The Poems of Robert Fergusson :: :: University of Virginia Library

Now mourn, ye college masters a'!
And frae your ein a tear lat fa',
Fam'd Gregory death has taen awa'
Without remeid;
The skaith ye've met wi's nae that sma',
Sin Gregory's dead.

The students too will miss him sair,
To school them weel his eident care,
Now they may mourn for ever mair,
They hae great need;
They'll hip the maist fek o' their lear,
Sin Gregory's dead.

He could, by Euclid, prove lang sine
A ganging point compos'd a line;
By numbers too he cou'd divine,
Whan he did read,
That three times three just made up nine;
But now he's dead.

In Algebra weel skill'd he was,
An' kent fu' well proportion's laws;
He cou'd make clear baith B's and A's
Wi' his lang head;
Rin owr surd roots, but cracks or flaws;
But now he's dead.

Weel vers'd was he in architecture,
An' kent the nature o' the sector,
Upon baith globes he weel cou'd lecture,
An' gar's tak heid;
Of geometry he was the hector;
But now he's dead.

Sae weel's he'd fley the students a',
Whan they war skelpin at the ba',
They took leg bail and ran awa',
Wi' pith and speid;
We winna get a sport sae braw
Sin Gregory's dead.

Great 'casion hae we a' to weep,
An' cleed our skins in mourning deep,
For Gregory death will fairly keep
To take his nap;
He'll till the resurrection sleep
As sound's a tap.

SONG.

[No repose can I discover]

No repose can I discover,
Nor find joy without my lover;
Can I stay when she's not near me?
Cruel Fates, once deign to hear me.

The charms of grandeur don't decoy me;
Fair Eliza must enjoy me;
My crown and sceptre I'll resign;
The shepherd's life shall still be mine.

SONGS FROM ARTAXERXES.

[From Act II. Scene II.]

[_]

Tune, Braes of Balandene.

ARBACES.
By Heav'n's displeasure the wretch thus is thrown,
With tempests harsh sounding on seas yet unknown:
In vain thus surrounded he struggles with death,
When toss'd by huge billows, and panting for breath;
Even hope too forsakes him, no pity he craves;
He's left without mercy the sport of the waves.

[From Act II. Scene VI.]

[_]

Tune, Roslin Castle.

MANDANE.
What doubts oppress my wounded heart!
My soul at every breath doth start!
Fain would my gloomy thoughts retire,
Nor fill my stormy breast with ire:
Yet cares torment my tortur'd mind,
Leaving their rugged tracts behind;
And still my soul they hold in pain,
Their cruel empire to maintain.

[From Act III. Scene VII.]

[_]

Tune, Lochaber no more.

ARBACES.
O where shall I wander my lover to find,
And with sweet discourses indulge my fond mind?
Once more I must view her before I depart,
And with mild embraces enliven my heart.
Perchance she's approaching that smooth gliding stream,
Where I first espy'd, and discover'd my flame:
Farewell then my sorrows, I'll leave you a while,
And steal from my true love one ravishing smile.

PASTORAL I. MORNING.

DAMON. ALEXIS.
DAMON.
Aurora now her welcome visit pays,
Stern darkness flies before her cheerful rays;
Cool circling breezes whirl along the air,
And early shepherds to the fields repair,
Lead we our flocks then to the mountain's brow,
Where junipers and thorny brambles grow;
Where fonts of water 'midst the daisies spring
And soaring Larks, and tuneful Linnets sing;
Your pleasing song shall teach our flocks to stray,
While sounding echoes smooth the silvan lay.

ALEXIS.
'Tis thine to sing the graces of the morn,
The zephyr trembling o'er the ripening corn:
'Tis thine with ease to chant the rural lay,
While bubbling fountains to your numbers play.
No piping swain that treads the verdant field,
But to your music, and your verse must yield;
Sing then; for here we may with safety keep,
Our sportive lambkins on this mossy steep.

DAMON.
With ruddy glow the Sun adorns the land,
The pearly dew-drops on the bushes stand;
The lowing oxen from the folds we hear,
And snowy flocks upon the hills appear.

ALEXIS.
How sweet the murmurs of the neighbouring rill!
Sweet are the slumbers which its floods distill:
Thro' peebly channels winding as they run,
And brilliant sparkling to the rising sun.

DAMON.
Behold Edina's lofty turrets rise,
Her structures fair adorn the eastern skies;
As Pentland cliffs o'ertop yon distant plain,
So she the cities on our north domain.

ALEXIS.
Boast not of cities, or their lofty towers,
Where discord all her baneful influence pours;
The homely cottage, and the wither'd tree,
With sweet content shall be preferr'd by me.

DAMON.
The Hemlock dire shall please the heifers taste;
Our lands like wild Arabia be waste;
The bee forget to range for winter's food,
'Ere I forsake the forest and the flood.

ALEXIS.
Ye balmy breezes, wave the verdant field,
Clouds all your bounties, all your moisture yield;
That fruits and herbage may our farms adorn,
And furrowed ridges teem with loaded corn.

DAMON.
The year already hath propitious smil'd,
Gentle in spring-time, and in summer mild;
No cutting blasts have hurt my tender dams,
Nor hoary frosts destroy'd my infant lambs.

ALEXIS.
If Ceres crown with joy the bounteous year,
A sacred altar to her shrine I'll rear;
A vig'rous ram shall bleed, whose curling horns,
His wooly neck and hardy front adorns.

DAMON.
Teach me, O Pan, to tune the slender reed,
No fav'rite ram shall at thine altars bleed;
Each breathing morn thy woodland verse I'll sing,
And hollow dens shall with the numbers ring.

ALEXIS.
Apollo, lend me thy celestial lyre,
The woods in concert join at thy desire:
At morn, at noon, at night, I'll tune the lay,
And bid fleet echo bear the sound away.

DAMON.
Sweet are the breezes when cool eve returns,
To lowing herds when raging Syrius burns:
Not half so sweetly winds the breeze along,
As does the murmur of your pleasing song.

ALEXIS.
To hear your strains the cattle spurn their food,
The feather'd songsters leave their tender brood;
Around your seat the silent lambs advance,
While scrambling he-goats on the mountains dance.

DAMON.
But haste, Alexis, reach yon leafy shade,
Which mantling ivy round the oaks hath made;
There we'll retire, and list the warbling note
That flows melodious from the blackbird's throat;
Your easy numbers shall his songs inspire,
And every warbler join the general choir.

PASTORAL II. NOON.

CORYDON. TIMANTHES.
CORYDON.
The sun the summit of his orb hath gain'd,
No flecker'd clouds his azure path hath stain'd;
Our pregnant ewes around us cease to graze,
Stung with the keenness of his sultry rays;
The weary bullock from the yoke is led,
And youthful shepherds from the plains are fled

To dusky shades, where scarce a glimmering ray
Can dart its lustre through the leafy spray.
Yon cooling riv'let where the waters gleam,
Where springing flowers adorn the limpid stream,
Invites us where the drooping willow grows
To guide our flocks, and take a cool repose.

TIMANTHES.
To thy advice a grateful ear I'll lend,
The shades I'll court where slender osiers bend;
Our weanlings young shall crop the rising flower,
While we retire to yonder twining bower;
The woods shall echo back thy cheerful strains,
Admir'd by all our Caledonian swains.

CORYDON.
There have I oft with gentle Delia stray'd,
Amidst th'embowering solitary shade;
Before the gods to thwart my wishes strove,
By blasting every pleasing glimpse of love:
For Delia wanders o'er the Anglian plain,
Where civil discord and sedition reign.
There Scotia's sons in odious light appear,
Tho' we for them have wav'd the hostile spear:
For them my sire, enwrapp'd in curdled gore,
Breath'd his last moments on a foreign shore.

TIMANTHES.
Six lunar months, my friend, will soon expire,
And she return to crown your fond desire.
For her! O rack not your desponding mind!
In Delia's breast a gen'rous flame's confin'd,
That burns for Corydon, whose piping lay
Hath caus'd the tedious moments steal away:
Whose strains melodious mov'd the falling floods
To whisper Delia to the rising woods.
O! if your sighs could aid the floating gales,
That favourable swell her lofty sails;
Ne'er should your sobbs their rapid flights give o'er
Till Delia's presence grac'd our northern shore.

CORYDON.
Though Delia greet my love I sigh in vain,
Such joy unbounded can I ne'er obtain.
Her sire a thousand fleeces numbers o'er,
And grassy hills increase his milky store;
While the weak fences of a scanty fold
Will all my sheep and fattening lambkins hold.

TIMANTHES.
Ah, hapless youth! although the early muse
Painted her semblance on thy youthful brows;
Though she with laurels twin'd thy temples round,
And in thy ear distill'd the magic sound;
A cheerless poverty attends your woes,
Your song melodious unrewarded flows.

CORYDON.
Think not, Timanthes, that for wealth I pine,
Though all the fates to make me poor combine;
Tay bounding o'er his banks with awless sway,
Bore all my corns—all my flocks away.
Of Jove's dread precepts did I 'ere complain?
'Ere curse the rapid flood or dashing rain?
Ev'n now I sigh not for my former store,
But wish the gods had destin'd Delia poor.

TIMANTHES.
'Tis joy, my friend, to think I can repay
The loss you bore by autumn's rigid sway.
Yon fertile meadow where the daisies spring
Shall yearly pasture to your heifers bring:
Your flock with mine shall on yon mountain feed,
Cheer'd by the warbling of your tuneful reed:

No more shall Delia's ever fretful sire
Against your hopes and ardent love conspire.
Rous'd by her smiles you'll tune the happy lay,
While hills responsive waft your songs away.

CORYDON.
May plenteous crops your irksome labour crown,
May hoodwink'd fortune cease her envious frown;
May riches still increase with growing years;
Your flocks be numerous as your silver hairs.

TIMANTHES.
But lo! the heats invite us at our ease
To court the twining shades and cooling breeze;
Our languid joints we'll peaceably recline,
And 'midst the flowers and opening blossoms dine.

PASTORAL III. NIGHT.

