;

153

“But for your Saul move not your Tongue,
“And ready stand with a great Rung;
“Syne as the Sp'rit gangs marching out,
“Be sure to lend him a sound Rout.
“I bidna this be way of Mocking;
“For nought delytes him mair than Knocking.”

HAB got a Kent,—stood by the Hallan;
And straight the wild mischievous Callan,
Cries, “Radamanthus Husky Mingo,
“Monk-horner, Hipock, Jinko, Jingo,
“Appear in Likeness of a Priest,
“No like a Deel in Shape of Beast,
“With gaping Chafts to fleg us a'.
“Wauk forth; the Door stands to the Wa'.”

Then frae the Hole where he was pent,
The Priest approach'd right well content,
With silent Pace strade o'er the Floor,
Till he was drawing near the Door;
Then, to escape the Cudgel, ran;
But was not miss'd by the Goodman,
Wha lent him on the Neck a Lounder,
That gart him o'er the Threshold founder.
Darkness soon hid him frae their Sight;
Ben flew the Miller in a Fright:
I trow, quoth he, I laid well on;
But wow he's like our ain Mess John!

Advice to Mr.---on his Marriage.

All Joy to you and your Amelie,
May ne'er your Purse nor Vigour fail ye;
But have a Care how you employ
Them baith; and tutor well your Joy.

154

Frae me an auld Dab tak Advice,
And hane them baith, if ye be wise;
For Warld's Wasters, like poor Cripples,
Look blunt with Poverty and Ripples:
There an auld Saw to ilk ane notum,
Better to save at Braird than Bottom;
Which means, your Purse and Person use
As canny Poets do their Muse;
For Whip and Spurring never prove
Effectual, or in Verse or Love.

Sae far, my Friend, in merry Strain,
I've given a douse Advice and plain,
And honestly discharg'd my Conscience
In Lines (tho' hamely) far frae Nonsense.
Some other Chiel may daftly sing,
That kens but little of the thing,
And blaw ye up with windy Fancies
That he has thigit frae Romances,
Of endless Raptures, constant Glee,
That never was, or ne'er will be.
Alake! poor Mortals are not Gods,
And therefore often fall at Odds;
But little Quarrels now and than
Are nae great Faults 'tween Wife and Man:
These help right aften to improve
His Understanding and her Love.
Your Rib and you, 'bout Hours of drinking,
May chance to differ in your thinking;
But that's just like a Shower in May,
That gars the Sun-blink seem mair gay.
If e'er she tak the Pet, or fret,
Be calm, and yet maintain your State;
And smiling, ca' her little Foolie,
Syne with a Kiss evite a Toolie.
This Method's ever thought the braver,
Than either Cuffs, or Clish-ma-claver.

155

It shaws a Spirit low and common,
That with ill Nature treats a Woman:
They're of a Make sae nice and fair,
They must be manag'd with some Care;
Respect them, they'll be kind and civil,
But disregarded, prove the Devil.

To Mrs. M. M. on her Painting.

To paint his Venus, auld Apelles
Wal'd a' the bonny Maids of Greece:
Thou needs nae mair, but paint thy sell, Lass,
To ding the Painter and his Piece.

The LURE:

A Tale.

The Sun just o'er the Hills was peeping,
The Hynds arising, Gentry sleeping,
The Dogs were barking, Cocks were crawing,
Night-drinking Sots counting their Lawing;
Clean were the Roads, and clear the Day,
When forth a Falconer took his Way,
Nane with him but his she Knight errant,
That acts in Air the bloody Tyrant;
While with quick Wing, fierce Beek and Claws,
She breaks divine and humane Laws;
Ne'er pleas'd, but with the Hearts and Livers
Of Peartricks, Teals, Moor-powts and Plivers;
Yet is she much esteem'd and dandl'd,
Clean lodg'd, well fed, and saftly handl'd.

156

Reason for this need be nae Wonder,
Her Parasites share in the Plunder.
Thus sneaking Rooks about a Court,
That make Oppression but their Sport,
Will praise a paughty bloody King,
And hire mean Hackney-Poets to sing
His Glories; while the Deel be licket
He e'er attempt but what he sticket.

So, Sir, as I was gawn to say,
This Falconer had tane his Way
O'er Calder-moor; and gawn the Moss up,
He there forgather'd with a Gossip:
And wha was't, trow ye, but the Deel,
That had disguis'd himsell sae weel
In humane Shape, sae snug and wylie;
Jude took him for a Burrlie-baillie:
His cloven Cloots were hid with Shoon,
A Bonnet coor'd his Horns aboon:
Nor spat he Fire, or Brimstone rifted,
Nor awsome glowr'd; but cawmly lifted
His Een and Voice, and thus began,
Good Morning t'ye, honest Man,
Ye're early out:—How far gae ye
This Gate?—I'm blyth of Company—
What Fowl is that, may ane demand,
That stands sae trigly on your Hand?
“Wow Man! quoth Juden, where won ye?
“The like was never speer'd at me!
“Man, 'tis a Hawk, and e'en as good
“As ever flew, or wore a Hood.”
Friend, I'm a Stranger, quoth auld Symmie,
I hope ye'll no be angry wi' me;
The Ignorant maun ay be speering
Questions, till they come to a Clearing.
Then tell me mair—What do ye wi't?
Is't good to sing? or good to eat?

157

“For neither, answer'd simple Juden;
“But helps to bring my Lord his Food in:
“When Fowls start up that I wad hae,
“Straight frae my Hand I let her gae;
“Her Hood tane aff, she is not langsome
“In taking Captives, which I ransome
“With a Dow's Wing, or Chicken's leg.”
Trowth, quoth the Deel, that's nice! I beg
Ye'll be sae kind, as let me see
How this same Bird of yours can flee.
“T'oblige ye, Friend, I winna stand.“—
Syne loos'd the Falcon frae his Hand.
Unhooded, up she sprang with Birr,
While baith stood staring after her.
But how d'ye get her back? said Nick.
“For that, quoth Jude, I have a Trick.
“Ye see this Lure,—it shall command
“Her upon Sight down to my Hand.”
Syne twirl'd it thrice, with whieu-whieu-whieu—
And straight upon't the Falcon flew.
As I'm a Sinner! crys the Deel,
I like this Pastime wonder weel;
And since ye've been sae kindly free,
To let her at my Bidding flee,
I'll entertain ye in my Gate.—
Mean time it was the Will of Fate,
A hooded Friar (ane of that Clan
Ye have descriv'd by Father Gawin,
In Master-keys) came up; good Saul!
Him Satan cleek'd up by the Spaul,
Whip'd aff his Hood, and without mair,
Ga'e him a Toss up in the Air.
High flew the Son of Saint Loyola,
While startled Juden gave a Hola!

158

Bumbaz'd with Wonder, still he stood,
The Ferly had 'maist crudled his Blood,
To see a Monk mount like a Facon,
He 'gan to doubt if he was wakin:
Thrice did he rub his Een to clear;
And having master'd part o's Fear,
“His Presence be about us a'!
“He cries, the like I never saw:
“See, see! he like a Lavrock tours—
“He'll reek the Starns in twa 'r three Hours!
“Is't possible to bring him back?”
For that, quoth Nick, I have a Knack;
To train my Birds, I want na Lures,
Can manage them as ye do your's:
And there's ane coming, hie gate, hither,
Shall soon bring down the haly Brither.

This was a fresh young Landwart Lass,
With Cheeks like Cherries, Een like Glass;
Few Coats she wore, and they were kilted,
And (John come kiss me now) she lilted.
As she skift o'er the Benty Knows,
Gawn to the Bught to milk the Ews;
Her in his Hand slee Belzie hint up,
As eith as ye wad do a Pint-Stoup,
Inverted, wav'd her round his Head:
Whieu,—whieu,—he whistled, and with Speed
Down, quick as shooting Starns, the Priest
Came souse upon the Lass's Breast.

The Moral of this Tale shews plainly
That carnal Minds attempt but vainly
Aboon this laigher Warld to mount,
While Slaves to Satan.

The reverend Anthony Gawin, formerly a Spanish Roman Catholick Priest, now an Irish Protestant Minister, who hath lately wrote three Volumes on the Tricks and Whoredoms of the Priests and Nuns; which Book he names Master-keys to Popery.

159

An Anacreontique on Love.

When a' the Warld had clos'd their Een,
Fatigu'd with Labour, Care and Din,
And quietly ilka weary Wight
Enjoy'd the Silence of the Night:
Then Cupid, that ill-deedy Get,
With a' his Pith rapt at my Yet.
Surpriz'd, throw Sleep, I cry'd, Wha's that?
Quoth he, A poor young Wean a' wet;
Oh! haste ye apen,—fear nae Skaith,
Else soon this Storm will be my Death.

With his Complaint my Saul grew wae,
For as he said I thought it sae;
I took a Light, and fast did rin
To let the chittering Infant in:
And he appear'd to be nae Kow,
For a' his Quiver, Wings and Bow.
His bairnly Smiles and Looks gave Joy,
He seem'd sae innocent a Boy:
I led him ben but any Pingle,
And beekt him brawly at my Ingle;
Dighted his Face, his Handies thow'd,
'Till his young Cheeks, like Roses, glow'd.
But soon as he grew warm and fain,
Let's try, quoth he, if that the Rain
Has wrang'd ought of my sporting Gear,
And if my Bow-string's hale and fier.
With that his Arch'ry Graith he put
In order, and made me his Butt;
Mov'd back apiece,—his Bow he drew;
Fast throw my Breast his Arrow flew.
That done, as if he'd found a Nest,
He leugh, and with unsonsy Jest,

160

Cry'd, Nibour, I'm right blyth in Mind,
That in good Tift my Bow I find:
Did not my Arrow flie right smart?
Ye'll find it sticking in your Heart.

On Mr. Drummond's being chosen one of the Honourable Commissioners of the Customs;

An Epigram.

The Good are glad, when Merit meets Reward;
And thus they share the Pleasure of another,
While little Minds, who only self regard,
Will sicken at the Success of a Brother.
Hence I am pleas'd to find my self right class'd,
Even by this Mark, that's worthy of observing,
It gives me Joy, the Patent lately pass'd
In Favour of dear DRUMMOND, most deserving.

161

The Address of the MUSE,

To the Right Honourable George Drummond Esq; Lord Provost; and Council of Edinburgh.

My Lord, my Patron, good and kind,
Whose every Act of generous Care
The Patriot shews, and trusty Friend;
While Favours by your Thoughts refin'd,
Both Publick and the Private share.
To you the Muse her duteous Homage pays,
While Edinburgh's Interest animates her Lays.

Nor will the Best some Hints refuse:
The narrow Soul, that least brings forth,
To an Advice the rarest bows;
Which the extensive Mind allows,
Being conscious of its genuine Worth,
Fears no Eclipse; nor with dark Pride declines,
A Ray from Light, that far inferior shines.

Our Reason and Advantage call
Us to preserve what we esteem;
And each should contribute, tho' small,
Like Silver Rivulets that fall
In one, and make a spreading Stream.
So should a City all her Care unite,
T'engage with Entertainments of Delight.

162

Man for Society was made,
His Search of Knowledge has no Bound;
Through the vast Deep he loves to wade,
But Subjects ebb, and Spirits fade,
On Wilds and thinly peopl'd Ground.
Then where the World, in Minature, employs
Its various Arts, the Soul its Wish enjoys.

Sometimes the social Mind may rove,
And trace, with Contemplation high,
The natural Beauties of the Grove,
Pleas'd with the Turtle's making Love,
While Birds chant in a Summer Sky.
But when cold Winter snows the naked Fields,
The City then its changing Pleasure yields.

Then you, to whom pertains the Care,
And have the Power to act aright,
Nor Pains, nor prudent Judging spare,
The Good Town's Failings to repair,
And give her Lovers more Delight.
Much you have done, both useful and polite;
O never tire! till every Plan's complete.

Some may object, We Money want,
Of every Project Soul and Nerve.
'Tis true;—but sure, the Parliament
Will ne'er refuse frankly to grant
Such Funds as good Designs deserve.
The thriving well of each of Britain's Towns,
Adds to her Wealth, and more her Grandeur crowns.

Allow that fifteen thousand Pounds
Were yearly on Improvements spent;
If Luxury produce the Funds,
And well laid out, there are no Grounds
For murmuring, or the least Complaint:
Materials all within our native Coast,
The Poor's employ'd, we gain, and nothing's lost.

163

Two hundreds, for five Pounds a day,
Will work like Turkish Galey Slaves;
And, e'er they sleep, they will repay
Back all the Publick forth did lay,
For small Support that Nature craves.
Thus kept at Work, few Twangs of Guilt they feel,
And are not tempt' by pinching Want to steal.

Most wisely did our City move,
When HOPE, who judges well and nice,
Was chosen fittest to improve,
From rushy Tufts the pleasing Grove,
From Bogs a rising Paradise.
Since Earth's Foundation, to our present Day,
The beauteous Plain in Mud neglected lay.

Now, evenly planted, hedg'd and drain'd,
Its Verdures please the Scent and Sight;
And here the Fair may walk unpain'd,
Her flowing Silks and Shoes unstain'd,
Round the green Circus of Delight:
Which shall by ripening Time still sweeter grow,
And HOPE be fam'd while Scotsmen draw the Bow.

Ah! while I sing, the Northern Air,
Throu' Gore and Carnage gives Offence;
Which should not, while a River fair,
Without our Walls flows by so near;
Carriage from thence but small Expence:
The useful Corporation too would find,
By working there, more Health, and Ease of Mind.

Then sweet our Northern Flowers would blow,
And sweet our Northern Alleys end:
Sweet all the Northern Springs would flow,
Sweet No(r)thern Trees and Herbs would grow,
And from the Lake a Field be gain'd:
Where on the Springs green Margent by the Dawn,
Our Maids might wash, and blanch their Lace and Lawn.

164

Forbid a nasty Pack to place
On Stalls unclean their Herbs and Roots,
On the High-street a vile Disgrace,
And tempting to our Infant-race,
To swallow Poison with their Fruits.
Give them a Station, where less spoil'd and seen,
The healthful Herbage may keep fresh and clean.

Besides, they straiten much our Street,
When those who drive the Hack and Dray,
In drunk and rude Confusion meet,
We know not where to turn our Feet;
Mortal our Hazard every Way.
Too oft the Ag'd, the Deaf and little Fry,
Hem'd in with Stalls, crush'd under Axles ly.

Clean Order yields a vast Delight,
And Genius's that brightest shine,
Prefer the Pleasure of the Sight
Justly, to theirs who Day and Night
Sink Health and active Thought in Wine.
Happy the Man that's clean in House and Weed,
Tho' Water be his Drink, and Oats his Bread.

Kind Fate, on them whom I admire
Bestow neat Rooms and Gardens fair,
Pictures that speak the Painter's Fire,
And Learning which the Nine inspire,
With Friends that all his Thoughts may share;
A House in Edinburgh, when the sullen Storm
Defaces Nature's joyous fragrant Form.

165

O! may we hope to see a Stage,
Fill'd with the best of such as can
Smile down the Follies of the Age,
Correct dull Pride and Party-rage,
And cultivate the growing Man;
And shew the Virgin every proper Grace,
That makes her Mind as comely as her Face.

Nor will the most devout oppose,
When with a strict judicious Care,
The Scenes most vertuous shall be chose,
That numerous are, forbidding those
That shock the Modest, Good and Fair.
The best of things may often be abus'd;
That argues not, when right, to be refus'd.

Thus, what our Fathers wasting Blood,
Of old from the South Britons won,
When Scotland reach'd to Humber's Flood,
We shall regain by Arts less rude,
And bring the Best and Fairest down,
From England's Northern Counties, nigh as far
Distant from Court, as we of Pictland are.

Thus far inspir'd with honest Zeal,
These Thoughts are offer'd with Submission,
By your own Bard, who ne'er shall fail
The Interest of the Common-weal;
While you indulge and grant Permission
To your oblig'd, thus humbly to rehearse
His honest and well-meaning Thoughts in Verse.

Mr. Hope of Rankeilour, who has beautifully planted, hedged and drained Straiton's Meadow, which was formerly the Bottom of a Lake.

With the more Freedom some Thoughts in these Stanza's are advanced, because several Citizens of the best thinking, both in and out of the Magistracy, incline to, and have such Views, if they were not oppos'd by some of gross old fashion'd Notions. Such will tell you, O! the Street of Edinburgh is the finest Garden of Scotland. And how can it otherwise be, considering how well 'tis dung'd every Night? But this Abuse we hope to see reform'd soon, when the Cart and Warning Bell shall leave the lazy Slatern without Excuse, after Ten at Night.

166

On his Grace the Duke of Hamilton's shooting an Arrow through the Neck of an Eel.

As from a Bow a fatal Flane,
Train'd by Apollo from the Main,
In Water pierc'd an Eel;
Sae may the Patriot's Power and Art,
Sic Fate to souple Rogues impart,
That drumble the Common-weal.
Tho' they, as ony Eels, are slid,
And thro' what's vile can scud,
A Bolt may reach them, tho' deep hid,
They sculk beneath their Mud.

Betty and Kate;

A Pastoral Farewell to Mr. Aikman, when he went for London.

BETTY.
Dear Katie, Willy's e'en away!
Willy, of Herds the wale,
To feed his Flock, and make his Hay
Upon a distant Dale,
Far to the Southward of this Height
Where now we dowie stray;
Ay hartsome when he chear'd our Sight,
And leugh with us a' Day.

167

KATE.
O Willy can Dale Dainties please
Thee mair than Moorland Ream;
Does Isis flow with sweeter Ease
Than Fortha's gentle Stream?
Or takes thou rather mair Delyt
In the Strae-hatted Maid,
Than in the blooming red and whyt
Of her that wears the Plaid?

BETTY.
Na, Kate, for that we needna mourn,
He is not gi'en to Change;
But Sauls of sic a shining Turn,
For Honour's like to range:
Our Laird, and a' the Gentry round,
Who mauna be said nay,
Sic Pleasure in his Art have found,
They winna let him stay.
Blyth I have stood frae Morn to Een,
To see how true and weel
He could delyt us on the Green
With a piece Cawk and Keel,
On a slid Stane, or smoother Slate,
He can the Picture draw
Of you or me, or Sheep or Gait,
The likest e'er ye saw.
Lass thinkna Shame to ease your Mind,
I see ye're like to greet;
Let gae these Tears, 'tis justly kind,
For Shepherd sae complete.

KATE.
Far, far! o'er far frae Spey and Clyde,
Stands that great Town of Lud,
To whilk our best Lads rin and ride;
That's like to put us wood:

168

For sindle times they e'er come back,
Wha anes are heftit there.
Sure Bess their Hills are no sae black,
Nor yet their Howms sae bare.

BETTY.
Our Riggs are rich, and green our Heights,
And well our Cares reward;
But yield, nae doubt, far less Delights,
In Absence of our Laird.
But we maun cawmly now submit,
And our ill Luck lament,
And leave't to his ain Sense and Wit
To find his Heart's Content.
A thousand Gates he had to win
The Love of auld and young,
Did a' he did with little Din;
And in nae Deed was dung.

KATE.
WILLIAM and MARY never fail'd
To welcome with a Smile,
And hearten us, when ought we ail'd,
Without designing Guile.
Lang may she happily possess
Wha's in his Breast infeft,
And may their bonny Bairns increase,
And a' with Rowth be left.
O William win your Laurels fast,
And syne we'll a' be fain,
Soon as your wandring Days are past,
And you're return'd again.

169

BETTY.
Revive her Joys by your Return,
To whom you first gave Pain;
Judge how her Passions for you burn,
By these you bear your ain.
Sae may your Kirn with Fatness flow,
And a' your Ky be sleek;
And may your Heart with Gladness glow,
In finding what ye seek.

To Mr. David Malloch, On his Departure from Scotland.

Since Fate, with Honour, bids thee leave
Thy Country for a while,
It is nae friendly Part to grieve,
When Powers propitious smile.

The Task assign'd thee's great and good,
To cultivate two GRAHAMS,
Wha from bauld Heroes draw their Blood
Of brave immortal Names.

Like Wax the dawning Genius takes
Impressions, thrawin or even;
Then he wha fair the Molding makes,
Does Journey-work for Heaven.

The sowr weak Pedants spoil the Mind
Of those beneath their Care,
Who think Instruction is confin'd
To poor Grammatick Ware.

170

But better kens my Friend, and can
Far nobler Plans design,
To lead the Boy up to a Man
That's fit in Courts to shine.

Frae Grampian Heights, some may object,
Can you sic Knowledge bring?
But those laigh Thinkers ne'er reflect,
Some Sauls ken ilka thing

With vaster Ease at the first Glance,
Than misty Minds that plod
And thresh for Thought, but ne'er advance
Their Stawk aboon their Clod.

But he that could in tender Strains
Raise Margaret's plaining Shade,
And paint Distress that chills the Veins,
While William's Crimes are red;

Shaws to the World, cou'd they observe,
A clear deserving Flame—
Thus I can roose without Reserve,
When Truth supports my Theme.

Gae, Lad, and win a Nation's Love,
By making those in trust,
Like WALLACE's ACHATES prove,
Wise, Generous, Brave and Just.

Sae may his Grace, the illustrious Sire,
With Joy paternal see
Their rising Bleez of manly Fire,
And pay his Thanks to thee.

William and Margaret, a Ballad in Imitation of the old Manner, wherein the Strength of Thought and Passion is more observed than a Rant of unmeaning Words.

The heroick Sir John Graham, the Glory of his Name and Nation, (and dearest Friend of the renowned Sir William Wallace) Ancestor of his Grace Duke of Montrose.

171

To CALISTA:

An EPIGRAM.

Anes Wisdom, Majesty and Beauty,
Contended to allure the Swain,
Wha fain wad paid to ilk his Duty;
But only ane the Prize could gain.

Were Jove again to redd Debate
Between his Spouse and Daughters twa,
And were it dear Calista's Fate
To bid amang them for the Ba':

When given to her, the Shepherd might
Then with the single Apple serve a';
Since she's possest of a' that's bright
In Juno, Venus, and Minerva.