AMYNTAS. FLORELLUS.
AMYNTAS.
While yet gray twilight does his empire hold,
Drive all our heifers to the peaceful fold;
With sullied wing grim darkness soars along,
And larks to nightingales resign the song:
The weary ploughman flies the waving fields,
To taste what fare his humble cottage yields:
As bees that daily thro' the meadows roam,
Feed on the sweets they have prepar'd at home.

FLORELLUS.
The grassy meads that smil'd serenely gay,
Cheer'd by the everburning lamp of day,
In dusky hue attir'd, are cramp'd with colds,
And springing flow'rets shut their crimson folds.

AMYNTAS.
What awful silence reigns throughout the shade,
The peaceful olive bends his drooping head;
No sound is heard o'er all the gloomy maze,
Wide o'er the deep the fiery meteors blaze.

FLORELLUS.
The west yet ting'd with Sol's effulgent ray,
With feeble light illumes our homeward way;
The glowing stars with keener lustre burn,
While round the earth their glowing axles turn.

AMYNTAS.
What mighty power conducts the stars on high!
Who bids these comets thro' our system fly!
Who wafts the light'ning to the icy pole!
And thro' our regions bids the thunders roll!

FLORELLUS.
But say, what mightier power from nought could raise
The earth, the sun, and all that fiery maze
Of distant stars that gild the azure sky,
And thro' the void in settled orbits fly?

AMYNTAS.
That righteous Power, before whose heavenly eye
The stars are nothing, and the planets die;
Whose breath divine supports our mortal frame,
Who made the lion wild, and lambkin tame.

FLORELLUS.
At his command the bounteous spring returns;
Hot summer, raging o'er th'Atlantic burns;
The yellow autumn crowns our sultry toil,
And winter's snows prepare the cumb'rous soil.

AMYNTAS.
By him the morning darts her purple ray;
To him the birds their early homage pay;
With vocal harmony the meadows ring,
While swains in concert heav'nly praises sing.

FLORELLUS.
Swayed by his word the nutrient dews descend,
And growing pastures to the moisture bend;
The vernal blossoms sip his falling showers;
The meads are garnish'd with his opening flow'rs.

AMYNTAS.
For man, the object of his chiefest care,
Fowls he hath form'd to wing the ambient air;
For him the steer his lusty neck doth bend;
Fishes for him their scaly fins extend.

FLORELLUS.
Wide o'er the orient sky the moon appears,
A foe to darkness and his idle fears;
Around her orb the stars in clusters shine
And distant planets tend her silver shrine.

AMYNTAS.
Hush'd are the busy numbers of the day;
On downy couch they sleep their hours away;
Hail, balmy sleep, that soothes the troubled mind!
Lock'd in thy arms, our cares a refuge find.
Oft do you tempt us with delusive dreams,
When wild'ring fancy darts her dazzling beams;
Asleep the lover with his mistress strays
Thro' lonely thickets and untrodden ways;
But when pale Cynthia's sable empire's fled,
And hovering slumbers shun the morning bed,
Rous'd by the dawn, he wakes with frequent sigh,
And all his flattering visions quickly fly.

FLORELLUS.
Now owls and batts infest the midnight scene,
Dire snakes, invenom'd twine along the green;
Forsook by man the rivers mourning glide,
And groaning echoes swell the noisy tide,
Straight to our cottage let us bend our way;
My drowsy powers confess sleep's magic sway.
Easy and calm upon our couch we'll lie,
While sweet reviving slumbers round our pillows fly.

The COMPLAINT.

A Pastoral.

Near the heart of a fair spreading grove,
Whose foliage shaded the green,
A shepherd, repining at love,
In anguish was heard to complain.

O Cupid! thou wanton young boy!
Since, with thy invisible dart,
Thou hast robb'd a fond youth of his joy,
In return grant the wish of his heart.

Send a shaft so severe from thy bow
(His pining, his sighs to remove),
That Stella, once wounded, may know
How keen are the arrows of love.

No swain once so happy as I,
Nor tun'd with more pleasure the reed;
My breast never vented a sigh,
Till Stella approach'd the gay mead.

With mirth, with contentment endow'd,
My hours they flew wantonly by;
I sought no repose in the wood,
Nor from my few sheep would I fly.

Now my reed I have carelessly broke,
Its melody pleases no more;
I pay no regard to a flock
That seldom hath wander'd before.

O Stella! whose beauty so fair
Excells the bright splendor of day,
Ah! have you no pity to share
With Damon thus fall'n to decay?

For you have I quitted the plain,
Forsaken my sheep and my fold;
For you in dull languor and pain,
My tedious moments are told.

For you have my roses grown pale,
They have faded untimely away;
And will not such beauty bewail
A shepherd thus fall'n to decay.

Since your eyes still requite me with scorn,
And kill with their merciless ray,
Like a star at the dawning of morn,
I fall to their lustre a prey.

Some swain who shall mournfully go
To whisper love's sighs to the shade,
Will happ'ly some charity show,
And under the turf see me laid.

Would my love but in pity appear
On the spot where he moulds my cold grave,
And bedew the green sod with a tear,
'Tis all the remembrance I crave.

To the swaird then his visage he turn'd;
'Twas wan as the lilies in May;
Fair Stella may see him inurn'd,
He hath sigh'd all his sorrows away.

On the cold Month of April 1771.

Oh! who can hold a fire in his hand
By thinking on the frosty Caucasus;
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite
By bare imagination of a feast;
Or wallow naked in December's snow,
By thinking on fantastic summer's heat.
Shakesp. Rich. II.

Poets in vain have hail'd the op'ning spring,
In tender accents woo'd the blooming maid;
In vain have taught the April birds to wing
Their flight thro' fields in verdant hue array'd.

The muse in ev'ry season taught to sing
Amidst the desart snows by fancy's powers,
Can elevated soar, on placid wing,
To climes where spring her kindest influence showers.

April, once famous for the zephyr mild,
For sweets that early in the garden grow,
Say, how converted to this cheerless wild,
Rushing with torrents of dissolving snow.

Nurs'd by the moisture of a gentle shower,
Thy foliage oft hath sounded to the breeze;
Oft did thy choristers melodious pour
Their melting numbers thro' the shady trees.

Fair have I seen thy morn, in smiles array'd,
With crimson blush bepaint the eastern sky;
But now the dawn creeps mournful o'er the glade,
Shrowded in colours of a sable dye.

So have I seen the fair with laughing eye,
And visage cheerful as the smiling morn,
Alternate changing for the heaving sigh,
Or frowning aspect of contemptuous scorn.

Life! What art thou? a variegated scene
Of mingl'd light and shade, of joy and woe;
A sea where calms and storms promiscuous reign,
A stream where sweet and bitter jointly flow.

Mute are the plains; the shepherd pipes no more;
The reed's forsaken, and the tender flock,
While echo, listening to the tempest's roar,
In silence wanders o'er the beetling rock.

Winter, too potent for the solar ray,
Bestrides the blast, ascends his icy throne,
And views Britannia, subject to his sway,
Floating emergent on the frigid zone.

Thou savage tyrant of the fretful sky!
Wilt thou for ever in our zenith reign?
To Greenland's seas, congeal'd in chillness, fly.
Where howling monsters tread the bleak domain.

Relent, O Boreas! leave thy frozen cell;
Resign to spring her portion of the year;
Let west winds temp'rate wave the flowing gale,
And hills, and vales, and woods a vernal aspect wear.

A SATURDAY's EXPEDITION.

In mock Heroics.

Non mira, sed vera, canam.

At that sweet period of revolving time
When Phœbus lingers not in Thetis' lap,
When twinkling stars their feeble influence shed,
And scarcely glimmer thro' th'ethereal vault,
Till Sol again his near approach proclaims,
With ray purpureal, and the blushing form
Of fair Aurora, goddess of the dawn,
Leading the winged coursers to the pole
Of Phœbus' car.—'Twas in that season fair,
When jocund summer did the meads array
In Flora's rip'ning bloom—that we prepar'd
To break the bond of business, and to roam
Far from Edina's jarring noise a while.

Fair smil'd the wak'ning morn on our design,
And we with joy elate our march began
For Leiths fair port, where oft Edina's sons
The week conclude, and in carousal quaff
Port, punch, rum, brandy, and Geneva strong,
Liquors too nervous for the feeble purse.
With all convenient speed we there arriv'd,
Nor had we time to touch at house or hall,
Till from the boat a hollow thundering voice
Bellow'd vociferous, and our ears assail'd
With, Ho! Kinghorn, oho! come straight aboard.
We fail'd not to obey the stern command,
Utter'd with voice as dreadful as the roar
Of Polyphemus, 'midst rebounding rocks,
When overcome by sage Ulysses' wiles.

“Hoist up your sails,” the angry skipper cries,
While fore and aft the busy sailors run,
And loose th'entangled cordage.—O'er the deep
Zephyrus blows, and hugs our lofty sails,
Which, in obedience to the powerful breeze,
Swell o'er the foaming main, and kiss the wave.

Now o'er the convex surface of the flood
Precipitate we fly—our foaming prow
Divides the saline stream—on either side
Ridges of yesty surge dilate apace;
But from the poop the waters gently flow,
And undulation for the time decays,
In eddies smoothly floating o'er the main.

Here let the muse in doleful numbers sing
The woeful fate of those whose cruel stars
Have doom'd them subject to the languid powers
Of wat'ry sickness—though with stomach full
Of juicy beef, of mutton in its prime,
Or all the dainties luxury can boast,
They brave the elements.—Yet the rocking bark,
Truely regardless of their precious food,
Converts their visage to the ghastly pale,
And makes the sea partaker of the sweets
On which they sumptuous far'd—And this the cause
Why those of Scotia's sons whose wealthy store
Hath bless'd them with a splendid coach and six,
Rather incline to linger on the way,
And cross the river Forth by Stirling bridge,
Than be subjected to the ocean's swell,
To dang'rous ferries, and to sickness dire.

And now at equal distance shews the land;
Gladly the tars the joyful task pursue
Of gathering in the freight—Debates arise
From counterfeited half-pence—In the hold
The seamen scrutinize and eager peep
Through every corner where their watchful eye
Suspects a lurking place, or dark retreat,

To hide the timid corpse of some poor soul,
Whose scanty purse can scarce one groat afford.