INSCRIPTION on the Tomb-stone of Mr. Alexander Wardlaw, late Chamberlain to the Right Honourable Earl of Wigton, erected by his Son Mr. John Wardlaw in the Church of Biggar.

Here lyes a Man, whose upright Heart
With Vertue was profusely stor'd,
Who acted well the honest Part
Between the Tenants and their Lord.

172

Between the Sands and flinty Rock
Thus steer'd he in the Golden Mean,
While his blyth Countenance bespoke
A Mind unruffl'd and serene.

As to great BRUCE the FLEMINGS prov'd
Faithful, so to the FLEMINGS Heir
WARDLAW behav'd, and was belov'd
For's Justice, Candor, Faith and Care.

His Merit shall preserve his Fame
To latest Ages, free from Rust,
'Till the Arch-Angel raise his Frame
To join his Soul amongst the Just.

173

AN ODE Sacred to the Memory of her Grace Anne Dutchess of Hamilton .

Why sounds the Plain with sad Complaint?
Why hides the Sun his Beams?
Why sigh the Winds sae bleak and cauld?
Why mourn the swelling Streams?

Wail on, ye Heights; ye Glens, complain;
Sun, wear thy cloudy Veil:
Sigh, Winds, frae frozen Caves of Snaw;
Clyde, mourn the rueful Tale.

She's dead, the beauteous ANNA's dead;
All Nature wears a Gloom:
Alas! the comely budding Flower,
Is faded in the Bloom.

Clos'd in the weeping Marble Vault,
Now cauld and blae she lies;
Nae mair the Smiles adorn her Cheek,
Nae mair she lifts her Eyes.

Too soon, O sweetest, fairest, best,
Young Parent, lovely Mate,
Thou leaves thy Lord and Infant Son,
To weep thy early Fate.

174

But late thy chearfu' Marriage-day,
Gave Gladness all around;
But late in thee, the youthful Chief
A Heaven of Blessings found.

His Bosom swells, for much he lov'd;
Words fail to paint his Grief:
He starts in Dream, and grasps thy Shade,
The Day brings nae Relief.

The fair Illusion skims away,
And Grief again returns;
Life's Pleasures make a vain Attempt,
Disconsolate he mourns.

He mourns his Loss, a Nations Loss,
It claims a Flood of Tears,
When sic a lov'd illustrious Star
Sae quickly disappears.

With Roses and the Lilly Buds,
Ye Nymphs, her Grave adorn,
And weeping tell, Thus sweet she was,
Thus early from us torn.

To silent twilight Shades retire,
Ye melancholy Swains,
In melting Notes repete her Praise,
In sighing vent your Pains.

But haste, calm Reason, to our Aid,
And paining Thoughts subdue,
By placing of the pious Fair
In a mair pleasing View:

175

Whose white immortal Mind now shines,
And shall for ever bright,
Above th'Insult of Death and Pain,
By the first Spring of Light.

There joins the high melodious Thrang,
That strike eternal Strings:
In Presence of Omnipotence,
She now a Seraph sings.

Then cease, Great JAMES, thy flowing Tears,
Nor rent thy Soul in vain:
Frae bowers of Bliss she'll ne'er return
To thy kind Arms again,

With Goodness still adorn thy Mind,
True Greatness still improve;
Be still a Patriot just and brave,
And meet thy Saint above.

176

ODE To the Memory of Sir ISAAC NEWTON;

Inscrib'd to the Royal Society of London for the Improving of Natural Knowledge.

Great NEWTON's dead,—full ripe his Fame;
Cease, vulgar Grief, to cloud our Song:
We thank the Author of our Frame,
Who lent him to the Earth so long.

The God-like Man now mounts the Sky,
Exploring all yon radiant Spheres;
And with one View can more descry,
Than here below in eighty Years:

Tho' none, with greater Strength of Soul,
Could rise to more divine a Height,
Or range the Orbs from Pole to Pole,
And more improve the humane Sight.

Now with full Joy he can survey
These Worlds, and ev'ry shining Blaze,
That countless in the Milky Way,
Only thro' Glasses shew their Rays.

Thousands in thousand Arts excell'd,
But often to one Part confin'd;
While ev'ry Science stood reveal'd
And clear to his capacious Mind.

177

His Penetration, most profound,
Launch'd far in that extended Sea,
Where humane Minds can reach no Bound,
And never div'd so deep as he.

Sons of the East and Western World,
When on this Leading Star ye gaze,
While Magnets guide the Sail unfurl'd,
Pay to his Memory due Praise.

Thro' ev'ry Maze he was the Guide;
While others crawl'd, he soar'd above:
Yet Modesty, unstain'd with Pride,
Increas'd his Merit, and our Love.

He shunn'd the Sophistry of Words,
Which only hatch contentious Spite;
His Learning turn'd on what affords
By Demonstration most Delight.

Britain may honourably boast,
And glory in her matchless Son,
Whose Genius has invented most,
And finish'd what the rest begun.

Ye Fellows of the Royal Class,
Who honour'd him to be your Head,
Erect in finest Stone and Brass
Statues of the Illustrious Dead.

Altho' more lasting than them all,
Or ev'n the Poet's highest Strain,
His Works, as long as wheels this Ball,
Shall his great Memory sustain.

178

May from your Learned Band arise
Newtons to shine thro' future Times,
And bring down Knowledge from the Skies,
To plant on wild Barbarian Climes.

'Till Nations, few Degrees from Brutes,
Be brought into each proper Road,
Which leads to Wisdom's happiest Fruits,
To know their Saviour and their God.

To William Somerville of Warwickshire Esq;

on reading several of his excellent Poems.

Sir, I have read, and much admire
Your Muse's gay and easy Flow,
Warm'd with that true Idalian Fire
That gives the bright and chearful Glow.

I con'd each Line with joyous Care,
As I can such from Sun to Sun;
And like the Glutton o'er his Fare
Delicious, thought them too soon done.

The witty Smile, Nature and Art,
In all your Numbers so combine,
As to complete their just Desert,
And grace them with uncommon Shine.

Delighted we your Muse regard,
When she like Pindar's spreads her Wings;
And Vertue being its own Reward,
Expresses by the Sister Springs.

179

Emotions tender croud the Mind,
When with the Royal Bard you go,
To sigh in Notes divinely kind,
The Mighty faln on Mount Gilbo.

Much surely was the Virgin's Joy,
Who with the Iliad had your Lays;
For e'er, and since the Siege of Troy
We all delight in Love and Praise.

These Heaven-born Passions, such desire,
I never yet cou'd think a Crime;
But first-rate Vertues which inspire
The Soul to reach at the Sublime.

But often Men mistake the Way,
And pump for Fame by empty Boast,
Like your gilt Ass, who stood to bray,
Till in a Flame his Tail he lost.

Him th'incurious Bencher hits,
With his own Tale, so tight and clean,
That while I read, Streams gush, by Fits
Of hearty Laughter, from my Een.

Old Chaucer, Bard of vast Ingine,
Fontain and Prior, who have sung
Blyth Tales the best; had they heard thine
On Lob, they'd own'd themselves out-done.

The Plot's pursu'd with so much Glee,
The too officious Dog and Priest,
The 'Squire oppress'd, I own, for me,
I never heard a better Jest.

180

POPE well describ'd an Omber Game,
And King revenging Captive Queen;
He merits; but had won more Fame,
If Author of your Bowling-Green.

You paint your Parties, play each Bowl,
So natural, just, and with such Ease,
That while I read, upon my Soul!
I wonder how I chance to please.

Yet I have pleas'd, and please the best;
And sure to me Laurels belong,
Since British Fair, and 'mongst the best,
Somervile's Consort likes my Song.

Ravish'd I heard th'harmonious Fair
Sing, like a Dweller of the Sky,
My Verses with a Scotian Air;
Then Saints were not so blest as I.

In her the valu'd Charms unite;
She really is what all would seem,
Gracefully handsome, wise and sweet:
'Tis Merit to have her Esteem.

Your noble Kinsman her lov'd Mate,
Whose Worth claims all the World['s] Respect,
Met in her Love a smiling Fate,
Which has, and must have good Effect.

You both from one great Lineage spring,
Both from de Somervile, who came,
With William England's conquering King,
To win fair Plains, and lasting Fame.

181

WHICHNOUR he left to's eldest Son;
That first-born Chief you represent:
His second came to Caledon,
From whom our SOMER'LE takes Descent.

On Him and You may Fate bestow
Sweet balmy Health and cheerful Fire,
As long's ye'd wish to live below,
Still blest with all you wou'd desire.

O Sir! oblige the World, and spread
In Print those and your other Lays;
This (shall be better'd while they read)
And after Ages sound your Praise.

I cou'd enlarge—but if I shou'd
On what you've wrote, my Ode wou'd run
Too great a length—Your Thoughts so croud,
To note them all, I'd ne'er have done.

Accept this Offering of a Muse,
Who on her Pictland Hills ne'er tires;
Nor shou'd (when Worth invites) refuse
To sing the Person she admires.

Since the writing of this Ode, Mr. Somervile's Poems are printed by Mr. Lintot in an 8vo Vol.

182

AN EPISTLE From Mr. Somervile.

Near fair Avona's Silver Tide,
Whose Waves in soft Meanders glide,
I read, to the delighted Swains,
Your jocund Songs, and rural Strains.
Smooth as her Streams your Numbers flow,
Your Thoughts in vary'd Beauties show,
Like Flow'rs that on her Borders grow.
While I survey, with ravish'd Eyes,
This friendly Gift, my valu'd Prize,
Where Sister Arts, with Charms divine,
In their full Bloom and Beauty shine,
Alternately my Soul is blest.
Now I behold my welcome Guest,
That graceful, that engaging Air,
So dear to all the Brave and Fair.
Nor has th'ingenious Artist shown
His outward Lineaments alone,
But in th'expressive Draught design'd,
The nobler Beauties of his Mind;
True Friendship, Love, Benevolence,
Unstudied Wit, and manly Sense.
Then, as your Book, I wander o'er,
And feast on the delicious Store,
(Like the laborious busy Bee,
Pleas'd with the sweet Variety)

183

With equal Wonder and Surprize,
I see resembling Portraits rise.
Brave Archers march in bright Aray,
In Troups the vulgar line the Way.
Here the droll Figures slily sneer,
Or Coxcombs at full length appear.
There Woods and Lawns, a rural Scene,
And Swains that gambol on the Green.
Your Pen can act the Pencil's Part
With greater Genius, Fire and Art.

Believe me, Bard, no hunted Hind
That pants against the Southern Wind,
And seeks the Stream thro' unknown Ways;
No Matron in her teeming Days,
E'er felt such Longings, such Desires,
As I to view those lofty Spires,
Those Domes, where fair Edina shrouds
Her tow'ring Head amid the Clouds.
But oh! what Dangers interpose?
Vales deep with Dirt, and Hills with Snows,
Proud Winter-Floods with rapid Force,
Forbid the pleasing Intercourse.
But sure we Bards whose purer Clay,
Nature has mixt with less Allay,
Might soon find out an easier Way.
Do not sage Matrons mount on high,
And switch their Broom-sticks thro' the Sky;
Ride post o'er Hills, and Woods, and Seas,
From Thule to th' Hesperides?
And yet the Men of Gresham own
That this and stranger Feats are done,
By a warm Fancy's Power alone.
This granted; Why can't you and I
Stretch forth our Wings, and cleave the Sky?

184

Since our Poetick Brains, you know,
Than theirs must more intensely glow.
Did not the Theban Swan take Wing,
Sublimely soar, and sweetly sing?
And do not we of humbler Vein,
Sometimes attempt a loftier Strain,
Mount sheer out of the Reader's Sight,
Obscurely lost in Clouds and Night?

Then climb your Pegasus with Speed,
I'll meet thee on the Banks of Tweed:
Not as our Fathers did of Yore,
To swell the Flood with Crimson Gore;
Like the Cadmean murd'ring Brood,
Each thirsting for his Brother's Blood.
For now all hostile Rage shall cease;
Lull'd in the downy Arms of Peace,
Our honest Hands and Hearts shall join,
O'er jovial Banquets, sparkling Wine.
Let Peggy at thy Elbow wait,
And I shall bring my bonny Kate.
But hold—Oh! take a special Care,
T'admit no prying Kirkman there;
I dread the Penitential Chair.
What a strange Figure shou'd I make,
A poor abandon'd English Rake;
A Squire well-born, and six Foot high,
Perch'd in that sacred Pillory?
Let Spleen and Zeal be banish'd thence,
And troublesome Impertinence,
That tells his Story o'er again:
Ill Manners and his saucy Train,
And Self conceit, and stiff-rumpt Pride,
That grin at all the World beside;
Foul Scandal, with a Load of Lies,
Intrigues, Rencounters, Prodigies;
Fame's busy Hawker, light as Air,
That feeds on Frailties of the Fair:

185

Envy, Hypocrisy, Deceit,
Fierce Party-Rage, and warm Debate;
And all the Hell-hounds that are Foes
To Friendship, and the World's Repose.
But Mirth instead, and dimpling Smiles,
And Wit, that gloomy Care beguiles;
And Joke, and Pun, and merry Tale,
And Toasts, that round the Table sail:
While Laughter, bursting thro' the Crowd
In Vollies, tells our Joys aloud.
Hark! the shrill Piper mounts on high,
The Woods, the Streams, the Rocks reply,
To his far-sounding Melody.
Behold each lab'ring Squeeze prepare
Supplies of modulated Air.
Observe Croudero's active Bow,
His Head still noddling to and fro,
His Eyes, his Cheeks with Raptures glow.
See, see the bashful Nymphs advance,
To lead the regulated Dance;
Flying still, the Swains pursuing,
Yet with backward Glances wooing.
This, this shall be the joyous Scene;
Nor wanton Elves that skim the Green
Shall be so blest, so blyth, so gay,
Or less regard what Dotards say.
My Rose shall then your Thistle greet,
The Union shall be more compleat;
And, in a Bottle and a Friend,
Each National Dispute shall end.

Lord Somervile was pleased to send me his own Picture, and Mr. Ramsay's Works.

The Scilly Islands were so called by the Antients, as Mr. Camden observes.

186

Answer to the above Epistle From William Somervile Esq; of Warwickshire.

Sir, I had your's, and own my Pleasure,
On the Receipt, exceeded Measure.
You write with so much Sp'rit and Glee,
Sae smooth, sae strong, correct and free;
That any He (by you allow'd
To have some Merit) may be proud.
If that's my Fault, bear you the Blame,
Wha've lent me sic a Lift to Fame.
Your ain tours high, and widens far,
Bright glancing like a first-rate Star,
And all the World bestow due Praise
On the Collection of your Lays;
Where various Arts and Turns combine,
Which even in Parts first Poets shine:
Like Mat and Swift ye sing with Ease,
And can be Waller when you please.
Continue, Sir, and shame the Crew
That's plagued with having nought to do,
Who Fortune in a merry Mood
Has overcharg'd with gentle Blood,
But has deny'd a Genius fit
For Action or aspiring Wit;
Such kenna how t'employ their Time,
And think Activity a Crime:
Aught they to either do, or say,
Or walk, or write, or read, or pray!
When Money, their Factotum's able
To furnish them a numerous Rabble,

187

Who will, for daily Drink and Wages,
Be Chair-men, Chaplains, Clerks, and Pages:
Could they, like you, employ their Hours
In planting these delightful Flowers,
Which carpet the Poetick Fields,
And lasting Funds of Pleasure yields;
Nae mair they'd gaunt and gove away,
Or sleep or loiter out the Day,
Or waste the Night damning their Sauls
In deep Debauch, and bawdy Brawls:
Whence Pox and Poverty proceed
An early Eild, and Spirits dead.
Reverse of You;—and Him you Love,
Whose brighter Spirit tours above
The Mob of thoughtless Lords and Beaus,
Who in his ilka Action shows
True Friendship, Love, Benevolence,
Unstudy'd Wit, and manly Sense.
Allow here what you've said your sell,
Nought can b' exprest, so just and well:
To Him and Her, worthy his Love,
And every Blessing from above,
A Son is given, GOD save the Boy,
For theirs and every Som'ril's Joy.
Ye Wardins round him take your Place,
And raise him with each manly Grace;
Make his Meridian Vertues shine,
To add fresh Lustres to his Line:
And many may the Mother see
Of such a lovely Progeny.

Now, Sir, when Boreas nae mair thuds
Hail, Snaw and Sleet, frae blacken'd Clouds;
While Caledonia's Hills are green,
And a' her Straths delight the Een;
While ilka Flower with Fragrance blows,
And a' the Year it's Beauty shows;

188

Before again the Winter lour,
What hinders then your No[r]thern Tour?
Be sure of Welcome: Nor believe
These wha an ill Report would give
To Ed'nburgh and the Land of Cakes,
That nought what's necessary lacks.
Here Plenty's Goddess frae her Horn
Pours Fish and Cattle, Claith and Corn,
In blyth Abundance;—and yet mair,
Our Men are brave, our Ladies fair.
Nor will North Britain yield for Fouth
Of ilka thing, and Fellows couth,
To any but her Sister South.—

True, rugged Roads are cursed driegh,
And Speats aft roar frae Mountains high:
The Body tires,—poor tottering Clay,
And likes with Ease at hame to stay;
While Sauls stride Warlds at ilka Stend,
And can their widening Views extend.
Mine sees you, while you chearfu' roam
On sweet Avona's flow'ry Howm,
There recollecting, with full View,
These Follies which Mankind pursue;
While, conscious of superior Merit,
You rise with a correcting Spirit;
And, as an Agent of the Gods,
Lash them with sharp satyrick Roads:
Labour divine!—Next, for a Change,
O'er Hill and Dale I see you range,
After the Fox or whidding Hare,
Confirming Health in purest Air;
While Joy frae Heights and Dales resounds,
Rais'd by the Hola, Horn and Hounds:
Fatigu'd, yet pleas'd, the Chace out-run,
I see the Friend, and setting Sun,
Invite you to the temp'rate Bicquor,
Which makes the Blood and Wit flow quicker.

189

The Clock strikes Twelve, to Rest you bound,
To save your Health by sleeping sound.
Thus with cool Head and healsome Breast
You see new Day stream frae the East:
Then all the Muses round you shine,
Inspiring every Thought divine;
Be long their Aid—Your Years and Blesses,
Your Servant ALLAN RAMSAY wishes.

REASONS for not answering the Hackney Scribblers, my obscure Enemies.

These to my blyth indulgent Friends;
Dull Faes nought at my Hand deserve:
To pump an Answer's a' their Ends;
But not ae Line, if they shou'd starve.

Wha e'er shall with a Midding fight,
Of Victory will be beguild;
Dealers in Dirt will be to dight,
Fa' they aboon or 'neath, they're fil'd.

It helps my Character to heez,
When I'm the Butt of creeping Tools;
The Warld, by their daft Medley, sees,
That I've nae Enemies but Fools,

But sae it has been, and will be,
While real Poets rise to Fame,
Sic poor Macflecknos will let flee
Their Venom, and still miss their Aim.

190

Should ane like Young or Somer'le write,
Some canker'd Coof can say 'tis wrang:
On Pope sic Mungrels shaw'd their Spite;
And shot at Addison their Stang.

But well dear Spec the feckless Asses
To wiest Insects even'd and painted,
Sic as by magnifying Glasses
Are only kend when throu' them tented.

The blundering Fellows ne'er foryet,
About my Trade to f---their Fancies,
As if, forsooth, I wad look blate
At what my Honour maist advances.

Auld Homer sang for's daily Bread;
Surprising Shakspear fin'd the Wool;
Great Virgil Creels and Baskets made;
And famous Ben employ'd the Trowel.

Yet Dorset, Launsdown, Lauderdale,
Bucks, Stirling, and the Son of Angus,
Even Monarchs, and of Men the Wale,
Were proud to be inrow'd amang us.

Then Hackneys, write till ye gae wood,
Drudge for the Hawkers Day and Night;
Your Malice cannot move my Mood,
And equally your Praise I slight.

I've gotten mair of Fame than's due,
Which is secur'd amang the best;
And shou'd I tent the like of you,
A little Saul wad be confest.

191

Nae Mastive minds a yamphing Cur;
A Craig defies a frothy Wave;
Nor will a Lyon raise his Fur,
Altho' a Monkey misbehave.

Nam satis est Equitem mihi plaudere.

To Mr. DONALD MACEWEN Jeweller at St. Petersburg.

How far frae hame my Friend seeks Fame!
And yet I canna wyte ye,
T'employ your Fire, and still aspire,
By Vertues that delyte ye.

Should Fortune lour, 'tis in your Power,
If Heaven grant bawmy Health,
T'enjoy ilk Hour a Saul unsowr;
Content's nae Bairn of Wealth.

It is the Mind that's not confin'd
To Passions mean and vile,
That's never pin'd, while Thoughts refin'd
Can gloomy Cares beguile.

Then Donald may be e'en as gay,
On Russia's distant Shore,
As on the Tay, where Usquebae
He us'd to drink before.

But howsoe'er, haste, gather Gear,
And syne pack up your Treasure;
Then to Auld Reekie come, and beek ye,
And close your Days with Pleasure.

192

To the same [Mr. Donald Macewen], on receiving a Present from him of a Seal, Homer's Head finely cut in Crystal, and set in Gold.

Thanks to my frank ingenious Friend;
Your Present's most gentile and kind,
Baith rich and shining as your Mind;
And that immortal laurell'd Pow,
Upon the Gem sae well design'd
And execute, sets me on Low.

The heavenly Fire inflames my Breast,
Whilst I unweary'd am in quest
Of Fame, and hope that Ages niest
Will do their Highland Bard the Grace,
Upon their Seals to cut his Crest,
And blythest Strakes of his short Face.

Far less great Homer ever thought
(When he, harmonious Beggar! sought
His bread throu' Greece) he should be brought,
Frae Russia's Shore by Captain Hugh,
To Pictland Plains, sae finely wrought
On precious Stone, and set by you.