At length we chearful land on Fifan shore,
Where sickness vanishes, and all the ills
Attendant on the passage of Kinghorn.
Our pallid cheeks resume their rosy hue,
And empty stomachs keenly crave supply—
With eager step we reach'd the friendly inn,
Nor did we think of beating our retreat
Till every gnawing appetite was quell'd.

Eastward along the Fifan coast we stray;
And here th'unwearied eye may fondly gaze
O'er all the tufted groves and pointed spires
With which the pleasant banks of Forth are crown'd.
Sweet navigable stream! where commerce reigns,
Where peace and jocund plenty smile serene:
On thy green banks sits Liberty enthron'd,
But not that shadow which the English youth
So eagerly pursue; but freedom bought
When Caledonia's triumphant sword
Taught the proud sons of Anglia to bemoan
Their fate at Bannockburn, where thousands came
Never to tread their native soil again.

Far in a hollow den, where nature's hand
Had careless strew'd the rocks—a dreadful cave,
Whose concave cieling echoed to the floods
Their hollow murmurs on the trembling shore,
Demanded our approach,—The yawning porch
Its massy sides disclos'd, and o'er the top
The ivy tendrils twin'd th'uncultur'd fern:
Fearful we pry into the dreary vault,
Hoary with age, and breathing noxious damps:
Here busy owls may unmolested dwell
In solitary gloom—for few there are
Whose inclination leads them to review
A cell where putrid smells infectious reign.

Then turning westward, we our course pursue

Along the verge of Fortha's briny flood,
Till we o'ertake the gradual rising dale
Where fair Burntisland rears her reverend dome;
And here the vulgar sign-post, painted o'er
With imitations vile of man and horse,
Of small beer froathing o'er th'unshapely jug,
With courteous invitation, spoke us fair
To enter in, and taste what precious drops
Were there reserved to moisten strangers throats,
Too often parch'd upon the tedious way.

After regaling here with sober cann,
Our limbs we plied, and nimbly measur'd o'er
The hills, the vales, and the extensive plains,
Which form the distance from Burntisland's port
To Inverkeithing. Westward still we went,
Till in the ferry-boat we loll'd at ease;
Nor did we long on Neptune's empire float,
For scarce ten posting minutes were elaps'd
Till we again on Terra Firma stood,
And to M'Laren's march'd, where roasted lamb,
With cooling lettice, crown'd our social board.
Here too the cheering glass, chief foe to cares!
Went briskly round; and many a virgin fair
Receiv'd our homage in a bumper full.

Thus having sacrific'd a jocund hour,
To smiling mirth, we quit the happy scene,
And move progressive to Edina's walls.

Now still returning eve creep'd gradual on,
And the bright sun, as weary of the sky,
Beam'd forth a languid occidental ray,
Whose ruby tinctur'd radiance faintly gleam'd
Upon the airy cliffs and distant spires,
That float on the horizon's utmost verge.
So we, with fessive joints and ling'ring pace,
Moved slowly on, and did not reach the town,
Till Phœbus had unyoked his prancing steeds.

Ye sons of Caledonia! who delight,
With all the pomp and pageantry of state,

To roll along in gilded affluence,
For one poor moment wean your thought from these,
And list this humble strain. If you, like us,
Could brave the angry waters, be uprous'd
By the first salutation to the morn
Paid by the watchful cock; or be compell'd
On foot to wander o'er the lonely plain
For twenty tedious miles; then should the gout
With all his racking pangs forsake your frame:
For he delights not to traverse the field,
Or rugged steep, but prides him to recline
On the luxuriance of a velvet fold,
Where indolence on purple sopha lolls.

The DECAY of FRIENDSHIP.

A Pastoral Elegy.

When gold, man's sacred deity, did smile,
My friends were plenty, and my sorrows few;
Mirth, love, and bumpers did my hours beguile,
And arrowed Cupids round my slumbers flew.

What shepherd then could boast more happy days?
My lot was envied by each humbler swain;
Each bard in smooth eulogium sung my praise,
And Damon listen'd to the guileful strain.

Flattery, alluring as the Syren's lay,
And as deceitful thy inchanting tongue,
How have you taught my wavering mind to stray,
Charm'd and attracted by the baneful song!

My pleasant cottage, shelter'd from the gale,
Arose with moss, and rural ivy bound;
And scarce a flow'ret in my lowly vale,
But was with bees of various colours crown'd.

Free o'er my lands the neighbouring flocks could roam;
How welcome were the swains and flocks to me!
The shepherds kindly were invited home,
To chase the hours in merriment and glee.

To wake emotions in the youthful mind,
Strephon with voice melodious tun'd the song;
Each sylvan youth the sounding chorus join'd,
Fraught with contentment 'midst the festive throng.

My clust'ring grape compens'd their magic skill,
The bowl capacious swell'd in purple tide;
To shepherds, liberal, as the chrystal rill,
Spontaneous gurgling from the mountain's side.

But ah! these youthful sportive hours are fled;
These scenes of jocund mirth are now no more;
No healing slumbers tend my humble bed,
No friends condole the sorrows of the poor.

And what avail the thoughts of former joy?
What comfort bring they in the adverse hour?
Can they the canker-worm of care destroy,
Or brighten fortune's discontented lour?

He who hath long travers'd the fertile plain,
Where nature in its fairest vesture smil'd,
Will he not cheerless view the fairy scene,
When lonely wand'ring o'er the barren wild?

For now pale poverty, with haggard eye
And rueful aspect, darts her gloomy ray;
My wonted guests their proffer'd aid deny,
And from the paths of Damon steal away.

Thus, when fair summer's lustre gilds the lawn,
When rip'ning blossoms deck the spreading tree,
The birds with melody salute the dawn,
And o'er the daisy hangs the humming bee.

But when the beauties of the circling year
In chilling frosts and furious storms decay;
No more the bees upon the plains appear,
No more the warblers hail the infant day.

To the lone corner of some distant shore,
In dreary devious pilgrimage I'll fly,
And wander pensive where deceit no more
Shall trace my footsteps with a mortal eye.

There solitary saunter o'er the beach,
And to the murm'ring surge my griefs disclose;
There shall my voice in plaintive wailings teach
The hollow caverns to resound my woes.

Sweet are the waters to the parched tongue;
Sweet are the blossoms to the wanton bee;
Sweet to the shepherd sounds the lark's shrill song;
But sweeter far is Solitude to me.

Adieu, ye fields, where I have fondly stray'd!
Ye swains who once the fav'rite Damon knew;
Farewel, ye sharers of my bounty's aid!
Ye sons of base Ingratitude adieu!

Written at the Hermitage of Braid, near Edinburgh.

Would you relish a rural retreat,
Or the pleasure the groves can inspire?
The city's allurements forget,
To this spot of enchantment retire.

Where a valley, and chrystaline brook,
Whose current glides sweetly along,
Give nature a fanciful look
The beautiful woodlands among.

Behold the umbrageous trees
A covert of verdure have spread,
Where shepherds may loll at their ease,
And pipe to the musical shade:

For lo! thro' each op'ning is heard,
In concert with waters below,
The voice of a musical bird,
Whose numbers do gracefully flow.

The bushes and arbours so green,
With tendrils of spray interwove,
With foliage shelter the scene,
And form a retirement for love.

Here Venus transported may rove
From pleasure to pleasure unseen,
Nor wish for the Cyprian grove
Her youthful Adonis to screen.

Oft let me contemplative dwell
On a scene where such beauties appear;
I could live in a cot or a cell,
And never think solitude near.

A Burlesque Elegy on the amputation of a Student's Hair, before his Orders.

O sad catastrophe! O event dire!
How shall the loss, the heavy loss be born?
Or how the muse attune the plaintive lyre,
To sing of Strephon with his ringlets shorn?

Say ye, who can divine the mighty cause,
From whence this modern circumcision springs?
Why such oppressive and such rigid laws
Are still attendant on religious things?

Alas! poor Strephon, to the stern decree
Which prunes your tresses, are you doom'd to yield?
Soon shall your caput, like the blasted tree,
Diffuse its faded honours o'er the field.

Now let the solemn sounds of mourning swell,
And wake sad echoes to prolong the lay;
For hark! methinks I hear the tragic knell;
This hour bespeaks the barber on his way.

O razor! yet thy poignant edge suspend;
O yet indulge me with a short delay,
Till I once more pourtray my youthful friend,
'Ere his proud locks are scatter'd on the clay.

'Ere the huge wig, in formal curls array'd,
With pulvile pregnant, shall o'ershade his face;
Or, like the wide umbrella, lend its aid,
To banish lustre from the sacred place.

Mourn, O ye Zephyrs! for, alas! no more
His waving ringlets shall your call obey;
For, ah! the stubborn wig must now be wore,
Since Strephon's locks are scatter'd on the clay.

Amanda too, in bitter anguish sighs,
And grieves the metamorphosis to see;
Mourn not, Amanda, for the hair that lies
Dead on the ground shall be reviv'd for thee.

Some skilful artist of a French frizeur,
With graceful ringlets shall thy temples bind,
And cull the precious relics from the floor,
Which yet may flutter in the wanton wind.

SONG.

[Where winding Forth adorns the vale]

I

Where winding Forth adorns the vale,
Fond Strephon, once a shepherd gay,
Did to the rocks his lot bewail,
And thus address'd his plaintive lay:
“O Julia! more than lily fair,
“More blooming than the kindling rose,
“How can thy breast relentless wear
“A heart more cold than winter's snows.

II

“Yet nipping winter's keenest reign,
“But for a short-liv'd space prevails;
“Spring-time returns and cheers each swain,
“Scented with Flora's fragrant gales.
“Come, Julia, come, thy love obey,
“Thou mistress of angelic charms!
“Come smiling like the morn in May,
“And center in thy Strephon's arms.

III

“Else haunted by the fiend despair,
“He'll court some solitary grove,
“Where mortal foot did ne'er repair,
“But swains oppress'd by hapless love.
“From the once pleasing rural throng,
“Remov'd, he'll thro' the desart stray,
“Where Philomela's mournful song,
“Shall join his melancholy lay.”

SONG.

[Amidst a rosy bank of flowers]

Amidst a rosy bank of flowers,
Young Damon mourn'd his forlorn fate;
In sighs he spent his languid hours,
And breath'd his woes in lonely state.

Gay joy no more shall cheer his mind,
No wanton sports can sooth his care,
Since sweet Amanda prov'd unkind,
And left him full of bleak despair.

His looks that were as fresh as morn
Can now no longer smiles impart;
His pensive soul, on sadness born,
Is rack'd and torn by Cupid's dart.

Turn, fair Amanda! cheer your swain,
Unshroud him from his veil of woe;
Range every charm to ease the pain
That in his tortur'd breast doth grow.

The DAFT-DAYS.

Now mirk December's dowie face
Glours our the rigs wi' sour grimace,
While, thro' his minimum of space,
The bleer-ey'd sun,
Wi' blinkin light and stealing pace,
His race doth run.

From naked groves nae birdie sings,
To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings,
The breeze nae od'rous flavour brings
From Borean cave,
And dwyning nature droops her wings,
Wi' visage grave.

Mankind but scanty pleasure glean
Frae snawy hill or barren plain,
Whan Winter, 'midst his nipping train,
Wi' frozen spear,
Sends drift owr a' his bleak domain,
And guides the weir.

Auld Reikie! thou'rt the canty hole,
A bield for mony caldrife soul,
Wha snugly at thine ingle loll,
Baith warm and couth;
While round they gar the bicker roll
To weet their mouth.

When merry Yule-day comes, I trow
You'll scantlins find a hungry mou;
Sma' are our cares, our stamacks fou
O' gusty gear,
And kickshaws, strangers to our view,
Sin Fairn-year.

Ye browster wives, now busk ye bra,
And fling your sorrows far awa';
Then come and gies the tither blaw
Of reaming ale,
Mair precious than the well of Spa,
Our hearts to heal.

Then, tho' at odds wi' a' the warl',
Amang oursells we'll never quarrel;
Tho' Discord gie a canker'd snarl
To spoil our glee,
As lang's there's pith into the barrel
We'll drink and 'gree.

Fidlers, your pins in temper fix,
And roset weel your fiddle-sticks,
And banish vile Italian tricks
From out your quorum,
Nor fortes wi' pianos mix,
Gie's Tulloch Gorum.

For nought can cheer the heart sae weil
As can a canty Highland reel,
It even vivifies the heel
To skip and dance:
Lifeless is he wha canna feel
Its influence.

Let mirth abound, let social cheer
Invest the dawning of the year;
Let blithesome innocence appear
To crown our joy,
Nor envy wi' sarcastic sneer
Our bliss destroy.

And thou, great god of Aqua Vitæ!
Wha sways the empire of this city,
When fou we're sometimes capernoity,
Be thou prepar'd
To hedge us frae that black banditti,
The City-Guard.

FASHION. A POEM.

Bred up where discipline most rare is,
In Military Garden Paris.
Hudibras.

O nature, parent goddess! at thy shrine,
Prone to the earth, the muse, in humble song,
Thy aid implores: Nor will she wing her flight
Till thou, bright form! in thy effulgence pure
Deign'st to look down upon her lowly state,
And shed thy powerful influence benign.

Come then, regardless of vain fashion's fools,
Of all those vile enormities of shape
That croud the world, and with thee bring
Wisdom in sober contemplation clad,
To lash those bold usurpers from the stage.

On that bless'd spot where the Parisian dome
To fools the stealing hand of time displays,
Fashion her empire holds, a goddess great!
View her amidst the Millenarian train
On a resplendent throne exalted high,
Strangely diversified with gew-gaw forms.
Her busy hand glides pleasureably o'er
The darling novelties, the trinkets rare
That greet the sight of the admiring dames,
Whose dear bought treasures o'er their native isle
Contagious spread, infect the wholesome air
That cherish'd vigour in Britannia's sons.

Near this proud seat of Fashion's antic form
A sphere revolves, on whose bright orb behold
The circulating mode of changeful dress,
Which, like the image of the sun himself,
Glories in coursing thro' the diverse signs
Which blazen in the zodiack of heaven.
Around her throne coquets the petits beaux
Unnumber'd shine, and with each other vie

In nameless ornaments and gaudy plumes.
O worthy emulation! to excell
In trifles such as these: how truly great!
Unworthy of the peevish blubbering boy,
Crush'd in his childhood by the fondling nurse,
Who, for some favourite toy, frets and pines.

Amongst the proud attendants of this shrine,
The wealthy, young and gay Clarinda draws,
From poorer objects, the astonish'd eye:
Her looks, her dress, and her affected mien
Doom her enthusiast keen in Fashion's train:
White as the covered Alps, or wintry face
Of snowy Lapland, her toupee uprear'd,
Exhibits to the view a cumbrous mass
Of curls high nodding o'er her polish'd brow;
From which redundant flows the Brussels lace,
With pendant ribbons too of various dye,
Where all the colours in th'ethereal bow,
Unite, and blend, and tantalize the sight.

Nature! to thee alone, not Fashion's pomp,
Does beauty owe her all-commanding eye.
From the green bosom of the wat'ry main,
Array'd by thee, majestic Venus rose,
With waving ringlets carelessly diffus'd,
Floating luxurious o'er the restless surge.
What Rubens then, with his enliv'ning hand,
Could paint the bright vermilion of her cheek,
Pure as the roseat portal of the east,
That opens to receive the cheering ray
Of Phœbus beaming from the orient sky?
For sterling beauty needs no faint essays,
Or colourings of art, to gild her more:
She is all perfect. And, if beauty fail,
Where are those ornaments, those rich attires
Which can reflect a lustre on that face,
Where she with light innate disdains to shine?

Britons, beware of Fashion's luring wiles:

On either hand, chief guardians of her power,
And sole dictators of her fickle voice,
Folly and dull effeminacy reign;
Whose blackest magic and unhallow'd spells
The Roman ardour check'd; their strength decay'd,
And all their glory scatter'd to the winds.

Tremble, O Albion! for the voice of fate
Seems ready to decree thy after-fall.
By pride, by luxury, what fatal ills
Unheeded have approach'd thy mortal frame!
How many foreign weeds their heads have rear'd
In thy fair garden? Hasten 'ere their strength
And baneful vegetation taint the soil,
To root out rank disease, which soon must spread,
If no bless'd antidote will purge away
Fashion's proud minions from our sea-girt isle.

ELEGY,

On the Death of Scots Music.

Mark it, Cæsario; it is old and plain,
The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chant it.
Shakespeare's Twelfth Night.

On Scotia's plains, in days of yore,
When lads and lasses tartan wore,
Saft Music rang on ilka shore,
In hamely weid;
But harmony is now no more,
And music dead.

Round her the feather'd choir would wing,
Sae bonnily she wont to sing,
And sleely wake the sleeping string,
Their sang to lead,
Sweet as the zephyrs of the spring;
But now she's dead.

Mourn ilka nymph and ilka swain,
Ilk sunny hill and dowie glen;
Let weeping streams and Naiads drain
Their fountain head;
Let echo swell the dolefu' strain,
Since music's dead.

Whan the saft vernal breezes ca'
The grey-hair'd Winter's fogs awa',
Naebody than is heard to blaw,
Near hill or mead,
On chaunter, or on aiten straw,
Since music's dead.

Nae lasses now, on simmer days,
Will lilt at bleaching of their claes;
Nae herds on Yarrow's bonny braes,
Or banks of Tweed,
Delight to chant their hameil lays,
Since music's dead.

At glomin now the bagpipe's dumb,
Whan weary owsen hameward come;
Sae sweetly as it wont to bum,
And Pibrachs skreed;
We never hear its warlike hum;
For music's dead.

Macgibbon's gane: Ah! waes my heart!
The man in music maist expert,
Wha cou'd sweet melody impart,
And tune the reed,
Wi' sic a slee and pawky art;
But now he's dead.

Ilk carline now may grunt and grane,
Ilk bonny lassie make great mane,
Since he's awa', I trow there's nane
Can fill his stead;
The blythest sangster on the plain!
Alake, he's dead!

Now foreign sonnets bear the gree,
And crabbit queer variety
Of sound fresh sprung frae Italy,
A bastard breed!
Unlike that saft-tongu'd melody
Which now lies dead.

Cou'd lav'rocks at the dawning day,
Cou'd linties chirming frae the spray,
Or todling burns that smoothly play
O'er gowden bed,
Compare wi' Birks of Indermay?
But now they're dead.

O Scotland! that cou'd yence afford
To bang the pith of Roman sword,
Winna your sons, wi' joint accord,
To battle speed?
And fight till Music be restor'd,
Which now lies dead.

The RIVERS of SCOTLAND.

An ODE.

[_]

Set to Music by Mr Collett.

O'er Scotia's parched land the Naiads flew,
From towering hills explor'd her shelter'd vales,
Caus'd Forth in wild meanders please the view,
And lift her waters to the zephyrs gales.
Where the glad swain surveys his fertile fields,
And reaps the plenty which his harvest yields.
Here did those lovely nymphs unseen,
Oft wander by the river's side,
And oft unbind their tresses green,
To bathe them in the fluid tide.
Then to the shady grottos would retire,
And sweetly echo to the warbling choir;
Or to the rushing waters tune their shells
To call up echo from the woods,
Or from the rocks, or chrystal floods,
Or from surrounding banks, or hills, or dales.

CHORUS.

Or to the rushing waters tune their shells
To call up echo from the woods,
Or from the rocks or crystal floods,
Or from surrounding banks, or hills, or dales.

When the cool fountains first their springs forsook,
Murmuring smoothly to the azure main,
Exulting Neptune then his trident shook,
And wav'd his waters gently to the plain.

The friendly Tritons on his chariot born,
With cheeks dilated blew the hollow-sounding horn.

Now Lothian and Fifan shores,
Resounding to the mermaids song,
Gladly emit their limpid stores,
And bid them smoothly sail along

To Neptune's empire, and with him to roll
Round the revolving sphere from pole to pole;

To guard Britannia from envious foes,
To view her angry vengeance hurl'd
In awful thunder round the world,
And trembling nations bending to her blows.

CHORUS.