Captain Hugh Eccles, Master of a fine Merchant Ship, which he lost in the unhappy Fire at Petersburg.

193

A Ballad on bonny Kate.

Cease, Poets, your cunning devising
Of Rhimes that low Beauties o'er-rate;
They all, like the Stars at the rising
Of Phœbus, must yield to fair KATE.

We sing, and we think it our Duty
To admire the kind Blessings of Fate
That has favour'd the Earth with such Beauty,
As shines so divinely in KATE.

In her Smiles, in her Features and Glances,
The Graces shine forth in full State,
While the God of Love dangerously dances
On the Neck and white Bosom of KATE.

How straight, how well-turn'd, and gentile, are
Her Limbs! and how graceful her Gait!
Their Hearts made of Stone, or of Steel are,
That are not Adorers of KATE.

But ah! what a sad Palpatation
Feels the Heart, and how simple and blate
Must he look, almost dead with Vexation,
Whose Love is fixt hopeless on KATE?

Had I all the Charms of Adonis,
And Galleons freighted with Plate,
As SOLOMON wise; I'd think none is
So worthy of all, as dear KATE.

194

Ah! had she for me the same Passion,
I'd tune the Lyre early and late;
The Sage's Song on his Circasian,
Should yield to my Sonnets on KATE.

His Pleasure each Moment shall blossom,
Unfading, gets her for his Mate;
He'll grasp every Bliss in his Bosom,
That's linked by Hymen to KATE.

Pale Envy may raise up false Stories,
And Hell may promp Malice and Hate;
But nothing shall sully their Glories,
Who are shielded with Vertue like KATE.

This Name, say ye, many a Lass has,
And t'apply it may raise a Debate;
But sure he as dull as an Ass is,
That cannot join COCHRAN to KATE.

To Dr. J. C. who got the foregoing to give to the young Lady.

Here, happy Doctor, take this Sonnet,
Bear to the Fair the faithful Strains:
Bow, make a Leg, and d'off your Bonnet;
And get a Kiss, for ALLAN's Pains.

For such a ravishing Reward,
The Cloud Compeller's self would try
To imitate a British Bard,
And bear his Ballads from the Sky.

195

PROLOGUE, before the acting of Aurenzebe and the Drummer, by the young Gentlemen of the Grammar School of Haddington, August 1727, spoke by Mr. Charles Cockburn, Son to Colonel Cockburn.

Be hush, ye Crowd, who pressing round appear
Only to stare—we speak to those can hear
The nervous Phrase, which raises Thoughts more hy,
When added Action leads them thro' the Eye.
To paint fair Vertue, Humours and Mistakes,
Is what our School with Pleasure undertakes,
Thro' various Incidents of Life, led on
By DRYDEN, and immortal ADDISON:
Those study'd Men, and knew the various Springs
That mov'd the Minds of Coachmen and of Kings.
Altho' we're young—allow no Thought so mean,
That any here's to act the Harlequin:
We leave such dumb-show Mimickry to Fools,
Beneath the Sp'rit of Caledonian Schools.
Learning's our Aim, and all our Care, to reach
At Elegance and Gracefulness of Speech,
And the Address, from Bashfulness refin'd,
Which hangs a Weight upon a worthy Mind.
The Grammar's good, but Pedantry brings down
The gentle Dunce below the sprightly Clown.
Get seven score Verse of Ovid's Trist by heart,
To rattle o'er, else I shall make you smart,
Cry snarling Dominies that little ken:
Such may teach Parots, but our LESLY Men.

Mr. John Lesly, Master of the School, a Gentleman of true Learning; who, by his excellent Method, most worthily fills his Place.

196

EPILOGUE, after the acting of the Drummer, spoke by Mr. Maurice Cockburn, another Son of Colonel Cockburn's.

Our Plays are done—Now criticise, and spare not;
And tho' you are not fully pleas'd, we care not.
We have a Reason on our Side—and that is,
Your Treat has one good Property—'tis gratis.
We've pleas'd our selves; and if we have good Judges,
We value not a Head where nothing lodges.
The generous Men of Sense will kindly praise us,
And, if we make a little Snapper, raise us:
Such know th'aspiring Soul at manly Dawn,
Abhors the sowr Rebuke, and carping Thrawin;
But rises, on the Hope of a great Name,
Up all the rugged Roads that lead to Fame.
Our Breasts already pant to gain Renown
At Senates, Courts, by Arms or by the Gown;
Or by Improvements of Paternal Fields,
Which never failing Joy and Plenty yields;
Or by deep Draughts of the Castalian Springs,
To soar with Mantuan or Horatian Wings.

Hey Boys! the Day's our ain! the Ladies smile!
Which over-recompenses all our Toil!
Delights of Mankind, tho' in some small Parts
We are deficient, yet our Wills and Hearts
Are your's; and, when more perfect, shall endeavour,
By acting better, to secure your Favour:
To Spinnets then retire, and play a few Tunes,
'Till we get thro' our Gregories and Newtons;
And, some Years hence, we'll tell another Tale;
'Till then, ye bonny blooming Buds,—Farewell.

197

PROLOGUE spoke by Mr. Anthony Aston, the first Nigh[t] the[y] acted in Winter 1726.

'Tis I,—dear Caledonians, blythsome TONY,
That oft, last Winter, pleas'd the Brave and Bonny
With Medley, merry Song, and comick Scene;
Your Kindness then has brought me here again:
After a Circuit round the Queen of Isles,
To gain your Friendship and approving Smiles,
Experience bids me hope;—tho' South the Tweed
The Dastards said, “He never will succeed:
“What! such a Country look for any Good in!
“That does not relish Plays,—nor Pork,—nor Pudding!”
Thus great Columbus by an Idiot Crew
Was ridicul'd, at first, for his just View;
Yet his undaunted Spirit ne'er gave Ground,
Till he a new and better World had found.
So I—laugh on—the Simile is bold;
But Faith 'tis just: For till this Body's cold,
Columbus like, I'll push for Fame and Gold.

198

A CHARACTER.

Of Judgment just, and Fancy clear,
Industrious, yet not avaritious;
No Slave to groundless Hope and Fear,
Chearful, yet hating to be vitious.

From Envy free, tho' prais'd not vain,
Ne'er acting without Honour's Warrant;
Still equal, generous and humane,
As Husband, Master, Friend and Parent.

So modest, as scarce to be known
By glaring, proud conceited Asses,
Whose little Spirits aften frown
On such as their less Worth surpasses.

Ye'll own he's a deserving Man,
That in these Out-lines stand before ye;
And trowth the Picture I have drawn,
Is very like my Friend . . .

The Character, tho' true, has something in it so great, that my too modest Friend will not allow me to set his Name to it. But this, and some few other Wants, shall be made out afterwards from my Register of Supplies

199

ODE To Alexander Murray of Brughton, Esq;

On his Marriage with Lady Euphemia, Daughter to the Right Honourable Earl of Galloway.

'Tis conquering Love alone can move
The Best to all that's great;
It sweetly binds two equal Minds,
And makes a happy State,
When such as MURRAY, of a Temper even,
And honour'd Worth, receives a Mate from Heaven.

Joy to you, Sir, and Joy to her,
Whose softer Charms can sooth,
With smiling Pow'r, a sullen Hour,
And make your Life flow smooth.
Man's but unfinish'd, 'till by Hymen's Ties,
His sweeter Half lock'd in his Bosom lyes.

The general Voice approve your Choice,
Their Sentiments agree,
With Fame allow'd, that she's a good
Branch sprung from a right Tree.
Long may the Graces of her Mind delight
Your Soul, and long her Beauties bless your Sight.

200

May the bright Guard, who love reward,
With Man recoyn'd again,
In Offspring fair make her their Care,
In Hours of joyful Pain:
And may my Patron healthful live to see,
By her a brave and bonny Progeny.

Let youthful Swains who 'tend your Plains,
Touch the tun'd Reed, and sing,
While Maids advance in sprightly Dance,
All in the rural Ring;
And with the Muse thank the immortal Powers,
Placing with Joy EUPHEMIA's Name with your's.

201

ODE To the Memory of Mrs. Forbes, Lady Newhall.

Ah Life! thou short uncertain Blaze,
Scarce worthy to be wish'd, or lov'd;
When by strict Death, so many Ways,
So soon the Sweetest are remov'd.

In Prime of Life and lovely Glow,
The dear BRUCINA must submit;
Nor could ward of[f] the fatal Blow,
With every Beauty, Grace and Wit.

If outward Charms, and Temper sweet,
The chearful Smile, and Thought sublime,
Could have preserv'd, she ne'er had met
A Change, 'till Death had sunk with Time.

Her Soul glanc'd with each heavenly Ray,
Her Form with all these Beauties fair,
For which young Brides and Mothers pray,
And wish for to their Infant Care.

Sowr Spleen or Anger, Passion rude,
These Opposites to Peace and Heaven,
Ne'er pal'd her Cheek, or fir'd her Blood;
Her Mind was ever calm and even.

202

Come, fairest Nymphs, and gentle Swains,
Give loose to Tears of tender Love;
Strow fragrant Flowers on her Remains,
While sighing round her Grave you move.

In mournful Notes your Pain express,
While with Reflection you run o'er,
How excellent, how good she was!
She was! alas! but is no more!

Yet piously correct your Moan,
And raise religious Thoughts on hie,
After her spotless Soul, that's gone
To Joys that ne'er can fade or die.

On a Slate's falling from a House on Mris. M. M---k's Breast.

Was Venus angry, and in Spite,
Allow'd that Stane to fa',
Imagining these Breasts so white
Contain'd a Heart of Snaw?

Was her wing'd Son sae cankert set
To wound her lovely Skin,
Because his Arrows could not get
A Passage farder in?

No: She is to Love's Goddess dear,
Her smiling Boy's Delight—
It was some Hag that doughtna bear
Sic Charms to vex her Sight.

203

Some silly sowr pretending Saint,
In Heart an Imp of Hell,
Whase hale Religion lyes in Cant,
Her Vertue in wrang Zeal;

She threw the Stane, and ettled Death:
But watching Zylphs flew round,
So guard dear MADIE from all Skaith,
And quickly cur'd the Wound.

To my kind and worthy Friends in Ireland, who on a Report of my Death, made and published several Elegies Lyrick and Pastoral, very much to my Honour.

Sighing Shepherds of Hiberna,
Thank ye for your kind Concern a',
When a fause Report, beguiling,
Prov'd a Draw-back on your smiling;
Dight your Een, and cease your grieving,
ALLAN's hale, and well, and living,
Singing, laughing, sleeping soundly,
Cowing Beef, and drinking roundly;
Drinking roundly Rum and Claret,
Ale and Usquae, Bumpers fair out,
Supernaculum but spilling,
The least Diamond drawing, filling;
Sowfing Sonnets on the Lasses,
Hounding Satyres at the Asses;
Smiling at the surly Criticks,
And the Pack-horse of Politicks;
Painting Meadows, Schaws and Mountains,
Crooking Burns and flowing Fountains;

204

Flowing Fountains, where ilk Gowan
Grows about the Borders glowan,
Smelling sweetly, and inviting
Poets Lays, and Lovers meeting;
Meeting kind to niffer Kisses,
Bargaining for better Blesses.

Hills in dreary Dumps now lying,
And ye Zephyrs swiftly flying,
And ye Rivers gently turning,
And ye Philomellas mourning,
And ye double sighing Echoes,
Cease your Sobing, Tears, and Hey! ho's!
Banish a' your Care and Grieving,
ALLAN's hale, and well, and living,
Early up on Morning's shining,
Ilka Fancy warm refining,
Giving ilka Verse a Burnish
That maun Second Volume furnish,
To bring in frae Lord and Lady
Meikle Fame and Part of Ready;
Splendid thing of constant Motion,
Fish'd for in the Southern Ocean;
Prop of Gentry, Nerve of Battles,
Prize for which the Gamester rattles;
Belzie's Banes, deceitfu', kittle,
Risking a' to gain a little.

Pleasing Philip's tunefu' Tickle
Philomel, and kind Arbuckle:
Singers sweet, baith Lads and Lasses,
Tuning Pipes on Hill Parnassus,
ALLAN kindly to you wishes
Lasting Life, and Rowth of Blesses;
And that he may, when ye surrender
Sauls to Heaven, in Number tender
Give a' your Fames a happy Heezy,
And gratefully immortalize ye.

See Note Vol. I. p. 11 [l. 21].

205

THE GENTLE SHEPHERD,

A Pastoral Comedy; Inscrib'd to the Right Honourable, SUSANNA Countess of Eglintoun.

207

To the Countess of Eglintoun, with the following Pastoral.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Accept, O EGLINTOUN! the rural Lays.
That, bound to thee, thy Poet humbly pays:
The Muse, that oft has rais'd her tuneful Strains,
A frequent Guest on Scotia's blessful Plains,
That oft has sung, her list'ning Youth to move,
The Charms of Beauty, and the Force of Love,
Once more resumes the still successful Lay,
Delighted, thro' the verdant Meads to stray.
O! come, invok'd, and pleas'd, with her repair,
To breathe the balmy Sweets of purer Air,
In the cool Evening negligently laid,
Or near the Stream, or in the rural Shade,
Propitious hear, and, as thou hear'st, approve
The Gentle Shepherd's tender Tale of Love.

Instructed from these Scenes, what glowing Fires
Inflame the Breast that real Love inspires!
The Fair shall read of Ardors, Sighs and Tears.
All that a Lover hopes, and all he fears.
Hence too, what Passions in his Bosom rise!
What dawning Gladness sparkles in his Eyes!
When first the Fair One, pitious of his Fate,
Kind of her Scorn, and vanquish'd of her Hate,
With willing Mind, is bounteous to relent,
And blushing beauteous smiles the kind Consent!
Love's Passion here in each Extreme is shown,
In Charlot's Smile, or in Maria's Frown.

208

With Words like these, that fail'd not to engage,
Love courted Beauty in a golden Age,
Pure and untaught, such Nature first inspir'd,
Ere yet the Fair affected Phrase desir'd.
His secret Thoughts were undisguis'd with Art,
His Words ne'er knew to differ from his Heart.
He speaks his Loves so artless and sincere,
As thy Eliza might be pleas'd to hear.

Heaven only to the Rural State bestows
Conquest o'er Life, and Freedom from its Woes;
Secure alike from Envy and from Care;
Nor rais'd by Hope, nor yet depress'd by Fear:
Nor Want's lean Hand its Happiness constrains,
Nor Riches torture with ill-gotten Gains.
No secret Guilt its stedfast Peace destroys,
No wild Ambition interrupts its Joys.
Blest still to spend the Hours that Heav'n has lent,
In humble Goodness, and in calm Content.
Serenely gentle, as the Thoughts that roll,
Sinless and pure, in fair Humeia's Soul.

But now the Rural State these Joys has lost;
Even Swains no more that Innocence can boast.
Love speaks no more what Beauty may believe,
Prone to betray, and practis'd to deceive.
Now Happiness foresakes her blest Retreat,
The peaceful Dwellings where she fix'd her Seat.
The pleasing Fields she wont of old to grace,
Companion to an upright sober Race;
When on the sunny Hill, or verdant Plain,
Free and familiar with the Sons of Men,
To crown the Pleasures of the blameless Feast,
She uninvited came a welcome Guest:
Ere yet an Age, grown rich in impious Arts,
Brib'd from their Innocence incautious Hearts;
Then grudging Hate, and sinful Pride succeed,
Cruel Revenge, and false unrighteous Deed;

209

Then dowrless Beauty lost the Power to move;
The Rust of Lucre stain'd the Gold of Love.
Bounteous no more, and hospitably good,
The genial Hearth first blush'd with Strangers Blood:
The Friend no more upon the Friend relies,
And semblant Falshood puts on Truth's Disguise.
The peaceful Houshold fill'd with dire Alarms,
The ravish'd Virgin mourns her slighted Charms;
The Voice of impious Mirth is heard around;
In Guilt they feast, in Guilt the Bowl is crown'd:
Unpunish'd Violence lords it o'er the Plains,
And Happiness forsakes the guilty Swains.

Oh Happiness! from humane Search retir'd,
Where art thou to be found by all desir'd?
Nun sober and devout! why art thou fled,
To hide in Shades thy meek contented Head?
Virgin of Aspect mild! ah why unkind,
Fly'st thou displeas'd, the Commerce of Mankind?
O! teach our Steps to find the secret Cell,
Where, with thy Sire Content, thou lov'st to dwell.
Or say, dost thou a duteous Handmaid wait
Familiar at the Chambers of the Great?
Dost thou pursue the Voice of them that call
To noisy Revel, and to Midnight Ball?
Or the full Banquet when we feast our Soul,
Dost thou inspire the Mirth, or mix the Bowl?
Or, with th'industrious Planter, dost thou talk,
Conversing freely in an Evening Walk?
Say, does the Miser e'er thy Face behold
Watchful and studious of the treasured Gold?
Seeks Knowledge, not in vain, thy much lov'd Pow'r,
Still musing silent at the Morning Hour?
May we thy Presence hope in War's Alarms,
In Stair's Wisdom, or in Erskine's Charms.

In vain our flatt'ring Hopes our Steps beguile,
The flying Good eludes the Searcher's Toil:

210

In vain we seek the City or the Cell,
Alone with Vertue knows the Pow'r to dwell.
Nor need Mankind despair these Joys to know,
The Gift themselves may on themselves bestow.
Soon, soon we might the precious Blessing boast;
But many Passions must the Blessing cost:
Infernal Malice, inly pining Hate,
And Envy, grieving at another's State.
Revenge no more must in our Hearts remain,
Or burning Lust, or Avarice of Gain.
When these are in the humane Bosom nurst,
Can Peace reside in Dwellings so accurst?
Unlike, O EGLINTOUN! thy happy Breast,
Calm and serene, enjoys the heavenly Guest;
From the tumultuous Rule of Passions free'd,
Pure in thy Thought, and spotless in thy Deed.
In Vertues rich, in Goodness unconfin'd,
Thou shin'st a fair Example to thy Kind;
Sincere and equal to thy Neighbour's Name,
How swift to praise, how guiltless to defame?
Bold in thy Presence Bashfulness appears,
And backward Merit loses all its Fears.
Supremely blest by Heav'n, Heav'n's richest Grace,
Confest is thine, an early blooming Race.
Whose pleasing Smiles shall guardian Wisdom arm,
Divine Instruction! taught of thee to charm.
What Transports shall they to thy Soul impart?
(The conscious Transports of a Parent's Heart)
When thou beholdst them of each Grace possest,
And sighing Youths imploring to be blest;
After thy Image form'd, with Charms like thine,
Or in the Visit, or the Dance to shine.
Thrice happy! who succeed their Mother's Praise,
The lovely EGLINTOUNS of other Days.

Mean while peruse the following tender Scenes,
And listen to thy native Poet's Strains.

211

In ancient Garb the home-bred Muse appears,
The Garb our Muses wore in former Years;
As in a Glass reflected, here behold
How smiling Goodness look'd in Days of old.
Nor blush to read where Beauty's Praise is shown,
Or vertuous Love, the Likeness of thy own;
While 'midst the various Gifts that gracious Heaven,
To thee, in whom it is well pleas'd, has given,
Let this, O EGLINTOUN! delight thee most,
T'enjoy that Innocence the World has lost.

W. H.

213

THE GENTLE SHEPHERD.

The Persons.

MEN.

Sir William Worthy.
Patie, The Gentle Shepherd in Love with Peggy.
Roger, A rich young Shepherd in Love with Jenny.
Symon, An old Shepherd, Tenant to Sir William.
Glaud, An old Shepherd, Tenant to Sir William.
Bauldy, A Hynd engaged with Neps.

WOMEN.

Peggy, Thought to be Glaud's Niece.
Jenny, Glaud's only Daughter.
Mause, An old Woman supposed to be a Witch.
Elspa, Symon's Wife.
Madge, Glaud's Sister.

SCENE, A Shepherd's Village and Fields some few Miles from Edinburgh.
Time of Action, Within twenty Hours.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Beneath the South side of a Craigy Beild,
Where Crystal Springs the halesome Waters yield,
Twa youthful Shepherds on the Gowans lay,
Tenting their Flocks ae bonny Morn of May.
Poor Roger granes till hollow Echoes ring;
But blyther Patie likes to laugh and sing.

PATIE and ROGER.
Pat.
This sunny Morning, Roger, chears my Blood,
And puts all Nature in a jovial Mood.
How heartsome 'tis to see the rising Plants?
To hear the Birds chirm o'er their pleasing Rants?
How halesome 'tis to snuff the cauler Air,
And all the Sweets it bears when void of Care?
What ails thee, Roger, then? what gars the[e] grane?
Tell me the Cause of thy ill season'd Pain.

Rog.
I'm born, O Patie! to a thrawart Fate;
I'm born to strive with Hardships sad and great.
Tempest may cease to jaw the rowan Flood,
Corbies and Tods to grein for Lambkins Blood;
But I, opprest with never ending Grief,
Maun ay despair of lighting on Relief.

Pat.
The Bees shall loath the Flower, and quit the Hive,
The Saughs on Boggie-Ground shall cease to thrive,

214

Ere scornful Queans, or Loss of warldly Gear,
Shall spill my Rest, or ever force a Tear.

Rog.
Sae might I say; but 'tis no easy done
By ane whase Saul is sadly out of Tune.
You have sae saft a Voice, and slid a Tongue,
You are the Darling of baith auld and young.
If I but ettle at a Sang, or speak,
They dit their Lugs, syne up their Leglens cleek;
And jeer me hameward frae the Loan or Bught,
While I'm confus'd with mony a vexing Thought:
Yet I am tall, and as well built as thee,
Nor mair unlikely to a Lass's Eye.
For ilka Sheep ye have, I'll number ten,
And should, as ane may think, come farer ben.

Pat.
But ablins, Nibour, ye have not a Heart,
And downa eithly wi' your Cunzie part.
If that be true, what signifies your Gear?
A Mind that's scrimpit never wants some Care.