To guard Britannia from envious foes,
To view her angry vengeance hurl'd
In awful thunder round the world,
And trembling nations bending to her blows.

High towering on the zephyrs breezy wing,
Swift fly the Naiades from Fortha's shores,
And to the southern airy mountains bring
Their sweet enchantment, and their magic powers.

Each nymph her favourite willow takes,
The earth with fev'rous tremor shakes,
The stagnant lakes obey their call,
Streams o'er the grassy pastures fall.

Tweed spreads her waters to the lucid ray,
Upon the dimpled surf the sun-beams play:

On her green banks the tuneful shepherd lies,
Charm'd with the music of his reed,
Amidst the wavings of the Tweed:
From sky-reflecting streams the river nymphs arise.

CHORUS.

On her green banks the tuneful shepherd lies,
Charm'd with the music of his reed,
Amidst the wavings of the Tweed,
From sky-reflecting streams the river nymphs arise.

The list'ning muses heard the shepherd play,
Fame with her brazen trump proclaim'd his name,
And to attend the easy graceful lay,
Pan from Arcadia to Tweda came.

Fond of the change, along the banks he stray'd,
And sung unmindful of th'Arcadian shade.

AIR, Tweedside.

I

Attend every fanciful swain,
Whose notes softly flow from the reed,
With harmony guide the sweet strain,
To sing of the beauties of Tweed.

II

Where the music of woods, and of streams
In soothing sweet melody join,
To enliven your pastoral themes,
And make human numbers divine.

CHORUS.

Ye warblers from the vocal grove,
The tender woodland strain approve,
While Tweed in smoother cadence glides,
O'er flow'ry vales in gentle tides;
And as she rolls her silver waves along,
Murmers and sighs to quit the rural song.
Scotia's great Genius in russet clad,
From the cool sedgy bank exalts her head,
In joyful rapture she the change espies,
Sees living streams descend, and groves arise.

AIR, Gilderoy.

I

As sable clouds at early day
Oft dim the shining skies,
So gloomy thoughts create dismay
And lustre leaves her eyes.

II

“Ye powers! are Scotia's ample fields
“With so much beauty grac'd,
“To have those sweets your bounty yields,
“By foreign foes defac'd?

III

“O Jove! at whose supreme command
“The limpid fountains play,
“O'er Caledonia's northern land,
“Let restless waters stray.

IV

“Since from the void creation rose,
“Thou'st made a sacred vow,
“That Caledon to foreign foes
“Should ne'er be known to bow.”

The mighty Thund'rer on his saphire throne,
In mercy's robes attir'd, heard the sweet voice
Of female woe—soft as the moving song
Of Philomela 'midst the evening shades;
And thus return'd an answer to her pray'rs:
“Where birks at Nature's call arise;
“Where fragrance hails the vaulted skies;
“Where my own oak its umbrage spreads,
“Delightful 'midst the woody shades;
“Where ivy mould'ring rocks entwines;
“Where breezes bend the lofty pines:
“There shall the laughing naiads stray,
“Midst the sweet banks of winding Tay.”
From the dark womb of earth Tay's waters spring,
Ordain'd by Jove's unalterable voice;
The sounding lyre celestial muses string,
The choiring songsters in the groves rejoice.
Each fount its chrystal fluids pours,
Which from surrounding mountains flow;
The river baths its verdant shores,
Cool o'er the surf the breezes blow.

Let England's sons extoll their gardens fair,
Scotland may freely boast her gen'rous streams,
Their soil more fertile and their milder air,
Her fishes sporting in the solar beams.
Thames, Humber, Severn, all must yield the bay
To the pure streams of Forth, of Tweed, and Tay.

CHORUS.

Thames, Humber, Severn, all must yield the bay
To the pure streams of Forth, of Tweed, and Tay.

O Scotia! when such beauty claims
A mansion near thy flowing streams,
Ne'er shall stern Mars in iron car,
Drive his proud coursers to the war:
But fairy forms shall strew around
Their olives on the peaceful ground;
And turtles join the warbling throng,
To usher in the morning song.
Or shout in chorus all the live-long day,
From the green banks of Forth, of Tweed, and Tay.

When gentle Phœbe's friendly light
In silver radiance clothes the night;
Still music's ever varying strains
Shall tell the lovers, Cynthia reigns;
And wooe them to her midnight bowers,
Among the fragrant dew-clad flowers,
Where every rock, and hill, and dale,
With echoes greet the nightingale,
Whose pleasing, soft, pathetic tongue,
To kind condolance turns the song;

And often wins the love-sick swain to stray
To hear the tender variegated lay,
Thro' the dark woods of Forth, of Tweed, and Tay.

Hail, native streams, and native groves!
Oozy caverns, green alcoves!

Retreats for Cytherea's reign,
With all the graces in her train.
Hail, Fancy, thou whose ray so bright
Dispels the glimm'ring taper's light!
Come in aerial vesture blue,
Ever pleasing, ever new,
In these recesses deign to dwell
With me in yonder moss-clad cell:

Then shall my reed successful tune the lay,
In numbers wildly warbling as they stray
Thro' the glad banks of Fortha, Tweed, and Tay.

The TOWN and COUNTRY Contrasted.

In an Epistle to a Friend.

From noisy bustle, from contention free,
Far from the busy town I careless loll,
Not like swain Tityrus, or the bards of old,
Under a beechen, venerable shade;
But on a furzy heath, where blooming broom,
And thorny whins the spacious plains adorn:
Here health sits smiling on my youthful brow;
For 'ere the sun beams forth his earliest ray,
And all the east with yellow radiance crowns;
E'er dame Aurora, from her purple bed,
'Gins with her kindling blush to paint the sky,
The soaring lark, morn's chearful harbinger,
And linnet joyful flutt'ring from the bush,
Stretch their small throats in vocal melody,
To hail the dawn, and drowsy sleep exhale
From man, frail man! on downy softness stretch'd.

Such pleasing scenes Edina cannot boast;

For there the slothful slumber seal'd mine eyes,
Till nine successive strokes the clock had knell'd.
There not the lark, but fishwives noisy screams,
And inundations plung'd from ten house height,
With smell more fragrant than the spicy groves
Of Indus, fraught with all her orient stores,
Roused me from sleep; not sweet refreshing sleep,
But sleep infested with the burning sting
Of bug infernal, who the live-long night
With direst suction sipp'd my liquid gore.
There gloomy vapours in our zenith reign'd,
And fill'd with irksome pestilence the air.
There ling'ring sickness held his feeble court,
Rejoicing in the havock he had made;
And Death, grim Death! with all his ghastly train,
Watch'd the broke slumbers of Edina's sons.

Hail, rosy Health! thou pleasing antidote
'Gainst troubling cares! all hail, these rural fields,
Those winding rivulets, and verdant shades,
Where thou the heav'n-born Goddess deign'st to dwell!
With thee the hind, upon his simple fare,
Lives chearful, and from heaven no more demands.
But ah! how vast, how terrible the change
With him who night by night in sickness pines!
Him nor his splendid equipage can please,
Nor all the pageantry the world can boast;
Nay, not the consolation of his friends
Can ought avail: his hours are anguish all,
Nor cease till envious death hath clos'd the scene.

But, Carlos, if we court this maid celestial,
Whether we thro' meand'ring rivers stray,
Or 'midst the city's jarring noise remain,
Let temperance, health's blyth concomitant,
To our desires and appetites set bounds,
Else, cloy'd at last, we surfeit every joy;
Our slack'ned nerves reject their wonted spring;
We reap the fruits of our unkindly lusts,
And feebly totter to the silent grave.

RETIREMENT.

Come inspiration from thy vernal bow'r,
To thy celestial voice attune the lyre;
Smooth gliding strains in sweet profusion pour,
And aid my numbers with seraphic fire.

Under a lonely spreading oak I lay,
My head upon the daisied green reclin'd,
The ev'ning sun beam'd forth his parting ray,
The foliage bended to the hollow wind.

There gentle sleep my acting powers supprest,
The city's distant hum was heard no more;
Yet fancy suffer'd not the mind to rest,
Ever obedient to her wakeful power.

She led me near a chrystal fountain's noise,
Where undulating waters sportive play;
Where a young comely swain with pleasing voice,
In tender accents sung his silvan lay.

“Adieu, ye baneful pleasures of the town!
“Farewel, thou giddy and unthinking throng!
“Without regret your foibles I disown;
“Themes more exalted claim the muses song.

“Your stony hearts no social feelings share;
“Your souls of distant sorrows ne'er partake;
“Ne'er do you listen to the needy prayer,
“Nor drop a tear for tender pity's sake.

“Welcome, ye fields, ye fountains, and ye groves!
“Ye flowery meadows and extensive plains!
“Where soaring warblers pour their plaintive loves,
“Each landscape cheering with their vocal strains.

“Here rural beauty rears her pleasing shrine;
“She on the margin of each streamlet glows;
“Where with the blooming hawthorn roses twine,
“And the fair lily of the valley grows.

“Here chastity may wander unassail'd
“Thro' fields where gay seducers cease to rove;
“Where open vice o'er virtue ne'er prevail'd;
“Where all is innocence, and all is love.

“Peace with her olive wand triumphant reigns,
“Guarding secure the peasant's humble bed;
“Envy is banish'd from the happy plains,
“And defamation's busy tongue is laid.

“Health and contentment usher in the morn,
“With jocund smiles they cheer the rural swain,
“For which the peer, to pompous titles born,
“Forsaken sighs, but all his sighs are vain.

“For the calm comforts of an easy mind,
“In yonder lowly cot delight to dwell,
“And leave the statesman for the labouring hind,
“The regal palace for the lowly cell.

“Ye, who to wisdom would devote your hours,
“And far from riot, far from discord stray!
“Look back disdainful on the city's towers,
“Where pride, where folly point the slipp'ry way.

“Pure flows the limpid stream in chrystal tides,
“Thro' rocks, thro' dens, and ever verdant vales,
“Till to the town's unhallow'd wall it glides,
“Where all its purity and lustre fails.

EXTEMPORE,

On seeing Stanzas addressed to Mrs Hartley Comedian, wherein she is described as resembling Mary Queen of Scots.

Hartley resembles Scotland's Queen,
Some bard enraptur'd cries;
A flattering bard he is, I ween,
Or else the Painter lies.

On the DEATH of Mr THOMAS LANCASHIRE, Comedian.

Alas, poor Thom! how oft, with merry heart,
Have we beheld thee play the Sexton's part.
Each comic heart must now be griev'd to see
The Sexton's dreary part perform'd on thee.

EXTEMPORE.

[Tom Sommers is a gloomy man]

Tom Sommers is a gloomy man,
His mind is dark with sin,
O holy Jesus, glaze his soul,
That light may enter in!

CONSCIENCE. An ELEGY.

Leave her to heaven,
And to the thorns that in her bosom lodge,
To prick and sting her.
Shakespeare.

No choiring warblers flutter in the sky;
Phœbus no longer holds his radiant sway;
While nature with a melancholy eye,
Bemoans the loss of his departed ray.

O happy he whose conscience knows no guile!
He to the sable night can bid farewel;
From cheerless objects close his eyes a while,
Within the silken folds of sleep to dwell.

Elysian dreams shall hover round his bed,
His soul shall wing, on pleasing fancies born,
To shining vales where flow'rets lift their head,
Wak'd by the breathing zephyrs of the morn.

But wretched he whose foul reproachful deeds
Can thro' an angry conscience wound his rest;
His eye too oft the balmy comfort needs,
Tho' slumber seldom knows him as her guest.

To calm the raging tumults of his soul,
If wearied nature should an hour demand,
Around his bed the sheeted spectres howl,
Red with revenge the grinning furies stand.

Nor state nor grandeur can his pain allay;
Where shall he find a requiem to his woes?
Power cannot chace the frightful gloom away,
Nor music lull him to a kind repose.

Where is the king that Conscience fears to chide?
Conscience, that candid judge of right and wrong,
Will o'er the secrets of each heart preside,
Nor aw'd by pomp, nor tam'd by soothing song.

The King's Birth-Day in Edinburgh.

Oh! qualis hurly-burly fuit, si forte vidisses.
Polemo-Middinia.

I sing the day sae aften sung,
Wi' which our lugs hae yearly rung,
In whase loud praise the Muse has dung
A' kind o' print;
But wow! the limmer's fairly flung;
There's naething in't.

I'm fain to think the joys the same
In London town as here at hame,
Whare fock of ilka age and name,
Baith blind and cripple,
Forgather aft, O fy for shame!
To drink and tipple.

O Muse, be kind, and dinna fash us
To flee awa' beyont Parnassus,
Nor seek for Helicon to wash us,
That heath'nish spring;
Wi' Highland whisky scour our hawses,
And gar us sing.

Begin then, dame, ye've drunk your fill,
You wouldna hae the tither gill?
You'll trust me, mair wou'd do you ill,
And ding you doitet;
Troth 'twou'd be sair agains my will
To hae the wyte o't.

Sing then, how, on the fourth of June,
Our bells screed aff a loyal tune,
Our antient castle shoots at noon,
Wi' flag-staff buskit,
Frae which the soldier blades come down
To cock their musket.

Oh willawins! Mons Meg, for you,
'Twas firing crack'd thy muckle mou;
What black mishanter gart ye spew
Baith gut and ga'?
I fear they bang'd thy belly fu'
Against the law.

Right seldom am I gi'en to bannin,
But, by my saul, ye was a cannon,
Cou'd hit a man, had he been stannin
In shire o' Fife,
Sax long Scots miles ayont Clackmannan,
And tak his life.

The hills in terror wou'd cry out,
And echo to thy dinsome rout;
The herds wou'd gather in their nowt,
That glowr'd wi' wonder,
Haflins afraid to bide thereout
To hear thy thunder.

Sing likewise, Muse, how blue-gown bodies,
Like scar-craws new ta'en down frae woodies,
Come here to cast their clouted duddies,
And get their pay:
Than them, what magistrate mair proud is
On king's birth-day?

On this great day the city-guard,
In military art well lear'd,
Wi' powder'd pow and shaven beard,
Gang thro' their functions,
By hostile rabble seldom spar'd
Of clarty unctions.

O soldiers! for your ain dear sakes,
For Scotland's, alias Land of Cakes,
Gie not her bairns sic deadly pakes,
Nor be sae rude,
Wi' firelock or Lochaber aix,
As spill their blude.

Now round and round the serpents whiz,
Wi' hissing wrath and angry phiz;
Sometimes they catch a gentle gizz,
Alake the day!
And singe, wi' hair-devouring bizz,
Its curls away.

Shou'd th'owner patiently keek round,
To view the nature of his wound,
Dead pussie, dragled thro' the pond,
Takes him a lounder,
Which lays his honour on the ground
As flat's a flounder.

The Muse maun also now implore
Auld wives to steek ilk hole and bore;
If baudrins slip but to the door,
I fear, I fear,
She'll no lang shank upon all-four
This time o' year.

Next day each hero tells his news
O' crackit crowns and broken brows,
And deeds that here forbid the Muse
Her theme to swell,
Or time mair precious abuse
Their crimes to tell.

She'll rather to the fields resort,
Whare music gars the day seem short,
Whare doggies play, and lambies sport
On gowany braes,
Whare peerless Fancy hads her court,
And tunes her lays.

On the Death of Dr Toshack of Perth, a great humourist.

Where be those gibes, those flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table in a roar. Hamlet, Act V.

The Doctor dead! let old St Johnston mourn;
Let laughter's sons to sorrow's vot'ries turn;
Mirth, wit, and humour from the earth are gone,
And to the summit of Olympus flown.
Could Momus die, 'tis sure, as Jove's in heav'n,
The vacant chair to Toshack would be giv'n.

The SIMILE.

At noontide as Colin and Sylvia lay
Within a cool jessamine bower,
A butterfly, wak'd by the heat of the day,
Was sipping the juice of each flower.

Near the shade of this covert a young shepherd boy,
The gaudy brisk flutterer spies,
Who held it as pastime to seek and destroy
Each beautiful insect that flies.

From the lily he hunted this fly to the rose,
From the rose to the lily again,
Till weary with tracing its motions he chose
To leave the pursuit with disdain.

Then Colin to Sylvia smilingly said,
Amyntor has follow'd you long,
From him, like the butterfly still have you fled,
Though woo'd by his musical tongue.

Beware in persisting to start from his arms,
But with his fond wishes comply;
Come, take my advice; or he's pall'd with your charms,
Like the youth and the beautiful fly.

Says Sylvia, Colin, thy simile's just,
But still to Amyntor I'm coy;
For I vow she's a simpleton blind that would trust
A swain, when he courts to destroy.

DAMON to his FRIENDS.

A Ballad.

The billows of life are supprest,
Its tumults, its toils disappear,
To relinquish the storms that are past,
I think on the sunshine that's near.

Dame Fortune and I are agreed;
Her frowns I no longer endure;
For the goddess has kindly decreed,
That Damon no more shall be poor.

Now riches will ope the dim eyes,
To view the increase of my store;
And many my friendship will prize
Who never knew Damon before.

But those I renounce and abjure,
Who carried contempt in their eye;
May poverty still be their dow'r
That could look on misfortune awry!

Ye pow'rs that weak mortals govern,
Keep pride at his bay from my mind;
O let me not haughtily learn
To despise the few friends that were kind.

For theirs was a feeling sincere,
'Twas free from delusion and art;
O may I that friendship revere,
And hold it yet dear to my heart:

By which was I ever forgot?
It was both my physician and cure,
That still found the way to my cot,
Altho' I was wretched and poor:

'Twas balm to my canker-tooth'd care;
The wound of affliction it heal'd;
In distress it was Pity's soft tear,
And naked cold Poverty's shield.

Attend, ye kind youth of the plain!
Who oft with my sorrows condol'd;
You cannot be deaf to the strain,
Since Damon is master of gold.

I have chose a sweet sylvan retreat,
Bedeck'd with the beauties of spring;
Around my flocks nibble and bleat,
While the musical choristers sing.

I force not the waters to stand
In an artful canal at my door,
But a river, at Nature's command,
Meanders both limpid and pure.

She's the goddess that darkens my bow'rs
With tendrils of ivy and vine;
She tutors my shrubs and my flow'rs,
Her taste is the standard of mine.

What a pleasing diversified group
Of trees has she spread o'er my ground!
She has taught the grave laryx to droop,
And the birch to deal odours around.

For whom has she perfum'd my groves?
For whom has she cluster'd my vine?
If friendship despise my alcoves,
They'll ne'er be recesses of mine.

He who tastes his grape juices by stealth,
Without chosen companions to share,
Is the basest of slaves to his wealth,
And the pitiful minion of care.

O come; and with Damon retire
Amidst the green umbrage embower'd;
Your mirth and your songs to inspire,
Shall the juice of his vintage be pour'd?

O come, ye dear friends of his youth!
Of all his good fortune partake;
Nor think 'tis departing from truth,
To say 'twas preserved for your sake.

The Canongate Play-house in Ruins.

A Burlesque Poem.

Ye few whose feeling hearts are ne'er estrang'd
From soft emotions: Ye who often wear
The eye of pity, and oft vent her sighs,
When sad Melpomene, in woe-fraught strains,
Gains entrance to the breast; or often smile
When brisk Thalia gayly trips along
Scenes of enlivening mirth; attend my song.
And Fancy, thou! whose ever-flaming light
Can penetrate into the dark abyss
Of chaos, and of hell: O! with thy blazing torch
The wasteful scene illumine, that the muse,
With daring pinions, may her flight pursue,
Nor with timidity be known to soar
O'er the theatric world, to chaos chang'd.

Can I contemplate on those dreary scenes
Of mould'ring desolation, and forbid

The voice elegiac and the falling tear!
No more from box to box the basket pil'd
With oranges as radiant as the spheres,
Shall with their luscious virtues charm the sense
Of taste and smell. No more the gaudy beau,
With handkerchief in lavender well drench'd,
Or bergamot, or rose watero pure,
With flavoriferous sweets shall chace away
The pestilential fumes of vulgar cits,
Who, in impatience for the curtain's rise,
Amus'd the lingering moments, and applied
Thirst-quenching porter to their parched lips.