Rog.
My Byar tumbled, nine braw Nowt were smoor'd,
Three Elf-shot were; yet I these Ills endur'd:
In Winter last, my Cares were very sma',
Tho' Scores of Wathers perish'd in the Snaw.

Pat.
Were your bein Rooms as thinly stock'd as mine,
Less you wad lose, and less you wad repine.
He that has just enough, can soundly sleep;
The O'ercome only fashes Fowk to keep.

Rog.
May Plenty flow upon thee for a Cross,
That thou may'st thole the Pangs of mony a Loss.
O mayst thou doat on some fair paughty Wench,
That ne'er will lout thy lowan Drouth to quench,
'Till bris'd beneath the Burden, thou cry Dool,
And awn that ane may fret that is nae Fool.

Pat.
Sax good fat Lambs I sald them ilka Clute
At the West-port, and bought a winsome Flute,

215

Of Plum-tree made, with Iv'ry Virles round,
A dainty Whistle with a pleasant Sound:
I'll be mair canty wi't, and ne'er cry Dool,
Than you with all your Cash, ye dowie Fool.

Rog.
Na, Patie, na! I'm nae sic churlish Beast,
Some other thing lyes heavier at my Breast:
I dream'd a dreary Dream this hinder Night,
That gars my Flesh a' creep yet with the Fright.

Pat.
Now to a Friend how silly's this Pretence,
To ane wha you and a' your Secrets kens:
Daft are your Dreams, as daftly wad ye hide
Your well seen Love, and dorty Jenny's Pride.
Take Courage, Roger, me your Sorrows tell,
And safely think nane kens them but your sell.

Rog.
Indeed now, Patie, ye have guess'd o'er true,
And there is nathing I'll keep up frae you.
Me dorty Jenny looks upon a-squint;
To speak but till her I dare hardly mint:
In ilka Place she jeers me air and late,
And gars me look bumbaz'd, and unko blate:
But yesterday I met her 'yont a Know,
She fled as frae a Shelly-coated Kow.
She Bauldy loes, Bauldy that drives the Car;
But gecks at me, and says I smell of Tar.

Pat.
But Bauldy loes not her, right well I wat;
He sighs for Neps—sae that may stand for that.

Rog.
I wish I cou'dna loo her—but in vain,
I still maun doat, and thole her proud Disdain.
My Bawty is a Cur I dearly like,
Even while he fawn'd, she strak the poor dumb Tyke:
If I had fill'd a Nook within her Breast,
She wad have shawn mair Kindness to my Beast.
When I begin to tune my Stock and Horn,
With a' her Face she shaws a caulrife Scorn.

216

Last Night I play'd, ye never heard sic Spite,
O'er Bogie was the Spring, and her Delyte;
Yet tauntingly she at her Cousin speer'd,
Gif she cou'd tell what Tune I play'd, and sneer'd.
Flocks, wander where ye like, I dinna care,
I'll break my Reed, and never whistle mair.

Pat.
E'en do sae, Roger, wha can help Misluck,
Saebeins she be sic a thrawin-gabet Chuck?
Yonder's a Craig, since ye have tint all Hope,
Gae till't your ways, and take the Lover's Lowp.

Rog.
I needna mak sic Speed my Blood to spill,
I'll warrant Death come soon enough a Will.

Pat.
Daft Gowk! leave off that silly whindging Way;
Seem careless, there's my Hand ye'll win the Day.
Hear how I serv'd my Lass I love as well
As ye do Jenny, and with Heart as leel:
Last Morning I was gay and early out,
Upon a Dike I lean'd glowring about,
I saw my Meg come linkan o'er the Lee;
I saw my Meg, but Meggy saw na me:
For yet the Sun was wading thro' the Mist,
And she was closs upon me ere she wist;
Her Coats were kiltit, and did sweetly shaw
Her straight bare Legs that whiter were than Snaw;
Her Cockernony snooded up fou sleek,
Her Haffet-Locks hang waving on her Cheek;
Her Cheek sae ruddy, and her Een sae clear;
And O! her Mouth's like ony hinny Pear.
Neat, neat she was, in Bustine Waste-coat clean,
As she came skiffing o'er the dewy Green.
Blythsome, I cry'd, my bonny Meg, come here,
I ferly wherefore ye're sae soon asteer;
But I can guess, ye're gawn to gather Dew:
She scour'd awa, and said, What's that to you?
Then fare ye well, Meg Dorts, and e'en's ye like,
I careless cry'd, and lap in o'er the Dike.

217

I trow, when that she saw, within a Crack,
She came with a right thievless Errand back;
Misca'd me first,—then bade me hound my Dog
To wear up three waff Ews stray'd on the Bog.
I leugh, and sae did she; then with great Haste
I clasp'd my Arms about her Neck and Waste,
About her yielding Waste, and took a Fouth
Of sweetest Kisses frae her glowing Mouth.
While hard and fast I held her in my Grips,
My very Saul came lowping to my Lips.
Sair, sair she flet wi' me 'tween ilka Smack;
But well I kent she meant nae as she spake.
Dear Roger, when your Jo puts on her Gloom,
Do ye sae too, and never fash your Thumb.
Seem to forsake her, soon she'll change her Mood;
Gae woo anither, and she'll gang clean wood.

Rog.
Kind Patie, now fair fa' your honest Heart,
Ye're ay sae cadgy, and have sic an Art
To hearten ane: For now as clean's a Leek,
Ye've cherish'd me since ye began to speak.
Sae for your Pains, I'll make ye a Propine,
My Mother (rest her Saul) she made it fine,
A Tartan Plaid, spun of good Hawslock Woo,
Scarlet and green the Sets, the Borders blew,
With Spraings like Gowd and Siller, cross'd with black;
I never had it yet upon my Back.
Well are ye wordy o't, wha have sae kind
Red up my revel'd Doubts, and clear'd my Mind.

Pat.
Well hald ye there;—and since ye've frankly made
A Present to me of your braw new Plaid,
My Flute's be your's, and she too that's sae nice
Shall come a will, gif ye'll tak my Advice.

Rog.
As ye advise, I'll promise to observ't;
But ye maun keep the Flute, ye best deserv't.
Now tak it out, and gie's a bonny Spring,
For I'm in tift to hear you play and sing.

218

Pat.
But first we'll take a turn up to the Height,
And see gif all our Flocks be feeding right.
Be that time Bannocks, and a Shave of Cheese,
Will make a Breakfast that a Laird might please;
Might please the daintiest Gabs, were they sae wise,
To season Meat with Health instead of Spice.
When we have tane the Grace-drink at this Well,
I'll whistle fine, and sing t'ye like my sell.

Exeunt.

[_]

N.B.—This first Scene is the only Piece in this Volume that was printed in the first. Having carried the Pastoral the length of five Acts at the Desire of some Persons of Distinction, I was obliged to reprint this preluding Scene with the rest.

SCENE II.

A flowrie Howm between twa verdent Braes,
Where Lasses use to wash and spread their Claiths,
A trotting Burnie wimpling thro' the Ground,
Its Channel Peebles, shining, smooth and round;
Here view twa barefoot Beauties clean and clear;
First please your Eye, next gratify your Ear,
While Jenny what she wishes discommends,
And Meg with better Sense true Love defends.

PEGGY and JENNY.
Jen.
Come, Meg, let's fa' to wark upon this Green,
The shining Day will bleech our Linen clean;
The Water's clear, the Lift unclouded blew,
Will make them like a Lilly wet with Dew.

Peg.
Go farer up the Burn to Habby's How,
Where a' the Sweets of Spring and Summer grow;
Between twa Birks, out o'er a little Lin
The Water fa's, and makes a singand Din;

219

A Pool breast-deep beneath, as clear as Glass,
Kisses with easy Whirles the bordring Grass:
We'll end our Washing while the Morning's cool,
And when the Day grows het, we'll to the Pool,
There wash our sells—'tis healthfu' now in May,
And sweetly cauler on sae warm a Day.

Jen.
Daft Lassie, when we're naked, what'll ye say,
Gif our twa Herds come brattling down the Brae,
And see us sae? That jeering Fallow Pate
Wad taunting say, Haith, Lasses, ye're no blate.

Peg.
We're far frae ony Road, and out of Sight;
The Lads they're feeding far beyont the Height:
But tell me now, dear Jenny, (we're our lane)
What gars ye plague your Wooer with Disdain?
The Nibours a' tent this as well as I,
That Roger loos you, yet ye carna by.
What ails ye at him? Trowth, between us twa,
He's wordy you the best Day e'er ye saw.

Jen.
I dinna like him, Peggy, there's an end;
A Herd mair sheepish yet I never kend.
He kaims his Hair indeed, and gaes right snug,
With Ribbon-knots at his blew Bonnet-lug;
Whilk pensily he wears a thought a-jee,
And spreads his Garters dic'd beneath his Knee.
He falds his Owrlay down his Breast with Care;
And few gang trigger to the Kirk or Fair.
For a' that, he can neither sing nor say,
Except, How d'ye—or, There's a bonny Day.

Peg.
Ye dash the Lad with constant slighting Pride;
Hatred for Love is unco sair to bide:
But ye'll repent ye, if his Love grows cauld.
What like's a dorty Maiden when she's auld?
Like dawted We'an that tarrows at its Meat,
That for some feckless Whim will orp and greet.

220

The lave laugh at it, till the Dinner's past,
And syne the Fool thing is oblig'd to fast,
Or scart anither's Leavings at the last.
Fy, Jenny, think, and dinna sit your Time.

Jen.
I never thought a single Life a Crime.

Peg.
Nor I—but Love in Whispers lets us ken,
That Men were made for us, and we for Men.

Jen.
If Roger is my Jo, he kens himsell;
For sic a Tale I never heard him tell.
He glowrs and sighs, and I can guess the Cause,
But wha's oblig'd to spell his Hums and Haws?
When e'er he likes to tell his Mind mair plain,
I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do't again.
They're Fools that Slavery like, and may be free:
The Cheils may a' knit up themsells for me.

Peg.
Be doing your Ways; for me, I have a mind
To be as yielding as my Patie's kind.

Jen.
Heh! Lass, how can ye loo that Rattle-scull,
A very Deel that ay maun hae his Will?
We'll soon here tell what a poor fighting Life
You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're Man and Wife.

Peg.
I'll rin the Risk; nor have I ony Fear,
But rather think ilk langsome Day a Year,
Till I with Pleasure mount my Bridal-bed,
Where on my Patie's Breast I'll lean my Head.
There we may kiss as lang as Kissing's good,
And what we do, there's nane dare call it rude.
He's get his Will: Why no? 'tis good my Part
To give him that; and he'll give me his Heart.

Jen.
He may indeed, for ten or fifteen Days,
Mak meikle o' ye, with an unco Fraise;
And daut ye baith afore Fowk and your lane:
But soon as his Newfangleness is gane,

221

He'll look upon you as his Tether-stake,
And think he's tint his Freedom for your Sake.
Instead then of lang Days of sweet Delite,
Ae Day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flite:
And may be, in his Barlickhoods, ne'er stick
To lend his loving Wife a loundering Lick.

Peg.
Sic coarse-spun Thoughts as thae want Pith to move
My settl'd Mind, I'm o'er far gane in Love.
Patie to me is dearer than my Breath;
But want of him I dread nae other Skaith.
There's nane of a' the Herds that tread the Green
Has sic a Smile, or sic twa glancing Een.
And then he speaks with sic a taking Art,
His Words they thirle like Musick thro' my Heart.
How blythly can he sport, and gently rave,
And jest at feckless Fears that fright the lave?
Ilk Day that he's alane upon the Hill,
He reads fell Books that teach him meikle Skill.
He is—But what need I say that or this?
I'd spend a Month to tell you what he is!
In a' he says or does, there's sic a Gait,
The rest seem Coofs compar'd with my dear Pate.
His better Sense will lang his Love secure:
Ill Nature heffs in Sauls are weak and poor.

Jen.
Hey! bonny Lass of Branksome, or't be lang,
Your witty Pate will put you in a Sang.
O! 'tis a pleasant thing to be a Bride;
Syne whindging Getts about your Ingle-side,
Yelping for this or that with fasheous Din,
To mak them Brats then ye maun toil and spin.
Ae We'an fa's sick, ane scads it sell we Broe,
Ane breaks his Shin, anither tynes his Shoe;
The Deel gaes o'er John Wobster, Hame grows Hell,
When Pate misca's ye war than Tongue can tell.

Peg.
Yes, 'tis a heartsome thing to be a Wife,
When round the Ingle-edge young Sprouts are rife.

222

Gif I'm sae happy, I shall have Delight,
To hear their little Plaints, and keep them right.
Wow! Jenny, can there greater Pleasure be,
Than see sic wee Tots toolying at your Knee;
When a' they ettle at—their greatest Wish,
Is to be made of, and obtain a Kiss?
Can there be Toil in tenting Day and Night,
The like of them, when Love makes Care Delight?

Jen.
But Poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a',
Gif o'er your Heads ill Chance shou'd Beggary draw:
But little Love, or canty Chear can come,
Frae duddy Doublets, and a Pantry toom.
Your Nowt may die—the Spate may bear away
Frae aff the Howms your dainty Rucks of Hay.—
The thick blawn Wreaths of Snaw, or blashy Thows,
May smoor your Wathers, and may rot your Ews.
A Dyvour buys your Butter, Woo and Cheese,
But, or the Day of Payment, breaks and flees.
With glooman Brow the Laird seeks in his Rent:
'Tis no to gi'e; your Merchant's to the bent;
His Honour mauna want, he poinds your Gear:
Syne, driven frae House and Hald, where will ye steer?
Dear Meg, be wise, and live a single Life;
Troth 'tis nae Mows to be a marry'd Wife.

Peg.
May sic ill Luck befa' that silly She,
Wha has sic Fears; for that was never me.
Let Fowk bode well, and strive to do their best;
Nae mair's requir'd, let Heaven make out the rest.
I've heard my honest Uncle aften say,
That Lads shou'd a' for Wives that's vertuous pray:
For the maist thrifty Man cou'd never get
A well stor'd Room, unless his Wife wad let:
Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my Part,
To gather Wealth to raise my Shepherd's Heart.
What e'er he wins, I'll guide with canny Care,
And win the Vogue, at Market, Tron, or Fair,
For halesome, clean, cheap and sufficient Ware.

223

A Flock of Lambs, Cheese, Butter, and some Woo,
Shall first be sald, to pay the Laird his Due;
Syne a' behind's our ain.—Thus, without Fear,
With Love and Rowth we thro' the Warld will steer:
And when my Pate in Bairns and Gear grows rife,
He'll bless the Day he gat me for his Wife.

Jen.
But what if some young Giglit on the Green,
With dimpled Cheeks, and twa bewitching Een,
Should gar your Patie think his haff-worn Meg,
And her kend Kisses, hardly worth a Feg?

Peg.
Nae mair of that;—dear Jenny, to be free,
There's some Men constanter in Love than we:
Nor is the Ferly great, when Nature kind
Has blest them with Solidity of Mind.
They'll reason calmly, and with Kindness smile,
When our short Passions wad our Peace beguile.
Sae whensoe'er they slight their Maiks at hame,
'Tis ten to ane the Wives are maist to blame.
Then I'll employ with Pleasure a' my Art
To keep him chearfu', and secure his Heart.
At Even, when he comes weary frae the Hill,
I'll have a' things made ready to his Will.
In Winter, when he toils thro' Wind and Rain,
A bleezing Ingle, and a clean Hearth-stane.
And soon as he flings by his Plaid and Staff,
The seething Pot's be ready to take aff.
Clean Hagabag I'll spread upon his Board,
And serve him with the best we can afford.
Good Humour and white Bigonets shall be
Guards to my Face, to keep his Love for me.

Jen.
A Dish of married Love right soon grows cauld,
And dosens down to nane, as Fowk grow auld.

Peg.
But we'll grow auld togither, and ne'er find
The Loss of Youth, when Love grows on the Mind.
Bairns, and their Bairns, make sure a firmer Ty,
Than ought in Love the like of us can spy.

224

See yon twa Elms that grow up Side by Side,
Suppose them, some Years syne, Bridegroom and Bride;
Nearer and nearer ilka Year they've prest,
Till wide their spreading Branches are increast,
And in their Mixture now are fully blest.
This shields the other frae the Eastlin Blast,
That in Return defends it frae the West.
Sic as stand single,—a State sae lik'd by you!
Beneath ilk Storm, frae ev'ry Airth, maun bow.

Jen.
I've done,—I yield, dear Lassie, I maun yield,
Your better Sense has fairly won the Field,
With the Assistance of a little Fae
Lyes darn'd within my Breast this mony a Day.

Peg.
Alake! poor Prisoner! Jenny, that's no fair,
That ye'll no let the wee thing tak the Air:
Haste, let him out, we'll tent as well's we can,
Gif he be Bauldy's or poor Roger's Man.

Jen.
Anither time's as good,—for see the Sun
Is right far up, and we're no yet begun
To freath the Graith;—if canker'd Madge our Aunt
Come up the Burn, she'll gie's a wicked Rant:
But when we've done, I'll tell ye a' my Mind;
For this seems true,—nae Lass can be unkind.

Exeunt.

End of the First ACT.

225

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A snug Thack-house, before the Door a Green;
Hens on the Midding, Ducks in Dubs are seen.
On this Side stands a Barn, on that a Byre;
A Peat-stack joins, and forms a rural Square.
The House is Glaud's;—there you may see him lean,
And to his Divot-Seat invite his Frien'.

GLAUD and SYMON.
Glaud.
Good-morrow, Nibour Symon,—come sit down,
And gie's your Cracks.—What's a' the News in Town?
They tell me ye was in the ither Day,
And sald your Crummock and her bassend Quey.
I'll warrant ye've coft a Pund of Cut and Dry;
Lug out your Box, and gie's a Pipe to try.

Sym.
With a' my Heart;—and tent me now, auld Boy,
I've gather'd News will kittle your Mind with Joy.
I cou'dna rest till I came o'er the Burn,
To tell ye things have taken sic a Turn,
Will gar our vile Oppressors stend like Flaes,
And skulk in Hidlings on the Hether Braes.

Glaud.
Fy, blaw! Ah! Symie, ratling Chiels ne'er stand
To cleck and spread the grossest Lies aff hand,
Whilk soon flies round like Will-fire far and near:
But loose your Poke, be't true or fause, let's hear.

Sym.
Seeing's believing, Glaud, and I have seen
Hab, that abroad has with our Master been;
Our brave good Master, wha right wisely fled,
And left a fair Estate, to save his Head:
Because ye ken fou well he bravely chose
To stand his Liege's Friend with Great Montrose.
Now Cromwell's gane to Nick; and ane ca'd Monk
Has play'd the Rumple a right slee Begunk,

226

Restor'd King CHARLES, and ilka thing's in Tune:
And Habby says, We'll see Sir William soon.

Glaud.
That makes me blyth indeed;—but dinna flaw:
Tell o'er your News again! and swear till't a';
And saw ye Hab! And what did Halbert say?
They have been e'en a dreary Time away.
Now GOD be thanked that our Laird's come hame,
And his Estate, say, can he eithly claim?

Sym.
They that hag-raid us till our Guts did grane,
Like greedy Bairs, dare nae mair do't again;
And good Sir William sall enjoy his ain.

Glaud.
And may he lang; for never did he stent
Us in our thriving, with a racket Rent:
Nor grumbl'd, if ane grew rich; or shor'd to raise
Our Mailens, when we pat on Sunday's Claiths.

Sym.
Nor wad he lang, with senseless saucy Air,
Allow our lyart Noddles to be bare.
Put on your Bonnet, Symon;—Tak a Seat.—
How's all at hame?—How's Elspa? How does Kate?
How sells black Cattle?—What gie's Woo this Year?—
And sic like kindly Questions wad he speer.

Glaud.
Then wad he gar his Butler bring bedeen
The nappy Bottle ben, and Glasses clean,
Whilk in our Breast rais'd sic a blythsome Flame,
As gart me mony a time gae dancing hame.
My Heart's e'en rais'd! Dear Nibour, will ye stay,
And tak your Dinner here with me the Day?
We'll send for Elspath too—and upo' sight,
I'll whistle Pate and Roger frae the Height:
I'll yoke my Sled, and send to the neist Town,
And bring a Draught of Ale baith stout and brown,
And gar our Cottars a', Man, Wife and We'an,
Drink till they tine the Gate to stand their lane.

Sym.
I wad na bauk my Friend his blyth Design,
Gif that it hadna first of a' been mine:

227

For heer-yestreen I brew'd a Bow of Maut,
Yestreen I slew twa Wathers prime and fat;
A Firlot of good Cakes my Elspa beuk,
And a large Ham hings reesting in the Nook:
I saw my sell, or I came o'er the Loan,
Our meikle Pot that scads the Whey put on,
A Mutton-bouk to boil:—And ane we'll roast;
And on the Haggies Elspa spares nae Cost;
Sma' are they shorn, and she can mix fu' nice
The gusty Ingans with a Curn of Spice:
Fat are the Puddings,—Heads and Feet well sung.
And we've invited Nibours auld and young,
To pass this Afternoon with Glee and Game,
And drink our Master's Health and Welcome-hame.
Ye mauna then refuse to join the rest,
Since ye're my nearest Friend that I like best.
Bring wi' ye a' your Family, and then,
When e'er you please, I'll rant wi' you again.

Glaud.
Spoke like ye'r sell, Auld-birky, never fear
But at your Banquet I shall first appear.
Faith we shall bend the Bicker, and look bauld,
Till we forget that we are fail'd or auld.
Auld, said I! troth I'm younger be a Score,
With your good News, than what I was before.
I'll dance or Een! Hey! Madge, come forth: D'ye hear?

Enter Madge.
Mad.
The Man's gane gyte! Dear Symon, welcome here.
What wad ye, Glaud, with a' this Haste and Din?
Ye never let a Body sit to spin.

Glaud.
Spin! snuff—Gae break your Wheel, and burn your Tow,
And set the meiklest Peat-stack in a Low.
Syne dance about the Bane-fire till ye die,
Since now again we'll soon Sir William see.

228

Mad.
Blyth News indeed! And wha was tald you o't?

Glaud.
What's that to you?—Gae get my Sunday's Coat;
Wale out the whitest of my bobbit Bands,
My white-skin Hose, and Mittons for my Hands;
Then frae their Washing cry the Bairns in haste,
And make your sells as trig, Head, Feet and Waist,
As ye were a' to get young Lads or E'en;
For we're gaun o'er to dine with Sym bedeen.

Sym.
Do, honest Madge:—And, Glaud, I'll o'er the gate,
And see that a' be done as I wad hae't.

Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The open Field.—A Cottage in a Glen,
An auld Wife spinning at the sunny End.—
At a small Distance, by a blasted Tree,
With falded Arms, and haff rais'd Look ye see

Bauldy his lane.
Baul.
What's this!—I canna bear't! 'tis war than Hell,
To be sae burnt with Love, yet darna tell!
O Peggy, sweeter than the dawning Day,
Sweeter than gowany Glens, or new mawn Hay;
Blyther than Lambs that frisk out o'er the Knows,
Straighter than ought that in the Forest grows:
Her Een the clearest Blob of Dew outshines;
The Lilly in her Breast its Beauty tines.
Her Legs, her Arms, her Cheeks, her Mouth, her Een,
Will be my dead, that will be shortly seen!
For Pate loes her,—wae's me! and she loes Pate;
And I with Neps, by some unlucky Fate,

229

Made a daft Vow:—O but ane be a Beast
That makes rash Aiths till he's afore the Priest!
I dare na speak my Mind, else a' the three,
But doubt, wad prove ilk ane my Enemy.
'Tis sair to thole;—I'll try some Witchcraft Art,
To break with ane, and win the other's Heart.
Here Mausy lives, a Witch, that for sma' Price
Can cast her Cantraips, and give me Advice.
She can o'ercast the Night, and cloud the Moon,
And mak the Deils obedient to her Crune.
At Midnight Hours, o'er the Kirk-yards she raves,
And howks unchristen'd We'ans out of their Graves;
Boils up their Livers in a Warlock's Pow,
Rins withershins about the Hemlock Low;
And seven Times does her Prayers backward pray,
Till Plotcock comes with Lumps of Lapland Clay,
Mixt with the Venom of black Taids and Snakes;
Of this unsonsy Pictures aft she makes
Of ony ane she hates—and gars expire
With slaw and racking Pains afore a Fire;
Stuck fu' of Prins, the devilish Pictures melt,
The Pain, by Fowk they represent, is felt.
And yonder's Mause: Ay, ay, she kens fu' well,
When ane like me comes rinning to the Deil.
She and her Cat sit beeking in her Yard,
To speak my Errand, faith amaist I'm fear'd:
But I maun do't, tho' I should never thrive;
They gallop fast that Deils and Lasses drive.

Exit.

230

SCENE III.

A Green Kail-yard, a little Fount,
Where Water popilan springs;
There sits a Wife with Wrinkle-Front.
And yet she spins and sings.

Mause
sings.
“Peggy, now the King's come,
“Peggy, now the King's come;
“Thou may dance, and I shall sing,
“Peggy, since the King's come.
“Nae mair the Hawkies shalt thou milk,
“But change thy Plaiding-Coat for Silk,
“And be a Lady of that Ilk,
“Now, Peggy, since the King's come.

Enter Bauldy.
Baul.
How does auld honest Lucky of the Glen?
Ye look baith hale and fere at threescore ten.

Maus.
E'en twining out a Threed with little Din,
And beeking my cauld Limbs afore the Sun.
What brings my Bairn this Gate sae air at Morn?
Is there nae Muck to lead?—to thresh nae Corn?

Baul.
Enough of baith:—But something that requires
Your helping Hand, employs now all my Cares.

Maus.
My helping Hand, alake! what can I do,
That underneath baith Eild and Poortith bow?

Baul.
Ay, but ye're wise, and wiser far than we,
Or maist Part of the Parish tells a Lie.

Maus.
Of what kind Wisdom think ye I'm possest,
That lifts my Character aboon the rest?

Baul.
The Word that gangs, how ye're sae wise and fell,
Ye'll may be take it ill gif I shou'd tell.

231

Maus.
What Fowk says of me, Bauldy, let me hear;
Keep nathing up, ye nathing have to fear.

Baul.
Well, since ye bid me, I shall tell ye a',
That ilk ane talks about you, but a Flaw.
When last the Wind made Glaud a roofless Barn;
When last the Burn bore down my Mither's Yarn;
When Brawny Elf-shot never mair came hame;
When Tibby kirn'd, and there nae Butter came;
When Bessy Freetock's chuffy-cheeked We'an
To a Fairy turn'd, and cou'd na stand its lane;
When Watie wander'd ae Night thro' the Shaw,
And tint himsell amaist amang the Snaw;
When Mungo's Mear stood still, and swat with Fright,
When he brought East the Howdy under Night;
When Bawsy shot to dead upon the Green,
And Sara tint a Snood was nae mair seen:
You, Lucky, gat the Wyte of a' fell out,
And ilka ane here dreads you round about.
And sae they may that mint to do ye Skaith:
For me to wrang ye, I'll be very laith;
But when I neist make Grots, I'll strive to please
You with a Firlot of them mixt with Pease.

Maus.
I thank ye, Lad;—now tell me your Demand,
And, if I can, I'll lend my helping Hand.

Baul.
Then, I like Peggy,—Neps is fond of me;—
Peggy likes Pate,—and Patie's bauld and slee,
And loes sweet Meg.—But Neps I downa see.—
Cou'd ye turn Patie's Love to Neps, and than
Peggy's to me,—I'd be the happiest Man.

Maus.
I'll ry my Art to gar the Bowls row right;
Sae gang your ways, and come again at Night:
'Gainst that time I'll some simple things prepare,
Worth all your Pease and Grots; tak ye nae Care.

Baul.
Well, Mause, I'll come, gif I the Road can find:
But if ye raise the Deil, he'll raise the Wind;

232

Syne Rain and Thunder may be, when 'tis late,
Will make the Night sae rough, I'll tine the Gate.
We're a' to rant in Symie's at a Feast,
O! will ye come like Badrans, for a Jest;
And there ye can our different Haviours spy:
There's nane shall ken o't there but you and I.

Maus.
'Tis like I may,—but let na on what's past
'Tween you and me, else fear a kittle Cast.

Baul.
If I ought of your Secrets e'er advance,
May ye ride on me ilka Night to France.

Exit Bauldy.
Mause her lane.

Hard Luck, alake! when Poverty and Eild,
Weeds out of Fashion, and a lanely Beild,
With a sma' Cast of Wiles, should in a twitch,
Gi'e ane the hatefu' Name a wrinkled Witch.
This Fool imagines, as do mony sic,
That I'm a Wretch in Compact with Auld Nick;
Because by Education I was taught
To speak and act aboon their common Thought.
Their gross Mistake shall quickly now appear;
Soon shall they ken what brought, what keeps me here;
Nane kens but me,—and if the Morn were come,
I'll tell them Tales will gar them a' sing dumb.

Exit.

233

SCENE IV.

Behind a Tree, upon the Plain,
Pate and his Peggy meet;
In Love, without a vicious Stain,
The bonny Lass and chearfu' Swain
Change Vows and Kisses sweet.

PATIE and PEGGY.
Peg.
O Patie, let me gang, I mauna stay,
We're baith cry'd hame, and Jenny she's away.

Pat.
I'm laith to part sae soon; now we're alane,
And Roger he's awa with Jenny gane:
They're as content, for ought I hear or see,
To be alane themsells, I judge, as we.
Here, where Primroses thickest paint the Green,
Hard by this little Burnie let us lean.
Hark how the Lavrocks chant aboon our Heads,
How saft the Westlin Winds sough thro' the Reeds.

Peg.
The scented Meadows,—Birds,—and healthy Breeze,
For ought I ken, may mair than Peggy please.

Pat.
Ye wrang me sair, to doubt my being kind;
In speaking sae, ye ca' me dull and blind.
Gif I could fancy ought's sae sweet or fair
As my dear Meg, or worthy of my Care.
Thy Breath is sweeter than the sweetest Brier,
Thy Cheek and Breast the finest Flowers appear.
Thy Words excel the maist delightfu' Notes,
That warble through the Merl or Mavis' Throats.
With thee I tent nae Flowers that busk the Field,
Or ripest Berries that our Mountains yield.
The sweetest Fruits that hing upon the Tree,
Are far inferior to a Kiss of thee.

Peg.
But Patrick, for some wicked End, may fleech,
And Lambs should tremble when the Foxes preach.

234

I dare na stay—ye Joker, let me gang,
Anither Lass may gar ye change your Sang;
Your Thoughts may flit, and I may thole the Wrang.

Pat.
Sooner a Mother shall her Fondness drap,
And wrang the Bairn sits smiling on her Lap;
The Sun shall change, the Moon to change shall cease,
The Gaits to clim,—the Sheep to yield the Fleece,
Ere ought by me be either said or done,
Shall skaith our Love; I swear by all aboon.

Peg.
Then keep your Aith:—But mony Lads will swear,
And be mansworn to twa in haff a Year.
Now I believe ye like me wonder well;
But if a fairer Face your Heart shou'd steal,
Your Meg forsaken, bootless might relate,
How she was dauted anes by faithless Pate.

Pat.
I'm sure I canna change, ye needna fear;
Tho' we're but young, I've loo'd you mony a Year.
I mind it well, when thou coud'st hardly gang,
Or lisp out Words, I choos'd ye frae the thrang
Of a' the Bairns, and led thee by the Hand,
Aft to the Tansy-know, or Rashy strand.
Thou smiling by my Side,—I took Delite,
To pou the Rashes green, with Roots sae white,
Of which, as well as my young Fancy cou'd,
For thee I plet the flowry Belt and Snood.

Peg.
When first thou gade with Shepherds to the Hill,
And I to milk the Ews first try'd my Skill;
To bear a Leglen was nae toil to me,
When at the Bught at E'en I met with thee.

Pat.
When Corns grew yellow, and the Hether-bells
Bloom'd bonny on the Moor and rising Fells,
Nae Birns, or Briers, or Whins e'er troubled me,
Gif I cou'd find blae Berries ripe for thee.

Peg.
When thou didst wrestle, run, or putt the Stane,
And wan the Day, my Heart was flightering fain:

235

At all these Sports thou still gave Joy to me;
For nane can wrestle, run, or putt with thee.

Pat.
Jenny sings saft the Broom of Cowden-knows,
And Rosie lilts the Milking of the Ews;
There's nane like Nansie, Jenny Nettles sings;
At Turns in Maggy Lauder, Marion dings:
But when my Peggy sings, with sweeter Skill,
The Boat-man, or the Lass of Patie's Mill;
It is a thousand times mair sweet to me:
Tho' they sing well, they canna sing like thee.

Peg.
How eith can Lasses trow what they desire!
And roos'd by them we love, blaws up that Fire:
But wha loves best, let Time and Carriage try;
Be constant, and my Love shall Time defy.
Be still as now, and a' my Care shall be,
How to contrive what pleasant is for thee.

Pat.
Wert thou a giglit Gawky like the lave,
That little better than our Nowt behave;
At nought they'll ferly;—senseless Tales believe;
Be blyth for silly Heghts, for Trifles grieve:—
Sic ne'er cou'd win my Heart, that kenna how,
Either to keep a Prize, or yet prove true.
But thou, in better Sense, without a Flaw,
As in thy Beauty far excells them a',
Continue kind; and a' my Care shall be,
How to contrive what pleasing is for thee.

Peg.
Agreed;—but harken, yon's auld Aunty's Cry;
I ken they'll wonder what can make us stay.

Pat.
And let them ferly.—Now, a kindly Kiss,
Or fivescore good anes wad not be amiss;
And syne we'll sing the Sang with tunefu' Glee,
That I made up last Owk on you and me.

Peg.
Sing first, syne claim your Hire.—

Pat.
—Well, I agree.

236

Patie
sings.
By the delicious Warmness of thy Mouth,
And rowing Eyes that smiling tell the Truth,
I guess, my Lassie, that as well as I,
You're made for Love; and why should ye deny?

Peggy
sings.
But ken ye, Lad, gin we confess o'er soon,
Ye think us cheap, and syne the Wooing's done?
The Maiden that o'er quickly tines her Power,
Like unripe Fruit, will taste but hard and sowr.

Patie
sings.
But gin they hing o'er lang upon the Tree,
Their Sweetness they may tine; and sae may ye.
Red cheeked you completely ripe appear;
And I have thol'd and woo'd a lang haff Year.

Peggy
singing, falls into Patie's Arms.
Then dinna pu' me, gently thus I fa'
Into my Patie's Arms, for good and a'.
But stint your Wishes to this kind Embrace;
And mint nae farther till we've got the Grace.

Patie
with his left Hand about her Waste.
O charming Armfu', hence ye Cares away,
I'll kiss my Treasure a' the live lang Day;
All Night I'll dream my Kisses o'er again,
Till that Day come that ye'll be a' my ain.

Sung by both.
Sun, gallop down the Westlin Skies,
Gang soon to bed, and quickly rise;
O lash your Steeds, post Time away,
And haste about our Bridal Day:
And if ye're wearied, honest Light,
Sleep, gin ye like, a Week that Night.

End of the Second ACT.

237

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Now turn your Eyes beyond yon spreading Lime,
And tent a Man whase Beard seems bleech'd with Time;
An Elvand fills his Hand, his Habit mean:
Nae doubt ye'll think he has a Pedlar been.
But whisht! it is the Knight in Masquerade,
That comes hid in this Cloud to see his Lad.
Observe how pleas'd the loyal Sufferer moves
Thro' his auld Av'news, anes delightfu' Groves.
Sir WILLIAM
solus.

The Gentleman thus hid in low Disguise,
I'll for a Space unknown delight mine Eyes,
With a full View of every fertile Plain,
Which once I lost,—which now are mine again.
Yet 'midst my Joys, some Prospects Pain renew,
Whilst I my once fair Seat in Ruins view.
Yonder, ah me! it desolately stands,
Without a Roof; the Gates faln from their Bands;
The Casements all broke down; no Chimney left;
The naked Walls of Tap'stry all bereft:
My Stables and Pavilions, broken Walls!
That with each rainy Blast decaying falls:
My Gardens, once adorn'd the most compleat,
With all that Nature, all that Art makes sweet;
Where, round the figur'd Green, and Peeble Walks,
The dewy Flowers hung nodding on their Stalks:
But, overgrown with Nettles, Docks and Brier,
No Jaccacinths or Eglintines appear.
How do those ample Walls to Ruin yield,
Where Peach and Nect'rine Branches found a Beild,
And bask'd in Rays, which early did produce
Fruit fair to view, delightfu' in the Use!
All round in Gaps, the most in Rubbish ly,
And from what stands the wither'd Branches fly.

238

These soon shall be repair'd:—And now my Joy
Forbids all Grief,—when I'm to see my Boy,
My only Prop, and Object of my Care,
Since Heaven too soon call'd hame his Mother fair.
Him, ere the Rays of Reason clear'd his Thought,
I secretly to faithful Symon brought,
And charg'd him strictly to conceal his Birth,
'Till we should see what changing Times brought forth.
Hid from himself, he starts up by the Dawn,
And ranges careless o'er the Height and Lawn,
After his fleecy Charge, serenely gay,
With other Shepherds whistling o'er the Day.
Thrice happy Life! that's from Ambition free;
Remov'd from Crowns and Courts, how chearfully
A quiet contented Mortal spends his Time
In hearty Health, his Soul unstain'd with Crime.

Now tow'rds good Symon's House I'll bend my Way,
And see what makes yon Gamboling to Day,
All on the Green, in a fair wanton Ring,
My youthful Tenants gayly dance and sing.

Exit.

239

SCENE II.

'Tis Symon's House, please to step in,
And vissy't round and round;
There's nought superfluous to give Pain,
Or costly to be found.
Yet all is clean: A clear Peat-Ingle
Glances amidst the Floor;
The Green-Horn Spoons, Beech-Luggies mingle,
On Skelfs foregainst the Door.
While the young Brood sport on the Green,
The auld anes think it best,
With the Brown Cow to clear their Een,
Snuff, crack, and take their Rest.

SYMON, GLAUD and ELSPA.
Glaud.
We anes were young our sells—I like to see
The Bairns bob round with other merrilie.
Troth, Symon, Patie's grown a strapan Lad,
And better Looks than his I never bade.
Amang our Lads, he bears the Gree awa',
And tells his Tale the cleverest of them a'.

Els.
Poor Man!—he's a great Comfort to us baith:
GOD mak him good, and hide him ay frae Skaith.
He is a Bairn, I'll say't, well worth our Care,
That ga'e us ne'er Vexation late or air.

Glaud.
I trow, Goodwife, if I be not mistane,
He seems to be with Peggy's Beauty tane,
And troth, my Niece is a right dainty We'an,
As ye well ken: A bonnier needna be,
Nor better,—be't she were nae Kin to me.

Sym.
Ha! Glaud, I doubt that ne'er will be a Match;
My Patie's wild, and will be ill to catch:
And or he were, for Reasons I'll no tell,
I'd rather be mixt with the Mools my sell.

240

Glaud.
What Reason can ye have? There's nane, I'm sure,
Unless ye may cast up that she's but poor:
But gif the Lassie marry to my Mind,
I'll be to her as my ain Jenny kind.
Fourscore of breeding Ews of my ain Birn,
Five Ky that at ae Milking fills a Kirn,
I'll gi'e to Peggy that Day she's a Bride;
By and attour, gif my good Luck abide,
Ten Lambs at Spaining-time, as lang's I live,
And twa Quey Cawfs I'll yearly to them give.

Els.
Ye offer fair, kind Glaud; but dinna speer
What may be is not fit ye yet should here.

Sym.
Or this Day eight days likely he shall learn,
That our Denial disna slight his Bairn.

Glaud.
Well, nae mair o't,—come, gie's the other Bend;
We'll drink their Healths, whatever Way it end.

Their Healths gae round.
Sym.
But will ye tell me, Glaud,—by some 'tis said,
Your Niece is but a Fundling that was laid
Down at your Hallon-side, ae Morn in May,
Right clean row'd up, and bedded on dry Hay.

Glaud.
That clatteran Madge, my Titty, tells sic Flaws,
When e'er our Meg her cankart Humour gaws.

Enter Jenny.
Jen.
O Father! there's an auld Man on the Green,
The fellest Fortune-teller e'er was seen:
He tents our Loofs, and syne whops out a Book,
Turns o'er the Leaves, and gie's our Brows a Look;
Syne tells the oddest Tales that e'er ye heard.
His Head is gray, and lang and gray his Beard.

241

Sym.
Gae bring him in; we'll hear what he can say:
Name shall gang hungry by my House to Day. Exit Jenny.

But for his telling Fortunes, troth I fear,
He kens nae mair of that than my gray Mare.

Glaud.
Spae-men! the Truth of a' their Saws I doubt;
For greater Liars never ran there out.

Returns Jenny, bringing in Sir William; with them Patie.
Sym.
Ye're welcome, honest Carle;—here take a Seat.

S. Will.
I give ye Thanks, Goodman; I'se no be blate.

Glaud
drinks.
Come t'ye, Friend:—How far came ye the Day?

S. Will.
I pledge ye, Nibour:—E'en but little Way:
Rousted with Eild, a wee Piece Gate seems lang;
Twa Miles or three's the maist that I dow gang.

Sym.
Ye're welcome here to stay all Night with me,
And take sic Bed and Board as we can gi' ye.

S. Will.
That's kind unsought.—Well, gin ye have a Bairn
That ye like well, and wad his Fortune learn,
I shall employ the farthest of my Skill,
To spae it faithfully, be't good or ill.

Symon
pointing to Patie.
Only that Lad;—alake! I have nae mae,
Either to make me joyful now, or wae.

S. Will.
Young Man, let's see your Hand;—what gars ye sneer?

Pat.
Because your Skill's but little worth I fear.

S. Will.
Ye cut before the Point.—But, Billy, bide,
I'll wager there's a Mouse Mark on your Side.

242

Els.
Betooch-us-to! and well I wat that's true:
Awa, awa! the Deil's o'er grit wi' you.
Four Inch aneath his Oxter is the Mark,
Scarce ever seen since he first wore a Sark.

S. Will.
I'll tell ye mair, if this young Lad be spar'd
But a short while, he'll be a braw rich Laird.

Elsp.
A Laird!—Hear ye, Goodman! What think ye now?

Sym.
I dinna ken: Strange auld Man! What art thou?
Fair fa' your Heart; 'tis good to bode of Wealth:
Come turn the Timmer to Laird Patie's Health.

Patie's Health gaes round.
Pat.
A Laird of twa good Whistles, and a Kent,
Twa Curs, my trusty Tenants, on the Bent,
Is all my great Estate—and like to be:
Sae, cunning Carle, ne'er break your Jokes on me.

Sym.
Whisht, Patie,—let the Man look o'er your Hand,
Aftimes as broken a Ship has come to Land.

Sir William looks a little at Patie's Hand, then counterfeits falling into a Trance, while they endeavour to lay him right.
Elsp.
Preserve's! the Man's a Warlock, or possest
With some nae good—or second Sight, at least:
Where is he now?—

Glaud.
—He's seeing a' that's done
In ilka Place, beneath or yont the Moon.

Elsp.
These second sighted Fowk, his Peace be here!
See things far aff, and things to come, as clear
As I can see my Thumb—Wow, can he tell
(Speer at him, soon as he comes to himsell)
How soon we'll see Sir William? Whisht, he heaves,
And speaks out broken Words like ane that raves.

243

Sym.
He'll soon grow better;—Elspa, haste ye, gae,
And fill him up a Tass of Usquebae.