Alas! how sadly alter'd is the scene!
For lo! those sacred walls, that late were brush'd
By rustling silks and waving capuchines,
Are now become the sport of wrinkl'd time!
Those walls, that late have echo'd to the voice
Of stern King Richard, to the seat transform'd
Of crawling spiders and detested moths,
Who in the lonely crevices reside;
Or gender in the beams, that have upheld
Gods, demi-gods, and all the joyous crew
Of thunderers in the galleries above.

O Shakespeare! where are all thy tinsell'd kings,
Thy fawning courtiers, and thy waggish clowns?
Where all thy fairies, spirits, witches, fiends,
That here have gambol'd in nocturnal sport,
Round the lone oak, or sunk in fear away
From the shrill summons of the cock at morn?
Where now the temples, palaces, and towers?
Where now the groves that ever-verdant smil'd?
Where now the streams that never ceas'd to flow?
Where now the clouds, the rains, the hails, the winds,
The thunders, light'nings, and the tempests strong?

Here shepherds, lolling in their woven bow'rs,
In dull recitativo often sung
Their loves, accompanied with clangor strong
From horns, from trumpets, clarinets, bassoons;

From violinos sharp, or droning bass,
Or the brisk tinkling of a harpsichord.

Such is thy power, O music! such thy fame,
That it has fabled been, how foreign song,
Soft issuing from Tenducci's slender throat,
Has drawn a plaudit from the gods enthron'd
Round the empyreum of Jove himself,
High seated on Olympus' airy top.
Nay, that his fev'rous voice was known to soothe
The shrill-ton'd prating of the females tongues,
Who, in obedience to the lifeless song,
All prostrate fell; all fainting died away
In silent ecstacies of passing joy.

Ye who oft wander by the silver light
Of sister Luna, or to church-yard's gloom,
Or cypress shades, if chance should guide your steps
To this sad mansion, think not that you tread
Unconsecrated paths; for on this ground
Have holy streams been pour'd, and flow'rets strew'd;
While many a kingly diadem, I ween,
Lies useless here intomb'd, with heaps of coin
Stamp'd in theatric mint: offenceless gold!
That carried not persuasion in its hue,
To tutor mankind in their evil ways.
After a lengthen'd series of years,
When the unhallow'd spade shall discompose
This mass of earth, then relics shall be found,
Which, or for gems of worth, or Roman coins,
Well may obtrude on antiquary's eye.
Ye spouting blades! regard this ruin'd fane,
And nightly come within these naked walls,
To shed the tragic tear. Full many a drop
Of precious inspiration have you suck'd
From its dramatic sources. O! look here
Upon this roofless and forsaken pile,
And stalk in pensive sorrow o'er the ground
Where you've beheld so many noble scenes.

Thus, when the mariner to foreign clime

His bark conveys, where odoriferous gales,
And orange-groves, and love-inspiring wine,
Have oft repaid his toil; if earthquake dire,
With hollow groanings and convulsive pangs,
The ground hath rent, and all those beauties foil'd,
Will he refrain to shed the grateful drop,
A tribute justly due (tho' seldom paid)
To the blest memory of happier times?

The PEASANT, the HEN and young DUCKS.

A Fable.

A hen, of all the dung-hill crew
The fairest, stateliest to view,
Of laying tir'd, she fondly begs
He keeper's leave to hatch her eggs:
He, dunn'd with the incessant cry,
Was forc'd for peace' sake to comply;
And in a month the downy brood
Came chirping round the hen for food,
Who view'd them with parental eyes
Of pleasing fondness and surprise,
And was not at a loss to trace
Her likeness growing in their face;
Tho' the broad bills could well declare
That they another's offspring were;
So strong will prejudices blind,
And lead astray the easy mind.

To the green margin of the brook
The hen her fancied children took;

Each young one shakes his unfledg'd wings,
And to the flood by instinct springs;
With willing strokes they gladly swim,
Or dive into the glassy stream,
While the fond mother vents her grief,
And prays the peasant's kind relief.
The peasant heard the bitter cries,
And thus in terms of rage replies.
“You fool! give o'er your useless moan,
“Nor mourn misfortunes not your own;
“But learn in wisdom to forsake
“The offspring of the duck and drake.”
To whom the hen, with angry crest
And scornful looks, herself addrest:
“If reason were my constant guide
“(Of man the ornament and pride),
“Then should I boast a cruel heart,
“And foreign feeling all depart;
“But since poor I, by instinct blind,
“Can boast no feelings so resign'd,
“'Tis hop'd your reason will excuse,
“Tho' I your counsel sage refuse,
“And from the perils of the flood
“Attempt to save another's brood.”

MORAL.

When pity, gen'rous nymph! possest,
And mov'd at will the human breast,
No tongue its distant sufferings told,
But she assisted, she condol'd,
And willing bore her tender part
In all the feelings of the heart;
But now from her our hearts decoy'd,
To sense of others woes destroy'd,
Act only from a selfish view,
Nor give the aid to pity due.

A TALE.

Those rigid pedagogues and fools,
Who walk by self-invented rules,
Do often try, with empty head,
The emptier mortals to mislead,
And fain would urge, that none but they
Could rightly teach the A, B, C;
On which they've got an endless comment,
To trifling minds of mighty moment,
Throwing such barriers in the way
Of those who genius display.
As often, ah! too often, tease
Them out of patience, and of fees,
Before they're able to explode
Obstructions, thrown on learning's road.
May mankind all employ their tools
To banish pedantry from schools,
And may each pedagogue avail,
By list'ning to the after tale.

Wise Mr Birch had long intended
The alphabet should be amended,
And taught that H a breathing was,
Ergo he saw no proper cause,
Why such a letter should exist:
Thus in a breath was he dismiss'd,
With, “O beware, beware, O youth!
Take not the villain in your mouth.”

One day this alphabetic sinner
Was eager to devour his dinner,
When to appease the craving glutton,
His boy Tom produc'd the mutton.
Was such disaster ever told?
Alas! the meat was deadly cold!

Here take and h-eat it, says the master;
Quoth Tom, that shall be done, and fast, Sir:
And few there are who will dispute it,
But he went instantly about it;
For Birch had scorn'd the H to say,
And blew him with a puff away.

The bell was rung with dread alarm;
“Bring me the mutton, is it warm?”
Sir, you desir'd, and I have eat it;
“You lie, my orders were to heat it.”
Quoth Tom, I'll readily allow
That H is but a breathing now.

To Mr Guion, Comedian, for his Panegyric on Dr Walker, &c.

Tho' moralists may wisely say,
It is but barely civil
For all our enemies to pray,
And render good for evil;
I think it strange that Guion sage,
Should grow that very culprit,
To worship those who hate the stage,
And lash it from the pulpit.

CALLER OYSTERS.

Happy the man who, free from care and strife,
In silken or in leathern purse retains
A splendid shilling. He nor hears with pain
New oysters cry'd, nor sighs for chearful ale.
Phillips.

Of a' the waters that can hobble
A fishin yole or salmon coble,
And can reward the fishers trouble,
Or south or north,
There's nane sae spacious and sae noble
As Firth o' Forth.

In her the skate and codlin sail,
The eil fou souple wags her tail,
Wi' herrin, fleuk, and mackarel,
And whitens dainty:
Their spindle-shanks the labsters trail,
Wi' partans plenty.

Auld Reikie's sons blyth faces wear;
September's merry month is near,
That brings in Neptune's caller chere,
New oysters fresh;
The halesomest and nicest gear
Of fish or flesh.

O! then we needna gie a plack
For dand'ring mountebank or quack,
Wha o' their drogs sae bauldly crack,
And spred sic notions,
As gar their feckless patient tak
Their stinkin potions.

Come prie, frail man! for gin thou art sick,
The oyster is a rare cathartic,
As ever doctor patient gart lick
To cure his ails;
Whether you hae the head or heart-ake,
It ay prevails.

Ye tiplers, open a' your poses,
Ye wha are faush'd wi' plouky noses,
Fling owr your craig sufficient doses,
You'll thole a hunder,
To fleg awa' your simmer roses,
And naething under.

Whan big as burns the gutters rin,
Gin ye hae catcht a droukit skin,
To Luckie Middlemist's loup in,
And sit fu snug
Oe'r oysters and a dram o' gin,
Or haddock lug.

When auld Saunt Giles, at aught o'clock,
Gars merchant lowns their chopies lock,
There we adjourn wi' hearty fock
To birle our bodles,
And get wharewi' to crack our joke,
And clear our noddles.

Whan Phœbus did his windocks steek,
How aften at that ingle cheek
Did I my frosty fingers beek,
And taste gude fare?
I trow there was nae hame to seek
Whan steghin there.

While glakit fools, o'er rife o' cash,
Pamper their weyms wi' fousom trash,
I think a chiel may gayly pass;
He's no ill boden
That gusts his gabb wi' oyster sauce,
And hen weel soden.

At Musselbrough, and eke Newhaven,
The fisher-wives will get top livin,
Whan lads gang out on Sunday's even
To treat their joes,
And tak of fat pandours a prieven,
Or mussel brose:

Than sometimes 'ere they flit their doup,
They'll ablins a' their siller coup
For liquor clear frae cutty stoup,
To weet their wizen,
And swallow o'er a dainty soup,
For fear they gizzen.

A' ye wha canna stand sae sicker,
Whan twice you've toom'd the big ars'd bicker,
Mix caller oysters wi' your liquor,
And I'm your debtor,
If greedy priest or drouthy vicar
Will thole it better.

To Mr Robert Fergusson.

Is Allan risen frae the deid,
Wha aft has tun'd the aiten reed,
And by the muses was decreed
To grace the thistle?
Na; Fergusson's cum in his stead
To blaw the whistle.

In troth, my callant, I'm sae fain
To see your sonsy, canty strain,
You write sic easy stile and plain,
And words sae bonny,
Nae suth'ron lown dare you disdain,
Or cry fy on ye.

Whae'er has at Auld Reikie been,
And king's birth-days exploits has seen,
Maun own that ye hae gi'en a keen
And true description;
Nor say ye've at Parnassus been
To form a fiction.