Sir William
starts up, and speaks.
A Knight that for a LYON fought,
Against a Herd of Bears,
Was to lang Toil and Trouble brought,
In which some Thousands shares.
But now again the LYON rares,
And Joy spreads o'er the Plain:
The LYON has defeat the Bears,
The Knight returns again.
That Knight, in a few Days, shall bring
A Shepherd frae the Fauld,
And shall present him to his King,
A Subject true and bauld.
He Mr. Patrick shall be call'd:
All you that hear me now,
May well believe what I have tald;
For it shall happen true.

Sym.
Friend, may your Spaeing happen soon and weel;
But, faith, I'm redd you've bargain'd with the Deil,
To tell some Tales that Fowks wad secret keep:
Or do ye get them tald you in your Sleep?

S. Will.
Howe'er I get them, never fash your Beard;
Nor come I to redd Fortunes for Reward:
But I'll lay ten to ane with ony here,
That all I prophesy shall soon appear.

Sym.
You prophesying Fowks are odd kind Men!
They're here that ken, and here that disna ken,
The wimpled Meaning of your unco Tale,
Whilk soon will mak a Noise o'er Moor and Dale.

Glaud.
'Tis nae sma' Sport to hear how Sym believes,
And takes't for Gospel what the Spae-man gives

244

Of flawing Fortunes, whilk he evens to Pate:
But what we wish, we trow at ony Rate.

S. Will.
Whisht, doubtfu' Carle; for ere the Sun
Has driven twice down to the Sea,
What I have said ye shall see done
In part, or nae mair credit me.

Glaud.
Well, be't sae, Friend, I shall say nathing mair;
But I've twa sonsy Lasses young and fair,
Plump ripe for Men: I wish ye cou'd foresee
Sic Fortunes for them might prove Joy to me.

S. Will.
Nae mair thro' Secrets can I sift,
Till Darkness black the Bent:
I have but anes a day that Gift;
Sae rest a while content.

Sym.
Elspa, cast on the Claith, fetch butt some Meat,
And, of your best, gar this auld Stranger eat.

S. Will.
Delay a while your hospitable Care;
I'd rather enjoy this Evening calm and fair,
Around yon ruin'd Tower, to fetch a Walk
With you, kind Friend, to have some private Talk.

Sym.
Soon as you please I'll answer your Desire:—
And, Glaud, you'll take your Pipe beside the Fire;
We'll but gae round the Place, and soon be back,
Syne sup together, and tak our Pint, and crack.

Glaud.
I'll out a while, and see the young anes play.
My Heart's still light, abeit my Locks be gray.

Exeunt.

245

SCENE III.

Jenny pretends an Errand hame,
Young Roger draps the rest,
To whisper out his melting Flame,
And thow his Lassie's Breast.
Behind a Bush, well hid frae sight, they meet:
See Jenny's laughing; Roger's like to greet.
Poor Shepherd!

ROGER and JENNY.
Rog.
Dear Jenny, I wad speak to ye, wad ye let;
And yet I ergh, ye're ay sae scornfu' set.

Jen.
And what would Roger say, if he could speak?
Am I oblig'd to guess what ye're to seek.

Rog.
Yes, ye may guess right eith for what I grein,
Baith by my Service, Sighs, and langing Een.
And I maun out wi't, tho' I risk your Scorn;
Ye're never frae my Thoughts baith Ev'n and Morn.
Ah! cou'd I loo ye less, I'd happy be;
But happier far, cou'd ye but fancy me.

Jen.
And wha kens, honest Lad, but that I may;
Ye canna say that e'er I said ye nay.

Rog.
Alake! my frighted Heart begins to fail,
When e'er I mint to tell ye out my Tale,
For fear some tighter Lad, mair rich than I,
Has win your Love, and near your Heart may ly.

Jen.
I loo my Father, Cousin Meg I love;
But to this Day, nae Man my Mind could move:
Except my Kin, ilk Lad's alike to me;
And frae ye all I best had keep me free.

Rog.
How lang, dear Jenny?—Sayna that again;
What Pleasure can ye tak in giving Pain?
I'm glad, however, that ye yet stand free:
Wha kens but ye may rue, and pity me?

246

Jen.
Ye have my Pity else, to see ye set
On that whilk makes our Sweetness soon foryet.
Wow! but we're bonny, good, and every thing;
How sweet we breathe, when e'er we kiss, or sing!
But we're nae sooner Fools to give Consent,
Than we our Daffine and tint Power repent:
When prison'd in four Waws, a Wife right tame,
Altho' the first, the greatest Drudge at hame.

Rog.
That only happens, when for sake of Gear,
Ane wales a Wife, as he wad buy a Mear;
Or when dull Parents Bairns together bind
Of different Tempers, that can ne'er prove kind.
But Love, true downright Love, engages me,
Tho' thou should scorn,—still to delight in thee.

Jen.
What suggar'd Words frae Woers Lips can fa'!
But girning Marriage comes and ends them a'.
I've seen with shining Fair the Morning rise,
And soon the sleety Clouds mirk a' the Skies.
I've seen the Silver Spring a while rin clear,
And soon in Mossy Puddles disappear.
Ths Bridegroom may rejoice, the Bride may smile;
But soon Contentions a' their Joys beguile.

Rog.
I've seen the Morning rise with fairest Light,
The Day unclouded sink in calmest Night.
I've seen the Spring rin wimpling thro' the Plain,
Increase and join the Ocean without Stain.
The Bridegroom may be blyth, the Bride may smile;
Rejoice thro' Life, and all your Fears beguile.

Jen.
Were I but sure you lang wou'd Love maintain,
The fewest Words my easy Heart could gain:
For I maun own, since now at last you're free,
Altho' I jok'd, I lov'd your Company;
And ever had a Warmness in my Breast,
That made ye dearer to me than the rest.

247

Rog.
I'm happy now! o'er happy! had my Head!—
This Gush of Pleasure's like to be my Dead.
Come to my Arms! or strike me! I'm all fir'd
With wondring Love! let's kiss till we be tir'd.
Kiss, kiss! we'll kiss the Sun and Starns away,
And ferly at the quick Return of Day!
O Jenny! let my Arms about thee twine,
And briss thy bonny Breasts and Lips to mine

Jen.
With equal Joy my easy Heart gi'es Way,
To own thy well try'd Love has won the Day.
Now by these warmest Kisses thou has tane,
Swear thus to love me, when by Vows made ane.

Rog.
I swear by Fifty thousand yet to come,
Or may the first ane strike me deaf and dumb,
There shall not be a kindlier dawted Wife,
If you agree with me to lead your Life.

Jen.
Well, I agree:—Neist, to my Parent gae,
Get his Consent;—he'll hardly say ye nay.
Ye have what will commend ye to him well,
Auld Fowks like them that wants na Milk and Meal.

Rog.
My Faulds contain twice fifteen Forrow Nowt,
As mony Newcal in my Byers rowt;
Five Pack of Woo I can at Lammas sell,
Shorn frae my bob-tail'd Bleeters on the Fell:
Good twenty Pair of Blankets for our Bed,
With meikle Care, my thrifty Mither made.
Ilk thing that makes a heartsome House and tight,
Was still her Care, my Father's great Delight.
They left me all; which now gi'es Joy to me,
Because I can give a', my Dear, to thee:
And had I fifty times as meikle mair,
Nane but my Jenny should the samen skair.
My Love and All is yours; now had them fast,
And guide them as ye like, to gar them last.

248

Jen.
I'll do my best—But see wha comes this Way,
Patie and Meg;—besides, I mauna stay:
Let's steal frae ither now, and meet the Morn;
If we be seen, we'll drie a deal of Scorn.

Rog.
To where the Saugh-trees shades the Mennin-pool,
I'll frae the Hill come down, when Day grows cool:
Keep Triste, and meet me there;—there let us meet,
To kiss, and tell our Love;—there's nought sae sweet.

SCENE IV.

This Scene presents the Knight and Sym
Within a Gallery of the Place,
Where all looks ruinous and grim;
Nor has the Baron shown his Face,
But joking with his Shepherd leel,
Aft speers the Gate he kens fu' well.
Sir WILLIAM and SYMON.
S. Will.
To whom belongs this House so much decay'd?

Sym.

To ane that lost it, lending generous Aid,
To bear the Head up, when rebellious Tail
Against the Laws of Nature did prevail.
Sir William Worthy is our Master's Name,
Whilk fills us all with Joy, now He's come hame.

(Sir William draps his masking Beard,
Symon transported sees
The welcome Knight, with fond Regard,
And grasps him round the Knees.)

My Master! my dear Master!—do I breathe,
To see him healthy, strong, and free frae Skaith;
Return'd to chear his wishing Tenants Sight,
To bless his Son, my Charge, the World's Delight!

249

S. Will.
Rise, faithful Symon; in my Arms enjoy
A Place, thy Due, kind Guardian of my Boy:
I came to view thy Care in this Disguise,
And am confirm'd thy Conduct has been wise;
Since still the Secret thou'st securely seal'd,
And ne'er to him his real Birth reveal'd.

Sym.
The due Obedience to your strict Command
Was the first Lock;—neist, my ain Judgment fand
Out Reasons plenty: Since, without Estate,
A Youth, tho' sprung frae Kings, looks baugh and blate.

S. Will.
And aften vain and idly spend their Time,
'Till grown unfit for Action, past their Prime,
Hang on their Friends—which gie's their Sauls a cast,
That turns them downright Beggars at the last.

Sym.
Now well I wat, Sir, ye have spoken true;
For there's Laird Kytie's Son, that's loo'd by few:
His Father steght his Fortune in his Wame,
And left his Heir nought but a gentle Name.
He gangs about sornan frae Place to Place,
As scrimp of Manners, as of Sense and Grace;
Oppressing all as Punishment of their Sin,
That are within his tenth Degree of Kin:
Rins in ilk Trader's Debt, wha's sae unjust
To his ain Fam'ly, as to give him trust.

S. Will.
Such useless Branches of a Common-wealth,
Should be lopt off, to give a State mair Health.
Unworthy bare Reflection.—Symon, run
O'er all your Observations on my Son;
A Parent's Fondness easily finds Excuse:
But do not with Indulgence Truth abuse.

Sym.
To speak his Praise, the langest Simmer Day
Wad be o'er short,—cou'd I them right display.
In Word and Deed he can sae well behave,
That out of Sight he runs before the lave;

250

And when there's e'er a Quarrel or Contest,
Patrick's made Judge to tell whase Cause is best;
And his Decreet stands good;—he'll gar it stand:
Wha dares to grumble, finds his correcting Hand;
With a firm Look, and a commanding Way,
He gars the proudest of our Herds obey.

S. Will.
Your Tale much pleases;—my good Friend, proceed:
What Learning has he? Can he write and read?

Sym.
Baith wonder well; for, troth, I didna spare
To gi'e him at the School enough of Lair;
And he delites in Books:—He reads, and speaks
With Fowks that ken them, Latin Words and Greeks.

S. Will.
Where gets he Books to read?—and of what kind?
Tho' some give Light, some blindly lead the Blind.

Sym.
Whene'er he drives our Sheep to Edinburgh Port,
He buys some Books of History, Sangs or Sport:
Nor does he want of them a Rowth at will,
And carries ay a Poutchfu' to the Hill.
About ane Shakspear, and a famous Ben,
He aften speaks, and ca's them best of Men.
How sweetly Hawthrenden and Stirling sing,
And ane ca'd Cowley, loyal to his King,
He kens fu' well, and gars their Verses ring.
I sometimes thought he made o'er great a Frase,
About fine Poems, Histories and Plays.
When I reprov'd him anes,—a Book he brings,
With this, quoth he, on Braes I crack with Kings.

S. Will.
He answer'd well; and much ye glad my Ear,
When such Accounts I of my Shepherd hear.
Reading such Books can raise a Peasant's Mind
Above a Lord's that is not thus inclin'd.

Sym.
What ken we better, that sae sindle look,
Except on rainy Sundays, on a Book;
When we a Leaf or twa haff read haff spell,
Till a' the rest sleep round, as well's our sell?

251

S. Will.
Well jested, Symon—But one Question more
I'll only ask ye now, and then give o'er.
The Youth's arriv'd the Age when little Loves
Flighter around young Hearts like cooing Doves:
Has nae young Lassie, with inviting Mien,
And rosy Cheek, the Wonder of the Green,
Engag'd his Look, and caught his youthfu' Heart?

Sym.
I fear'd the warst, but kend the smallest Part,
Till late I saw him twa three times mair sweet,
With Glaud's fair Neice, than I thought right or meet:
I had my Fears; but now have nought to fear,
Since like your sell your Son will soon appear.
A Gentleman, enrich'd with all these Charms,
May bless the fairest best born Lady's Arms.

S. Will.
This Night must end his unambitious Fire,
When higher Views shall greater Thoughts inspire.
Go, Symon, bring him quickly here to me;
None but your self shall our first Meeting see.
Yonder's my Horse and Servants nigh at hand,
They come just at the Time I gave Command;
Straight in my own Apparel I'll go dress:
Now ye the Secret may to all confess.

Sym.
With how much Joy I on this Errand flee!
There's nane can know, that is not downright me.

Exit Symon.
Sir William
solus.
When the Event of Hopes successfully appears,
One happy Hour cancells the Toil of Years.
A thousand Toils are lost in Lethe's Stream,
And Cares evanish like a Morning Dream;
When wish'd for Pleasures rise like Morning Light,
The Pain that's past enhanses the Delight.
These Joys I feel that Words can ill express,
I ne'er had known without my late Distress.

252

But from his rustick Business and Love,
I must in haste my Patrick soon remove,
To Courts and Camps that may his Soul improve.
Like the rough Diamond, as it leaves the Mine,
Only in little Breakings shew its Light,
Till artfu' Polishing has made it shine:
Thus Education makes the Genius bright.

End of the Third ACT.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

The Scene describ'd in former Page,
Glaud's Onset.—Enter Mause and Madge.
Maus.
Our Laird's come hame! and owns young Pate his Heir!
That's News indeed!—

Mad.
—As true as ye stand there.
As they were dancing all in Symon's Yard,
Sir William, like a Warlock, with a Beard
Five Nives in Length, and white as driven Snaw,
Amang us came, cry'd, Had ye merry a'.
We ferly'd meikle at his unco Look,
While frae his Pouch he whirled forth a Book.
As we stood round about him on the Green,
He view'd us a', but fix'd on Pate his Een;
Then pawkily pretended he cou'd spae,
Yet for his Pains and Skill wad nathing ha'e.

Maus.
Then sure the Lasses, and ilk gaping Coof,
Wad rin about him, and had out their Loof.

Mad.
As fast as Flaes skip to the Tate of Woo,
Whilk slee Tod Lawrie hads without his Mow,
When he to drown them, and his Hips to cool,
In Simmer Days slides backward in a Pool:

253

In short he did, for Pate, braw things fortell,
Without the Help of Conjuring or Spell.
At last, when well diverted, he withdrew,
Pow'd aff his Beard to Symon, Symon knew
His welcome Master;—round his Knees he gat,
Hang at his Coat, and syne for Blythness grat.
Patrick was sent for;—happy Lad is he!
Symon tald Elspa, Elspa tald it me.
Ye'll hear out a' the secret Story soon;
And troth 'tis e'en right odd when a' is done,
To think how Symon ne'er afore wad tell,
Na, no sae meikle as to Pate himsell.
Our Meg, poor thing, alake! has lost her Jo.

Maus.
It may be sae; wha kens? and may be no.
To lift a Love that's rooted, is great Pain;
Even Kings have tane a Queen out of the Plain:
And what has been before, may be again.

Mad.
Sic Nonsense! Love tak root, but Tocher-good,
'Tween a Herd's Bairn, and ane of gentle Blood:
Sic Fashions in King Bruce's Days might be;
But siccan Ferlies now we never see.

Maus.
Gif Pate forsakes her, Bauldy she may gain;
Yonder he comes, and wow but he looks fain!
Nae doubt he thinks that Peggy's now his ain.

Mad.
He get her! slaverin Doof; it sets him weil
To yoke a Plough where Patrick thought to till.
Gif I were Meg, I'd let young Master see—

Maus.

Ye'd be as dorty in your Choice as he:
And so wad I. But whisht, here Bauldy comes.

Enter Bauldy singing.

Jenny said to Jocky, Gin ye winna tell,
Ye shall be the Lad, I'll be the Lass my sell;
Ye're a bonny Lad, and I'm a Lassie free;
Ye're welcomer to tak me than to let me be.

254

I trow sae.—Lasses will come too at last,
Tho' for a while they maun their Snaw-ba's cast.

Maus.
Well, Bauldy, how gaes a'?—

Bauld.
—Faith unco right:
I hope we'll a' sleep sound but ane this Night.

Mad.
And wha's the unlucky ane, if we may ask?

Bauld.
To find out that, is nae difficult Task;
Poor bonny Peggy, wha maun think nae mair
On Pate, turn'd Patrick, and Sir William's Heir.
Now, now, good Madge, and honest Mause, stand be,
While Meg's in dumps, put in a Word for me.
I'll be as kind as ever Pate could prove;
Less wilful, and ay constant in my Love.

Mad.
As Neps can witness, and the Bushy Thorn,
Where mony a Time to her your Heart was sworn:
Fy! Bauldy, blush, and Vows of Love regard;
What other Lass will trow a mansworn Herd?
The Curse of Heaven hings ay aboon their Heads,
That's ever guilty of sic sinfu' Deeds.
I'll ne'er advise my Niece sae gray a Gate;
Nor will she be advis'd, fu' well I wate.

Bauld.
Sae gray a Gate! Mansworn! and a' the rest:
Ye leed, auld Roudes—and, in Faith, had best
Eat in your Words; else I shall gar ye stand
With a het Face afore the haly Band.

Mad.
Ye'll gar me stand! ye sheveling-gabit Brock;
Speak that again, and, trembling, dread my Rock,
And ten sharp Nails, that when my Hands are in,
Can flyp the Skin o' ye'r Cheeks out o'er your Chin.

Bauld.
I tak ye Witness, Mause, ye heard her say,
That I'm mansworn:—I winna let it gae.

Mad.
Ye're Witness to, he ca'd me bonny Names,
And should be serv'd as his good Breeding claims.
Ye filthy Dog!—

255

Flees to his Hair like a Fury.—A stout Battle.— Mause endeavours to redd them.
Maus.
Let gang your Grips, fy, Madge! howt, Bauldy leen:
I wadna wish this Tulzie had been seen;
'Tis sae daft like.—

Bauldy gets out of Madge's Clutches with a bleeding Nose.
Mad.
—'Tis dafter like to thole
An Ether-cap, like him, to blaw the Coal:
It sets him well, with vile unscrapit Tongue,
To cast up whether I be auld or young;
They're aulder yet than I have married been,
And or they died their Bairns Bairns have seen.

Maus.
That's true; and Bauldy ye was far to blame,
To ca' Madge ought but her ain christen'd Name.

Bauld.
My Lugs, my Nose, and Nodle finds the same.

Mad.
Auld Roudes! Filthy Fallow; I shall auld ye.

Maus.
Howt no!—ye'll e'en be Friends with honest Bauldy.
Come, come, shake Hands; this maun nae farder gae:
Ye maun forgi'e 'm. I see the Lad looks wae.

Bauld.
In troth now, Mause, I have at Madge nae Spite;
But she abusing first, was a' the Wite
Of what has happen'd: And should therefore crave
My Pardon first, and shall Acquittance have.

Mad.
I crave your Pardon! Gallows-face, gae greet,
And own your Faut to her that ye wad cheat,
Gae, or be blasted in your Health and Gear,
'Till ye learn to perform, as well as swear.
Vow, and lowp back!—Was e'er the like heard tell?
Swith, tak him Deil; he's o'er lang out of Hell.

256

Bauldy
running off.
His Presence be about us! Curst were he
That were condemn'd for Life to live with thee.

Exit Bauldy.
Madge
laughing.
I think I've towzl'd his Harigalds a wee;
He'll no soon grein to tell his Love to me.
He's but a Rascal that wad mint to serve
A Lassie sae, he does but ill deserve.

Maus.
Ye towin'd him tightly,—I commend ye for't;
His blooding Snout gave me nae little Sport:
For this Forenoon he had that Scant of Grace,
And Breeding baith,—to tell me to my Face,
He hop'd I was a Witch, and wadna stand,
To lend him in this Case my helping Hand.

Mad.
A Witch!—How had ye Patience this to bear,
And leave him Een to see, or Lugs to hear?

Maus.
Auld wither'd Hands, and feeble Joints like mine,
Obliges Fowk Resentment to decline;
Till aft 'tis seen, when Vigour fails, then we
With Cunning can the Lake of Pith supplie.
Thus I pat aff Revenge till it was dark,
Syne bade him come, and we should gang to wark:
I'm sure he'll keep his Triste; and I came here
To seek your Help, that we the Fool may fear.

Mad.
And special Sport we'll have, as I protest;
Ye'll be the Witch, and I shall play the Ghaist,
A Linen Sheet wond round me like ane dead,
I'll cawk my Face, and grane, and shake my Head.
We'll fleg him sae, he'll mint nae mair to gang
A conjuring, to do a Lassie wrang.

Maus.
Then let us go; for see, 'tis hard on Night,
The Westlin Cloud shines red with setting Light.

Exeunt.

257

SCENE II.

When Birds begin to nod upon the Bough,
And the Green Swaird grows damp with falling Dew,
While good Sir William is to rest retir'd,
The Gentle Shepherd tenderly inspir'd,
Walks through the Broom with Roger ever leel,
To meet, to comfort Meg, and tak Farewell.
Rog.
Wow! but I'm cadgie, and my Heart lowps light,
O, Mr. Patrick! ay your Thoughts were right:
Sure Gentle Fowk are farther seen than we,
That naithing ha'e to brag of Pedigree.
My Jenny now, wha brak my Heart this Morn,
Is perfect yielding,—sweet,—and nae mair Scorn.
I spake my Mind—she heard—I spake again,
She smil'd—I kiss'd—I woo'd, nor woo'd in vain.

Pat.
I'm glad to hear't—But O my Change this Day
Heaves up my Joy, and yet I'm sometimes wae.
I've found a Father, gently kind as brave,
And an Estate that lifts me 'boon the lave.
With Looks all Kindness, Words that Love confest;
He all the Father to my Soul exprest,
While close he held me to his manly Breast.
Such were the Eyes, he said, thus smil'd the Mouth
Of thy lov'd Mother, Blessing of my Youth;
Who set too soon!—And while he Praise bestow'd,
Adown his graceful Cheek a Torrent flow'd.
My new-born Joys, and this his tender Tale,
Did, mingled thus, o'er a' my Thoughts prevail:
That speechless lang, my late kend Sire I view'd,
While gushing Tears my panting Breast bedew'd.
Unusual Transports made my Head turn round,
Whilst I my self with rising Raptures found
The happy Son of ane sae much renown'd.
But he has heard!—too faithful Symon's Fear
Has brought my Love for Peggy to his Ear:
Which he forbids.—Ah! this confounds my Peace,
While thus to beat, my Heart shall sooner cease.

258

Rog.
How to advise ye, troth I'm at a stand:
But were't my Case, ye'd clear it up aff hand.

Pat.
Duty, and haflen Reason plead his Cause:
But what cares Love for Reason, Rules and Laws?
Still in my Heart my Shepherdess excells,
And Part of my new Happiness repells.

Rog.
Enjoy them baith.—Sir William will be won:
Your Peggy's bonny;—you're his only Son.

Pat.
She's mine by Vows, and stronger Ties of Love;
And frae these Bands nae Change my Mind shall move.
I'll wed nane else; thro' Life I will be true:
But still Obedience is a Parent's Due.

Rog.
Is not our Master and your sell to stay
Amang us here?—or are ye gawn away
To London Court, or ither far aff Parts,
To leave your ain poor us with broken Hearts?

Pat.
To Edinburgh straight to-morrow we advance,
To London neist, and afterwards to France,
Where I must stay some Years, and learn—to dance,
And twa three other Monky-tricks.—That done,
I come hame struting in my red-heel'd Shoon.
Then 'tis design'd, when I can well behave,
That I maun be some petted Thing's dull Slave,
For some few Bags of Cash, that I wat weel
I nae mair need nor Carts do a third Wheel.
But Peggy, dearer to me than my Breath,
Sooner than hear sic News, shall hear my Death.

Rog.
They wha have just enough, can soundly sleep;
The O'ercome only fashes Fowk to keep.—
Good Mr. Patrick, tak your ain Tale hame.

Pat.
What was my Morning Thought, at Night's the same.
The Poor and Rich but differ in the Name.
Content's the greatest Bliss we can procure
Frae 'boon the Lift.—Without it Kings are poor.

259

Rog.
But an Estate like your's yields braw Content,
When we but pick it scantly on the Bent:
Fine Claiths, saft Beds, sweet Houses, and red Wine,
Good Chear, and witty Friends, whene'er ye dine;
Obeysant Servants, Honour, Wealth and Ease:
Wha's no content with these, are ill to please.

Pat.
Sae Roger thinks, and thinks not far amiss;
But mony a Cloud hings hovering o'er the Bliss.
The Passions rule the Roast;—and, if they're sowr,
Like the lean Ky, will soon the fat devour.
The Spleen, tint Honour, and affronted Pride,
Stang like the sharpest Goads in Gentry's Side,
The Gouts and Gravels, and the ill Disease,
Are frequentest with Fowk o'erlaid with Ease;
While o'er the Moor the Shepherd, with less Care,
Enjoys his sober Wish, and halesome Air.

Rog.
Lord, Man! I wonder ay, and it delights
My Heart, whene'er I hearken to your Flights.
How gat ye a' that Sense, I fain wad lear,
That I may easier Disappointments bear.

Pate.
Frae Books, the Wale of Books, I gat some Skill;
These best can teach what's real good and ill.
Ne'er grudge ilk Year to ware some Stanes of Cheese,
To gain these silent Friends that ever please.

Rog.
I'll do't, and ye shall tell me which to buy:
Faith I'se ha'e Books, tho' I should sell my Ky.
But now let's hear how you're design'd to move,
Between Sir William's Will, and Peggy's Love.

Pat.
Then here it lyes;—His Will maun be obey'd;
My Vows I'll keep, and she shall be my Bride:
But I some time this last Design maun hide.
Keep you the Secret close, and leave me here;
I sent for Peggy, yonder comes my Dear.

Rog.
Pleas'd that ye trust me with the Secret, I
To wyle it frae me a' the Deils defy.

Exit Roger.

260

Patie
solus.

With what a Struggle must I now impart
My Father's Will to her that hads my Heart!
I ken she loves, and her saft Saul will sink,
While it stands trembling on the hated Brink
Of Disappointment.—Heaven! support my Fair,
And let her Comfort claim your tender Care.
Her Eyes are red!—

Enter Peggy.

—My Peggy, why in Tears?
Smile as ye wont, allow nae Room for Fears:
Tho' I'm nae mair a Shepherd, yet I'm thine.

Peg.
I dare not think sae high: I now repine
At the unhappy Chance, that made not me
A gentle Match, or still a Herd kept thee.
Wha can, withoutten Pain, see frae the Coast
The Ship that bears his All like to be lost?
Like to be carry'd, by some Rever's Hand,
Far frae his Wishes, to some distant Land?

Pat.
Ne'er quarrel Fate, whilst it with me remains,
To raise thee up, or still attend these Plains.
My Father has forbid our Loves, I own:
But Love's superior to a Parent's Frown.
I Falshood hate: Come, kiss thy Cares away;
I ken to love, as well as to obey.
Sir William's generous; leave the Task to me,
To make strict Duty and true Love agree.

Peg.
Speak on!—speak ever thus, and still my Grief;
But short I dare to hope the fond Relief.
New Thoughts a gentler Face will soon inspire,
That with nice Air swims round in Silk Attire:
Then I, poor me!—with Sighs may ban my Fate,
When the young Laird's nae mair my heartsome Pate;

261

Nae mair again to hear sweet Tales exprest,
By the blyth Shepherd that excell'd the rest:
Nae mair be envy'd by the tattling Gang,
When Patie kiss'd me, when I danc'd or sang:
Nae mair, alake! we'll on the Meadow play!
And rin haff breathless round the Rucks of Hay;
As aftimes I have fled from thee right fain,
And fawn on purpose, that I might be tane.
Nae mair around the Foggy-know I'll creep,
To watch and stare upon thee, while asleep.
But hear my Vow—'twill help to give me Ease;
May sudden Death, or deadly sair Disease,
And warst of Ills attend my wretched Life,
If e'er to ane, but you, I be a Wife.

Pat.
Sure Heaven approves—and be assur'd of me,
I'll ne'er gang back of what I've sworn to thee:
And Time, tho' Time maun interpose a while,
And I maun leave my Peggy and this Isle;
Yet Time, nor Distance, nor the fairest Face,
If there's a fairer, e'er shall fill thy Place.
I'd hate my rising Fortune, should it move
The fair Foundation of our faithful Love.
If at my Foot were Crowns and Scepters laid,
To bribe my Soul frae thee, delightful Maid;
For thee I'd soon leave these inferior Things
To sic as have the Patience to be Kings.
Wherefore that Tear? Believe, and calm thy Mind.

Peg.
I greet for Joy, to hear thy Words sae kind.
When Hopes were sunk, and nought but mirk Despair
Made me think Life was little worth my Care,
My Heart was like to burst; but now I see
Thy generous Thoughts will save thy Love for me.
With Patience then I'll wait each wheeling Year,
Hope Time away, till thou with Joy appear;
And all the while I'll study gentler Charms,
To make me fitter for my Traveller's Arms:

262

I'll gain on Uncle Glaud,—he's far frae Fool,
And will not grudge to put me thro' ilk School;
Where I may Manners learn—

Pat.
—That's wisely said,
And what he wares that Way shall be well paid.
Tho' without a' the little Helps of Art,
Thy native Sweets might gain a Prince's Heart:
Yet now, lest in our Station, we offend,
We must learn Modes, to Innocence unkend;
Affect aftimes to like the thing we hate,
And drap Serenity, to keep up State:
Laugh, when we're sad; speak, when we've nought to say;
And, for the Fashion, when we're blyth, seem wae:
Pay Compliments to them we aft have scorn'd;
Then scandalize them, when their Backs are turn'd.

Peg.
If this is Gentry, I had rather be
What I am still—But I'll be ought with thee.

Pat.
No, no, my Peggy, I but only jest
With Gentry's Apes; for still amangst the best,
Good Manners give Integrity a Bleez,
When native Vertues join the Arts to please.

Peg.
Since with nae hazard, and sae small Expence,
My Lad frae Books can gather siccan Sense;
Then why, ah! why should the tempestuous Sea,
Endanger thy dear Life, and frighten me?
Sir William's cruel, that wad force his Son,
For Watna-whats, sae great a Risk to run.

Pat.
There is nae doubt, but travelling does improve,
Yet I would shun it for thy Sake, my Love.
But soon as I've shook aff my Landwart Cast,
In foreign Cities, hame to thee I'll haste.

Peg.
With every setting Day, and rising Morn,
I'll kneel to Heaven, and ask thy safe Return.
Under that Tree, and on the Suckler Brae,
Where aft we wont, when Bairns, to run and play;

263

And to the Hissel-shaw where first ye vow'd
Ye wad be mine, and I as eithly trow'd,
I'll aften gang, and tell the Trees and Flowers,
With Joy, that they'll bear Witness I am yours.

Pat.
My Dear, allow me, frae thy Temples fair,
A shining Ringlet of thy flowing Hair;
Which, as a Sample of each lovely Charm,
I'll aften kiss, and wear about my Arm.

Peg.
Were't in my Power with better Boons to please,
I'd give the best I could with the same Ease;
Nor wad I, if thy Luck had faln to me,
Been in ae Jot less generous to thee.

Pat.
I doubt it not; but since we've little Time
To ware't on Words, wad border on a Crime:
Love's safter Meaning better is exprest,
When 'tis with Kisses on the Heart imprest.

Exeunt.

End of the Fourth ACT.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

See how poor Bauldy stares like ane possest,
And roars up Symon frae his kindly Rest.
Bare leg'd, with Night-cap, and unbutton'd Coat,
See, the auld Man comes forward to the Sot.

Sym.
What want ye, Bauldy, at this early Hour,
While drowsy Sleep keeps a' beneath its Pow'r?
Far to the North, the scant approaching Light
Stands equal 'twixt the Morning and the Night.
What gars ye shake and glowr, and look sae wan?
Your Teeth they chitter, Hair like Bristles stand.

264

Baul.
O len me soon some Water, Milk or Ale,
My Head's grown giddy,—Legs with shaking fail;
I'll ne'er dare venture forth at Night my lane:
Alake! I'll never be my sell again.
I'll ne'er o'erput it! Symon! O Symon! O!

Symon gives him a Drink.
Sym.
What ails thee, Gowk!—to make sae loud ado?
You've wak'd Sir William, he has left his Bed;
He comes, I fear ill pleas'd: I hear his Tred.

Enter Sir William.
S. Will.
How goes the Night? Does Day-light yet appear?
Symon, you're very timeously asteer.

Sym.
I'm sorry, Sir, that we've disturb'd your Rest:
But some strange thing has Bauldy's Sp'rit opprest;
He's seen some Witch, or wrestl'd with a Ghaist.

Baul.
O ay,—dear Sir, in troth 'tis very true;
And I am come to make my Plaint to you.

Sir William
smiling.
I lang to hear't—

Baul.
—Ah! Sir, the Witch ca'd Mause,
That wins aboon the Mill amang the Haws,
First promis'd that she'd help me with her Art,
To gain a bonny thrawart Lassie's Heart.
As she had tristed, I met wi'er this Night;
But may nae Friend of mine get sic a Fright!
For the curs'd Hag, instead of doing me good,
(The very Thought o't's like to freeze my Blood!)
Rais'd up a Ghaist or Diel, I kenna whilk,
Like a dead Corse in Sheet as white as Milk,
Black Hands it had, and Face as wan as Death,
Upon me fast the Witch and it fell baith,

265

And gat me down; while I, like a great Fool,
Was laboured as I wont to be at School.
My Heart out of its Hool was like to lowp;
I pithless grew with Fear, and had nae Hope,
Till, with an Elritch Laugh, they vanish'd quite:
Syne I, haff dead with Anger, Fear and Spite,
Crap up, and fled straight frae them, Sir, to you,
Hoping your Help, to gi'e the Deil his Due.
I'm sure my Heart will ne'er gi'e o'er to dunt,
Till in a fat Tar-barrel Mause be burnt.

S. Will.
Well, Bauldy, whate'er's just shall granted be;
Let Mause be brought this Morning down to me.

Baul.
Thanks to your Honour; soon shall I obey:
But first I'll Roger raise, and twa three mae,
To catch her fast, or she get Leave to squeel,
And cast her Cantraips that bring up the Deil.

Exit Bauldy.
S. Will.
Troth, Symon, Bauldy's more afraid than hurt,
The Witch and Ghaist have made themselves good Sport.
What silly Notions crowd the clouded Mind,
That is thro' want of Education blind!

Sym.
But does your Honour think there's nae sic thing
As Witches raising Diels up thro' a Ring?
Syne playing Tricks, a thousand I cou'd tell,
Cou'd never be contriv'd on this Side Hell.

S. Will.
Such as the Devil's dancing in a Moor
Amongst a few old Women craz'd and poor,
Who are rejoic'd to see him frisk and lowp
O'er Braes and Bogs, with Candles in his Dowp;
Appearing sometimes like a black-horn'd Cow,
Aftimes like Bawty, Badrans, or a Sow:
Then with his Train thro' airy Paths to glide,
While they on Cats, or Clowns, or Broom-staffs ride;
Or in the Egg-shell skim out o'er the Main,
To drink their Leader's Health in France or Spain:

266

Then aft by Night, bumbaze Hare-hearted Fools,
By tumbling down their Cup-board, Chairs and Stools.
Whate'er's in Spells, or if there Witches be,
Such Whimsies seem the most absurd to me.

Sym.
'Tis true enough, we ne'er heard that a Witch
Had either meikle Sense, or yet was rich.
But Mause, tho' poor, is a sagacious Wife,
And lives a quiet and very honest Life;
That gars me think this Hobleshew that's past
Will land in naithing but a Joke at last.

S. Will.
I'm sure it will:—But see increasing Light
Commands the Imps of Darkness down to Night;
Bid raise my Servants, and my Horse prepare,
Whilst I walk out to take the Morning Air.

Exeunt.

SCENE II.

While Peggy laces up her Bosom fair,
With a blew Snood Jenny binds up her Hair;
Glaud by his Morning Ingle takes a Beek,
The rising Sun shines motty thro' the Reek,
A Pipe his Mouth; the Lasses please his Een,
And now and than his Joke maun interveen.
Glaud.
I wish, my Bairns, it may keep fair till Night;
Ye do not use sae soon to see the Light.
Nae doubt now ye intend to mix the thrang,
To take your Leave of Patrick or he gang.
But do ye think that now when he's a Laird,
That he poor Landwart Lasses will regard?

Jen.
Tho' he's young Master now, I'm very sure
He has mair Sense than slight auld Friends, tho' poor.
But yesterday he ga'e us mony a Tug,
And kiss'd my Cousin there frae Lug to Lug.

267

Glaud.
Ay, ay, nae doubt o't, and he'll do't again;
But, be advis'd, his Company refrain:
Before he, as a Shepherd, sought a Wife,
With her to live a chast and frugal Life;
But now grown gentle, soon he will forsake
Sic godly Thoughts, and brag of being a Rake.

Peg.
A Rake!—What's that?—Sure if it means ought ill,
He'll never be't; else I have tint my Skill.

Glaud.
Daft Lassie, ye ken nought of the Affair,
Ane young and good and gentle's unco' rare.
A Rake's a graceless Spark, that thinks nae Shame,
To do what like of us thinks Sin to name:
Sic are sae void of Shame, they'll never stap
To brag how aften they have had the Clap.
They'll tempt young Things, like you, with Youdith flush'd,
Syne make ye a' their Jest, when ye're debauch'd.
Be warry then, I say, and never gi'e
Encouragement, or bourd with sic as he.

Peg.
Sir William's vertuous, and of gentle Blood;
And may not Patrick too, like him, be good?

Glaud.
That's true, and mony Gentry mae than he,
As they are wiser, better are than we;
But thinner sawn: They're sae puft up with Pride,
There's mony of them mocks ilk haly Guide,
That shaws the Gate to Heaven.—I've heard my sell,
Some of them laugh at Doomsday, Sin and Hell.

Jen.
Watch o'er us, Father! Heh! that's very odd;
Sure him that doubts a Doomsday, doubts a GOD.

Glaud.
Doubt! why, they neither doubt, nor judge, nor think,
Nor hope, nor fear; but curse, debauch and drink:
But I'm no saying this, as if I thought
That Patrick to sic Gates will e'er be brought.

Peg.

The LORD forbid! Na, he kens better things:
But here comes Aunt; her Face some Ferly brings.

268

Enter Madge.

Haste, haste ye; we're a' sent for o'er the Gate,
To hear, and help to redd some odd Debate
'Tween Mause and Bauldy, 'bout some Witchcraft Spell,
At Symon's House: The Knight sits Judge himsell.

Glaud.
Lend me my Staff;—Madge, lock the Outer-door,
And bring the Lasses wi' ye; I'll step before.

Exit Glaud.
Mad.
Poor Meg!—Look, Jenny, was the like e'er seen,
How bleer'd and red with greeting look her Een?
This Day her brankan Wooer takes his Horse.
To strute a gentle Spark at Edinburgh Cross;
To change his Kent, cut frae the branchy Plain,
For a nice Sword, and glancing headed Cane;
To leave his Ram-horn Spoons, and kitted Whey,
For gentler Tea, that smells like new won Hay;
To leave the Green-swaird Dance, when we gae Milk,
To rustle amang the Beauties clad in Silk.
But Meg, poor Meg! maun with the Shepherd stay,
And tak what GOD will send, in Hodden-gray.

Peg.
Dear Aunt, what need ye fash us wi' your Scorn?
That's no my Faut that I'm nae gentler born.
Gif I the Daughter of some Laird had been,
I ne'er had notic'd Patie on the Green:
Now since he rises, why should I repine?
If he's made for another, he'll ne'er be mine:
And then, the like has been, if the Decree
Designs him mine, I yet his Wife may be.

Mad.
A bonny Story, trowth!—But we delay:
Prin up your Aprons baith, and come away.

Exeunt.

269

SCENE III.

Sir William fills the twa-arm'd Chair,
While Symon, Roger, Glaud and Mause,
Attend, and with loud Laughter hear
Daft Bauldy bluntly plead his Cause:
For now 'tis tell'd him that the Taz
Was handled by revengefu' Madge,
Because he brak good Breeding's Laws,
And with his Nonsense rais'd their Rage.

S. Will.
And was that all? Well, Bauldy, ye was serv'd
No otherwise than what ye well deserv'd.
Was it so small a Matter, to defame,
And thus abuse an honest Woman's Name?
Besides your going about to have betray'd
By Perjury an innocent young Maid.

Baul.
Sir, I confess my Faut thro' a' the Steps,
And ne'er again shall be untrue to Neps.

Maus.
Thus far, Sir, he oblig'd me on the Score;
I kend not that they thought me sic before.

Baul.
An't like your Honour, I believ'd it well;
But trowth I was e'en doilt to seek the Deil:
Yet, with your Honour's Leave, tho' she's nae Witch,
She's baith a slee and a revengefu'—
And that my Some-place finds; but I had best
Had in my Tongue; for yonder comes the Ghaist,
And the young bonny Witch, whase rosy Cheek
Sent me, without my Wit, the Deil to seek.

Enter Madge, Peggy, and Jenny.
Sir William,
looking at Peggy.
Whose Daughter's she that wears th'Aurora Gown,
With Face so fair, and Locks a lovely brown?
How sparkling are her Eyes! What's this! I find
The Girl brings all my Sister to my Mind.

270

Such were the Features once adorn'd a Face,
Which Death too soon depriv'd of sweetest Grace.
Is this your Daughter, Glaud?—

Glaud.
—Sir, she's my Niece;—
And yet she's not:—But I should hald my Peace.

S. Will.
This is a Contradiction: What d'ye mean?
She is, and is not! Pray thee, Glaud, explain.

Glaud.
Because I doubt, if I should make appear
What I have kept a Secret thirteen Year.

Mause.
You may reveal what I can fully clear.

S. Will.
Speak soon; I'm all Impatience!—

Pat.
—So am I!
For much I hope, and hardly yet know why.

Glaud.
Then, since my Master orders, I obey.
This Bonny Fundling, ae clear Morn of May,
Close by the Lee-side of my Door I found,
All sweet and clean, and carefully hapt round,
In Infant-weeds of rich and gentle Make.
What cou'd they be, thought I, did thee forsake?
Wha, warse than Brutes, cou'd leave expos'd to Air
Sae much of Innocence sae sweetly fair,
Sae hopeless young? For she appear'd to me
Only about twa Towmands auld to be.
I took her in my Arms, the Bairnie smil'd
With sic a Look wad made a Savage mild.
I hid the Story: She has past sincesyne
As a poor Orphan, and a Niece of mine.
Nor do I rue my Care about the We'an,
For she's well worth the Pains that I have tane.
Ye see she's bonny, I can swear she's good,
And am right sure she's come of gentle Blood:
Of whom I kenna.—Nathing ken I mair,
Than what I to your Honour now declare.

S. Will.
This Tale seems strange!—

271

Pat.
—The Tale delights my Ear;

S. Will.
Command your Joys, young Man, till Truth appear.

Maus.
That be my Task.—Now, Sir, bid all be hush;
Peggy may smile;—thou hast nae Cause to blush.
Long have I wish'd to see this happy Day,
That I might safely to the Truth give way;
That I may now Sir William Worthy name,
The best and nearest Friend that she can claim:
He saw't at first, and with quick Eye did trace
His Sister's Beauty in her Daughter's Face.

S. Will.
Old Woman, do not rave,—prove what you say;
'Tis dangerous in Affairs like this to play.

Pat.
What Reason, Sir, can an old Woman have
To tell a Lie, when she's sae near her Grave?
But how, or why, it should be Truth, I grant,
I every thing looks like a Reason want.

Omnes.
The Story's odd! we wish we heard it out.

S. Will.
Mak haste, good Woman, and resolve each Doubt.

Mause goes forward, leading Peggy to Sir William.
Maus.
Sir, view me well: Has fifteen Years so plow'd
A wrinkled Face that you have often view'd,
That here I as an unknown Stranger stand,
Who nurs'd her Mother that now holds my Hand?
Yet stronger Proofs I'll give, if you demand.

S. Will.
Ha! honest Nurse, where were my Eyes before!
I know thy Faithfulness, and need no more;
Yet, from the Lab'rinth to lead out my Mind,
Say, to expose her who was so unkind.

272

Sir William embraces Peggy, and makes her sit by him.
Yes, surely thou'rt my Niece; Truth must prevail:
But no more Words, till Mause relate her Tale.

Pat.
Good Nurse, go on; nae Musick's haff sae fine,
Or can give Pleasure like these Words of thine.

Maus.
Then, it was I that sav'd her Infant-life,
Her Death being threatned by an Uncle's Wife.
The Story's lang; but I the Secret knew,
How they pursu'd, with avaritious View,
Her rich Estate, of which they're now possest:
All this to me a Confident confest.
I heard with Horror, and with trembling Dread,
They'd smoor the sakeless Orphan in her Bed!
That very Night, when all were sunk in Rest,
At Midnight Hour, the Floor I saftly prest,
And staw the sleeping Innocent away;
With whom I travel'd some few Miles e'er Day:
All Day I hid me,—when the Day was done,
I kept my Journey, lighted by the Moon,
Till Eastward fifty Miles I reach'd these Plains,
Where needful Plenty glads your chearful Swains;
Afraid of being found out, I to secure
My Charge, e'en laid her at this Shepherd's Door,
And took a neighbouring Cottage here, that I,
Whate'er should happen to her, might be by.
Here honest Glaud himsell, and Symon may
Remember well, how I that very Day
Frae Roger's Father took my little Crove.

Glaud,
with Tears of Joy happing down his Beard.
I well remember't. Lord reward your Love:
Lang have I wish'd for this; for aft I thought,
Sic Knowledge sometime should about be brought.

Pat.
'Tis now a Crime to doubt,—my Joys are full,
With due Obedience to my Parent's Will.

273

Sir, with paternal Love survey her Charms,
And blame me not for rushing to her Arms.
She's mine by Vows; and would, tho' still unknown,
Have been my Wife, when I my Vows durst own.

S. Will.
My Niece, my Daughter, welcome to my Care,
Sweet Image of thy Mother good and fair,
Equal with Patrick: Now my greatest Aim
Shall be, to aid your Joys, and well match'd Flame.
My Boy, receive her from your Father's Hand,
With as good Will as either would demand.

Patie and Peggy embrace, and kneel to Sir William.
Pat.
With as much Joy this Blessing I receive,
As ane wad Life, that's sinking in a Wave.

Sir William
raises them.
I give you both my Blessing: May your Love
Produce a happy Race, and still improve.

Peg.
My Wishes are compleat,—my Joys arise,
While I'm haff dizzy with the blest Surprise.
And am I then a Match for my ain Lad,
That for me so much generous Kindness had?
Lang may Sir William bless these happy Plains,
Happy while Heaven grant he on them remains.

Pat.
Be lang our Guardian, still our Master be;
We'll only crave what you shall please to gi'e:
The Estate be your's, my Peggy's ane to me.

Glaud.
I hope your Honour now will take amends
Of them that sought her Life for wicked Ends.

S. Will.
The base unnatural Villain soon shall know,
That Eyes above watch the Affairs below.
I'll strip him soon of all to her pertains,
And make him reimburse his ill got Gains.

274

Peg.
To me the Views of Wealth and an Estate,
Seem light when put in Ballance with my Pate:
For his Sake only, I'll ay thankful bow
For such a Kindness, best of Men, to you.

Sym.
What double Blythness wakens up this Day!
I hope now, Sir, you'll no soon haste away.
Sall I unsadle your Horse, and gar prepare
A Dinner for ye of hale Country Fare?
See how much Joy unwrinkles every Brow;
Our Looks hing on the twa, and doat on you:
Even Bauldy the Bewitch'd has quite forgot
Fell Madge's Taz, and pawky Mause's Plot.

S. Will.
Kindly old Man, remain with you this Day,
I never from these Fields again will stray:
Masons and Wrights shall soon my House repair,
And bussy Gardners shall new Planting rear;
My Father's hearty Table you soon shall see
Restor'd, and my best Friends rejoyce with me.

Sym.
That's the best News I heard this Twenty Year;
New Day breaks up, rough Times begin to clear.

Glaud.
GOD save the King, and save Sir William lang,
To enjoy their ain, and raise the Shepherds Sang.

Rog.
Wha winna dance? wha will refuse to sing?
What Shepherd's Whistle winna lilt the Spring?

Baul.
I'm Friends with Mause,—with very Madge I'm 'greed,
Altho' they skelpit me when woodly fleid:
I'm now fu' blyth, and frankly can forgive,
To join and sing, Lang may Sir William live.

Mad.
Lang may he live:—And, Bauldy, learn to steek
Your Gab a wee, and think before ye speak;
And never ca' her auld that wants a Man,
Else ye may yet some Witches Fingers ban.

275

This Day I'll wi' the youngest of ye rant,
And brag for ay, that I was ca'd the Aunt
Of our young Lady,—my dear bonny Bairn!

Peg.
No other Name I'll ever for you learn.—
And, my good Nurse, how shall I gratefu' be,
For a' thy matchless Kindness done for me?

Maus.
The flowing Pleasures of this happy Day
Does fully all I can require repay.

S. Will.
To faithful Symon, and, kind Glaud, to you,
And to your Heirs I give in endless Feu,
The Mailens ye possess, as justly due,
For acting like kind Fathers to the Pair,
Who have enough besides, and these can spare.
Mause, in my House in Calmness close your Days,
With nought to do, but sing your Maker's Praise.

Omnes.
The Lord of Heaven return your Honour's Love,
Confirm your Joys, and a' your Blessings roove.

Patie,
presenting Roger to Sir William.
Sir, here's my trusty Friend, that always shar'd
My Bosom-secrets, ere I was a Laird;
Glaud's Daughter Janet (Jenny, thinkna Shame)
Rais'd, and maintains in him a Lover's Flame:
Lang was he dumb, at last he spake, and won,
And hopes to be our honest Uncle's Son:
Be pleas'd to speak to Glaud for his Consent,
That nane may wear a Face of Discontent.

S. Will.
My Son's Demand is fair,—Glaud, let me crave,
That trusty Roger may your Daughter have,
With frank Consent; and while he does remain
Upon these Fields, I make him Chamberlain.

Glaud.
You crowd your Bounties, Sir, what can we say,
But that we're Dyvours that can ne'er repay?
Whate'er your Honour wills, I shall obey.

276

Roger, my Daughter, with my Blessing, take,
And still our Master's Right your Business make,
Please him, be faithful, and this auld gray Head
Shall nod with Quietness down amang the Dead.

Rog.
I ne'er was good a speaking a' my Days,
Or ever loo'd to make o'er great a Fraise:
But for my Master, Father and my Wife,
I will employ the Cares of all my Life.

S. Will.
My Friends, I'm satisfied you'll all behave,
Each in his Station, as I'd wish or crave.
Be ever vertuous, soon or late you'll find
Reward, and Satisfaction to your Mind.
The Maze of Life sometimes looks dark and wild;
And oft when Hopes are highest, we're beguil'd.
Aft, when we stand on Brinks of dark Despair,
Some happy Turn with Joy dispells our Care.
Now all's at Rights, who sings best let me hear.

Peg.

When you demand, I readiest should obey:
I'll sing you ane, the newest that I ha'e.

Sings to the Tune of Corn-riggs are bonny.

My Patie is a Lover gay,
His Mind is never muddy;
His Breath is sweeter than new Hay,
His Face is fair and ruddy:
His Shape is handsome, middle Size;
He's comely in his Wauking:
The shining of his Een surprise;
'Tis Heaven to hear him tawking.
Last Night I met him on a Bawk,
Where yellow Corn was growing,
There mony a kindly Word he spake,
That set my Heart a glowing.

277

He kiss'd, and vow'd he wad be mine,
And loo'd me best of ony,
That gars me like to sing since syne,
O Corn-riggs are bonny.
Let Lasses of a silly Mind
Refuse what maist they're wanting;
Since we for yielding were design'd,
We chastly should be granting.
Then I'll comply, and marry Pate,
And syne my Cockernonny
He's free to touzel air or late,
Where Corn-riggs are bonny.

Exeunt omnes.

278

To Mrs. A. C.

A Song.

[_]

To the Tune of, All in the Downs.

When Beauty blazes heavenly bright,
The Muse can no more cease to sing,
Than can the Lark, with rising Light,
Her Notes neglect with drooping Wing.
The Morning shines, harmonious Birds mount hy;
The dawning Beauty smiles, and Poets fly.

Young ANNIE's budding Graces claim
The inspir'd Thought, and softest Lays;
And kindle in the Breast a Flame,
Which must be vented in her Praise.
Tell us, ye gentle Shepherds, have you seen
E'er one so like an Angel tread the Green.

Ye Youth, be watchful of your Hearts;
When she appears, take the Alarm:
Love on her Beauty points his Darts,
And wings an Arrow from each Charm.
Around her Eyes and Smiles the Graces sport,
And to her snowy Neck and Breasts resort.

But vain must every Caution prove;
When such enchanting Sweetness shines,
The wounded Swain must yield to Love,
And wonder, tho' he hopeless pines.
Such Flames the foppish Butterfly shou'd shun;
The Eagle's only fit to view the Sun.

279

She's as the opening Lilly fair,
Her lovely Features are compleat;
Whilst Heaven indulgent makes her share
With Angels all that's wise and sweet.
These Vertues, which divinely deck her Mind,
Exalt each Beauty of th'inferior Kind.

Whether she love the rural Scenes,
Or sparkle in the airy Town,
O! happy he her Favour gains,
Unhappy! if she on him frown.
The Muse unwilling quits the lovely Theme,
Adieu she sings, and thrice repeats her Name.

To Mrs. E. C.

A Song.

[_]

To the Tune of Tweed-side.

Now Phœbus advances on hy;
No Footsteps of Winter are seen;
The Birds carrol sweet in the Sky,
And Lambkins dance Reels on the Green.

Thro' Groves, and by Rivulets clear,
We wander for Pleasure and Health,
Where Buddings and Blossoms appear,
Giving Prospects of Joy and Wealth.

View every gay Scene all around,
That are, and that promise to be;
Yet in them all nothing is found
So perfect, Elisa, as thee.

280

Thine Eyes the clear Fountains excell;
Thy Locks they out-rival the Grove;
When Zephyrs these pleasingly swell,
Each Wave makes a Captive to Love.

The Roses and Lillies combin'd,
And Flowers of most delicate Hue,
By thy Cheek and thy Breasts are out-shin'd,
Their Tinctures are nothing so true.

What can we compare with thy Voice,
And what with thy Humour so sweet?
No Musick can bless with such Joys;
Sure Angels are just so compleat,

Fair Blossom of every Delight,
Whose Beauties ten thousands out-shine,
Thy Sweets shall be lastingly bright,
Being mixt with so many divine.

Ye Powers, who have given such Charms
To Elisa, your Image below,
O! save her from all humane Harms,
And make her Hours happily flow.

To CALISTA:

A Song

[_]

To the Tune of, I wish my Love were in a Mire.

She sung,—the Youth Attention gave,
And Charms on Charms espies;
Then all in Raptures falls a Slave,
Both to her Voice and Eyes.
So spoke and smil'd the Eastern Maid,
Like thine, seraphick were her Charms,
That in Circassia's Vineyards stray'd,
And blest the wisest Monarch's Arms.

281

A thousand fair of high Desert
Strave to enchant the amorous King,
But the Circassian gain'd his Heart,
And taught the Royal Bard to sing.
Calista thus our Sang inspires,
And claims the smooth and highest Lays;
But while each Charm our Bosom fires,
Words seem too few to sound her Praise.

Her Mind, in ev'ry Grace compleat,
To paint, surpasses humane Skill,
Her Majesty, mixt with the sweet;
Let Seraphs sing her if they will:
Whilst wondring, with a ravish'd Eye,
We all that's perfect in her view,
Viewing a Sister of the Sky,
To whom an Adoration's due.

A SONG.

[Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean]

[_]

Tune of Lochaber no more.

Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean,
Where heartsome with thee I've mony Day been;
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more.
We'll may be return to Lochaber no more.
These Tears that I shed, they are a' for my Dear,
And no for the Dangers attending on Weir,
Tho' bore on rough Seas to a far bloody Shore,
May be to return to Lochaber no more.

Tho' Hurrycanes rise, and rise ev'ry Wind,
They'll ne'er make a Tempest like that in my Mind:
Tho' loudest of Thunder on louder Waves roar,
That's nathing like leaving my Love on the Shore.

282

To leave thee behind me, my Heart is sair pain'd.
By Ease that's inglorious no Fame can be gain'd;
And Beauty and Love's the Reward of the Brave,
And I must deserve it before I can crave.

Then Glory, my Jeany, maun plead my Excuse;
Since Honour commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it I ne'er can have Merit for thee,
And without thy Favour I'd better not be.
I gae then, my Lass, to win Honour and Fame;
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame,
I'll bring a Heart to thee with Love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

Lass with a Lump of Land.

Gi'e me a Lass with a Lump of Land,
And we for Life shall gang thegither;
Tho' daft or wise I'll never demand,
Or black or fair it maksna whether.
I'm aff with Wit, and Beauty will fade,
And Blood alane is no worth a Shilling;
But she that's rich, her Market's made,
For ilka Charm about her is killing.

Gi'e me a Lass with a Lump of Land,
And in my Bosom I'll hug my Treasure;
Gin I had anes her Gear in my Hand,
Shou'd Love turn dowf, it will find Pleasure.
Laugh on wha likes, but there's my Hand,
I hate with Poortith, tho' bonny, to meddle;
Unless they bring Cash, or a Lump of Land,
They'se never get me to dance to their Fiddle.

283

There's meikle good Love in Bands and Bags,
And Siller and Gowd's a sweet Complection;
But Beauty, and Wit, and Vertue in Rags,
Have tint the Art of gaining Affection.
Love tips his Arrows with Woods and Parks,
And Castles, and Riggs, and Moors, and Meadows;
And nathing can catch our modern Sparks,
But well tocher'd Lasses, or jointer'd Widows.

Vertue and Wit.

The Preservatives of Love and Beauty.

[_]

To the Tune of Gillikranky.

To Mrs. K. H.

[HE.]

Confess thy Love, fair blushing Maid;
For since thine Eye's consenting,
Thy safter Thoughts are a' betray'd,
And Nasays no worth tenting.
Why aims thou to oppose thy Mind,
With Words thy Wish denying?
Since Nature made thee to be kind,
Reason allows complying.

Nature and Reason's joint Consent
Make Love a sacred Blessing;
Then happily that Time is spent,
That's war'd on kind caressing.
Come then, my Katie, to my Arms,
I'll be nae mair a Rover,
But find out Heaven in a' thy Charms,
And prove a faithful Lover.

284

SHE.

What you design by Nature's Law,
Is fleeting Inclination;
That Willy-Wisp bewilds us a',
By its Infatuation.
When that gaes out, Caresses tire,
And Love's nae mair in season;
Syne weakly we blaw up the Fire,
With all our boasted Reason.

HE.

The Beauties of inferior Cast
May start this just Reflection;
But Charms like thine maun always last,
Where Wit has the Protection.
Vertue and Wit, like April Rays,
Make Beauty rise the sweeter:
The langer then on thee I gaze,
My Love will grow compleater.

SONG.

[Adieu for a while, my native green Plains]

[_]

To the Tune of, I'll gar ye be fain to follow me.

HE.

Adieu for a while, my native green Plains,
My nearest Relations, and neighbouring Swains,
Dear Nelly, frae these I'd start easily free,
Were Minutes not Ages while absent frae thee.

285

SHE.

Then tell me the Reason thou does not obey
The Pleadings of Love, but thus hurries away:
Alake! thou Deceiver, o'er plainly I see,
A Lover sae roving will never mind me.

HE.

The Reason unhappy is owing to Fate,
That gave me a Being without an Estate,
Which lays a Necessity now upon me,
To purchase a Fortune for Pleasure to thee.

SHE.

Small Fortune may serve where Love has the Sway:
Then, Johny, be counsel'd nae langer to stray;
For while thou proves constant in Kindness to me,
Contented I'll ay find a Treasure in thee.

HE.

O cease, my dear Charmer, else soon I'll betray
A Weakness unmanly, and quickly give way
To Fondness which may prove a Ruin to thee,
A Pain to us baith, and Dishonour to me.

Bear Witness, ye Streams, and witness, ye Flowers;
Bear Witness, ye watchful invisible Powers,
If ever my Heart be unfaithful to thee,
May nathing propitious e'er smile upon me.

286

SONG.

[Ann I'll awa' to bonny Tweed-side]

[_]

We'll a' to Kelso go.

Ann I'll awa' to bonny Tweed-side,
And see my Deary come throw,
And he sall be mine
Gif sae he incline;
For I hate to lead Apes below.

While young and fair,
I'll make it my Care,
To secure my sell in a Jo;
I'm no sic a Fool,
To let my Blood cool,
And syne gae lead Apes below.

Few Words, bonny Lad,
Will eithly perswade,
Tho' blushing, I daftly say no,
Gae on with your Strain,
And doubt not to gain;
For I hate to lead Apes below.

Unty'd to a Man,
Do whate'er we can,
We never can thrive or dow:
Then I will do well,
Do better wha will,
And let them lead Apes below.

287

Our Time is precious,
And Gods are gracious,
That Beauties upon us bestow;
'Tis not to be thought
We got them for nought,
Or to be set up for Show.

'Tis carry'd by Votes,
Come kilt up your Coats,
And let us to Edinburgh go,
Where she that's bonny
May catch a Johny,
And never lead Apes below.

The Widow.

The Widow can bake, and the Widow can brew,
The Widow can shape, and the Widow can shew,
And mony braw Things the Widow can do;
Then have at the Widow, my Laddie.
With Courage attack her baith early and late,
To kiss her and clap her ye mauna be blate:
Speak well, and do better; for that's the best Gate
To win a young Widow, my Laddie.

The Widow she's youthfu', and never ae Hair
The war of the wearing, and has a good Skair
Of every thing lovely; she's witty and fair,
And has a rich Jointure, my Laddie.
What cou'd ye wish better your Pleasure to crown,
Than a Widow, the bonniest Toast in the Town,
With nathing, but draw in your Stool, and sit down,
And sport with the Widow, my Laddie.

288

Then till her, and kill her with Courtesy dead,
Tho' stark Love and Kindness be all ye can plead;
Be heartsome and airy, and hope to succeed
With a bonny gay Widow, my Laddie.
Strike Iron while 'tis het, if ye'd have it to wald,
For Fortune ay favours the Active and Bauld,
But ruines the Woer that's thowless and cauld,
Unfit for the Widow, my Laddie.

The STEP-DAUGHTER's Relief.

[_]

To the Tune of, The Kirk wad let me be.

I was anes a well tocher'd Lass
My Mither left Dollars to me;
But now I'm brought to a poor Pass,
My Step-dame has gart them flee.
My Father he's aften frae hame,
And she plays the Deel with his Gear;
She neither has Lateth nor Shame,
And keeps the hale House in a steer.

She's barmy fac'd, thriftless and bauld,
And gars me aft fret and repine;
While hungry, half naked and cauld,
I see her destroy what's mine:
But soon I might hope a Revenge,
And soon of my Sorrows be free,
My Poortith to Plenty wad change,
If she were hung up on a Tree.

289

Quoth Ringan, wha lang time had loo'd
This bonny Lass tenderly,
I'll tak thee, sweet May, in thy Snood,
Gif thou wilt gae hame with me,
'Tis only your sell that I want;
Your Kindness is better to me,
Than a' that your Step-mother, scant
Of Grace, now has taken frae thee.

I'm but a young Farmer, 'tis true,
And ye are the Sprout of a Laird;
But I have Milk-cattle enow,
And Rowth of good Rucks in my Yard.
Ye sall have nathing to fash ye;
Sax Servants sall jouk to thee:
Then kilt up thy Coats, my Lassie,
And gae thy ways hame with me.

The Maiden her Reason employ'd,
Not thinking the Offer amiss,
Consented:—While Ringan o'erjoy'd,
Receiv'd her with mony a Kiss.
And now she sits blythly singan,
And joking her drunken Step-dame,
Delighted with her dear Ringan,
That makes her Goodwife at hame.

290

The Soger Laddie.

My Soger Laddie is over the Sea,
And he will bring Gold and Money to me;
And when he comes hame, he'll make me a Lady:
My Blessing gang with my Soger Laddie.

My doughty Laddie is handsome and brave,
And can as a Soger and Lover behave:
True to his Country, to Love he is steady;
There's few to compare with my Soger Laddie.

Shield him, ye Angels, frae Death in Alarms,
Return him with Lawrels to my langing Arms,
Syne frae all my Care ye'll pleasantly free me,
When back to my Wishes my Soger ye gi'e me.

O soon may his Honours bloom fair on his Brow,
As quickly they must, if he get his Due;
For in noble Actions his Courage is ready,
Which makes me delight in my Soger Laddie.