Hale be your heart, ye canty chield!
May ye ne'er want a gude warm beild,
And sic gude cakes as Scotland yields,
And ilka dainty
That grows or feeds upon her fields,
And Whisky plenty.

But ye, perhaps, thirst mair for fame
Than a' the gude things I can name,
And then ye will be sair to blame
My gude intention:
For that ye needna gae frae hame,
Ye've sic pretension.

Sae saft and sweet your verses jingle,
And your auld words sae meetly mingle,
'Twill gar baith married fouk and single
To roose your lays;
When we forgether round the ingle,
We'll chant your praise.

When I again Auld Reikie see,
And can forgether, lad, with thee,
Then we wi' muckle mirth and glee
Shall tak a gill,
And of your caller oysters we
Shall eat our fill.

If sic a thing shou'd you betide,
To Berwick town to tak a ride,
Ile tak ye up Tweed's bonnie side
Before ye settle,
And shew you there the fisher's pride,
A Sa'mon-kettle.

There lads an' lasses do conveen
To feast an' dance upo' the green,
An' there sick brav'ry may be seen
As will confound ye,
An gar ye glowr out baith your een
At a' around ye.

To see sae mony bosoms bare,
An' sic huge puddins i' their hair,
An' some of them wi' naithing mair
Upo' their tete;
Yea, some wi' mutches that might scar
Craws frae their meat.

I ne'er appear'd before in print,
But for your sake wou'd fain be in't,
E'en that I might my wishes hint
That you'd write mair;
For sure your head-piece is a mint
Whar wit's nae rare.

Sonse fa' me, gif I hadna 'lure
I cou'd command ilk muse as sure,
Than hae a charot at the door
To wait upon me;
Tho', poet-like, I'm but a poor
Mid-Louthian Johnnie.

Berwick, Aug. 31 J.S.

Answer to Mr J. S.'s Epistle.

I trou, my mettl'd Louden lathie,
Auld farran birky I maun ca' thee,
For whan in gude black print I saw thee
Wi' souple gab,
I skirl'd fou loud, “Oh wae befa' thee!
“But thou'rt a daub.”

Awa', ye wylie fleetchin fallow;
The rose shall grow like gowan yallow,
Before I turn sae toom and shallow,
And void of fusion,
As a' your butter'd words to swallow
In vain delusion.

Ye mak my Muse a dautit pett,
But gin she cou'd like Allan's mett,
Or couthie cracks and hamely gett
Upon her caritch,
Eithly wou'd I be in your debt
A pint o' paritch.

At times whan she may lowse her pack,
I'll grant that she can find a knack,
To gar auld-warld wordies clack
In hamespun rhime,
While ilk ane at his billie's back
Keeps gude Scots time.

But she maun e'en be glad to jook,
And play teet-bo frae nook to nook,
Or blush as gin she had the yook
Upon her skin,
Whan Ramsay or whan Pennicuik
Their lilts begin.

At morning air, or late at e'en,
Gin ye sud hap to come and see ane,
Not niggard wife, nor greetin wee ane,
Within my cloyster,
Can challenge you and me frae pree'in'
A caller oyster.

Heh lad! it wou'd be news indeed,
War I to ride to bonny Tweed,
Wha ne'er laid gamon o'er a steed
Beyont Lusterrick;
And auld shanks nag wou'd tire, I dread,
To pace to Berwick.

You crack weel o' your lasses there,
Their glancin een and bisket bare;
But thof this town be smeekit sair,
I'll wad a farden,
Than ours they're nane mair fat and fair,
Cravin your pardon.

Gin heaven shou'd gi'e the earth a drink,
And afterhend a sunny blink,
Gin ye war here, I'm sure you'd think
It worth your notice,
To see them dubbs and gutters jink
Wi' kiltit coaties.

And frae ilk corner o' the nation,
We've lasses eke of recreation,
That at close-mouths tak up their station
By ten o'clock.
The Lord deliver frae temptation
A' honest fock!

Thir queans are ay upon the catch
For pursie, pocket-book, or watch,
And can sae glibb their leesins hatch,
That you'll agree,
Ye canna eithly meet their match
'Tween you and me.

For this gude sample o' your skill,
I'm restin you a pint o' yale,
By and attour a Highland gill
Of aquavitæ;
The which to come and sock at will,
I here invite ye.

Tho' jillet Fortune scoul and quarrel,
And keep me frae a bien beef barrel,
As lang's I've twopence i' the warl',
I'll ay be vockie
To part a fadge or girdle farl
Wi' Louden Jockie.

Farewell, my cock! Lang may ye thrive,
Weel happit in a cozy hive;
And that your saul may never dive
To Acheron,
I'll wish as lang's I can subscrive
Rob. Fergusson.

On seeing a Lady paint herself.

When, by some misadventure cross'd,
The banker hath his fortune lost,
Credit his instant need supplies,
And for a moment blinds our eyes:
So Delia, when her beauty's flown,
Trades on a bottom not her own,
And labours to escape detection,
By putting on a false complexion.

EXTEMPORE,

On being asked which of three Sisters was the most beautiful

When Paris gave his voice in Ida's grove,
For the resistless Venus, queen of love,
'Twas no great task to pass a judgment there,
Where she alone was exquisitely fair;
But here what could his ab'lest judgment teach,
When wisdom, power, and beauty reign in each;
The youth nonplus'd behov'd to join with me,
And wish the apple had been cut in three.

Against repining at Fortune.

Tho' in my narrow bounds of rural toil,
No obelisk or splendid column rise;
Tho' partial Fortune still averts her smile,
And views my labours with condemning eyes;

Yet all the gorgeous vanity of state
I can contemplate with a cool disdain;
Nor shall the honours of the gay and great
E'er wound my bosom with an envious pain.

Avails it ought the grandeur of their halls,
With all the glories of the pencil hung,
If Truth, fair Truth! within th'unhallow'd walls,
Hath never whisper'd with her seraph tongue?

Avails it ought, if music's gentle lay
Hath oft been echo'd by the sounding dome;
If music cannot sooth their griefs away,
Or change a wretched to a happy home?

Tho' Fortune should invest them with her spoils,
And banish poverty with look severe,
Enlarge their confines, and decrease their toils,
Ah! what avails if she increase their care?

Tho' fickle she disclaim my moss-grown cot,
Nature, thou look'st with more impartial eyes:
Smile thou, fair Goddess! on my sober lot;
I'll neither fear her fall, nor court her rise.

When early larks shall cease the matin song;
When Philomel at night resigns her lays;
When melting numbers to the owl belong,
Then shall the reed be silent in thy praise.

Can he, who with the tide of Fortune sails,
More pleasure from the sweets of nature share?
Do Zephyrs waft him more ambrosial gales,
Or do his groves a gayer livery wear?

To me the heavn's unveil as pure a sky;
To me the flow'rs as rich a bloom disclose:
The morning beams as radiant to my eye,
And darkness guides me to as sweet repose.

If luxury their lavish dainties piles,
And still attends upon their sated hours,
Doth health reward them with her open smiles,
Or exercise enlarge their feeble pow'rs?

'Tis not in richest mines of Indian gold,
That man this jewel happiness can find,
If his unfeeling breast, to virtue cold,
Denies her entrance to his ruthless mind.

Wealth, pomp and honour are but gaudy toys;
Alas! how poor the pleasures they impart!
Virtue's the sacred source of all the joys
That claim a lasting mansion in the heart.

ODE TO HOPE.

Hope! lively chearer of the mind,
In lieu of real bliss design'd,
Come from thy ever verdant bow'r
To chace the dull and ling'ring hour;
O! bring, attending on thy reign,
All thy ideal fairy train,
To animate the lifeless clay,
And bear my sorrows hence away.

Hence gloomy featur'd black despair,
With all thy frantic furies fly,
Nor rend my breast with gnawing care,
For hope in lively garb is nigh;

Let pining discontentment mourn,
Let dull ey'd melancholy grieve,
Since pleasing Hope must reign by turn,
And every bitter thought relieve.

O smiling Hope! in adverse hour,
I feel thy influencing power:
Though frowning Fortune fix my lot,
In some defenceless lonely cot,

Where poverty, with empty hands,
In pallid meagre aspect stands;
Thou can'st enrobe me, 'midst the great,
With all the crimson pomp of state,
Where luxury invites his guests
To pall them with his lavish feasts:
What cave so dark, what gloom so drear,
So black with horror, dead with fear!
But thou can'st dart thy streaming ray,
And change closs night to open day.

Health is attendant in thy radiant train,
Round her the whisp'ring zephyrs gently play,
Behold her gladly tripping o'er the plain,
Bedeck'd with rural sweets and garlands gay.

When vital spirits are depress'd,
And heavy languor cloggs the breast,
Comforting Hope! 'tis thine to cure,
Devoid of Esculapian power;
For oft thy friendly aid avails,
When all the strength of physic fails.

Nay, even though death should aim his dart,
I know he lifts his arm in vain,
Since thou this lesson can'st impart,
Mankind but die to live again.

Depriv'd of thee must banners fall;
But where a living Hope is found,
The legions shout at danger's call,
And victors are triumphant crown'd.

Come then, bright Hope! in smiles array'd,
Revive us by thy quick'ning breath,
Then shall we never be afraid
To walk thro' danger, and thro' death.

ODE TO PITY.

To what sequester'd gloomy shade
Hath ever gentle Pity stray'd?
What brook is water'd from her eyes?
What gales convey her tender sighs?
Unworthy of her grateful lay,
She has despis'd the great, the gay;
Nay, all the feelings she imparts
Are far estrang'd from human hearts.

Ah Pity! whither would'st thou fly
From human heart, from human eye?
Are desart woods and twilight groves
The scenes the sobbing pilgrim loves?
If there thou dwell'st, O Pity! say
In what lone path you pensive stray.
I'll know thee by the lily's hue,
Besprinkl'd with the morning's dew:
For thou wilt never blush to wear
The pallid look and falling tear.

In broken cadence from thy tongue,
Oft have we heard the mournful song;
Oft have we view'd the loaded bier
Bedew'd with pity's softest tear.
Her sighs and tears were ne'er deny'd,
When innocence and virtue died.
But in this black and iron age,
Where vice and all his dæmons rage,
Though bells in solemn peal are rung,
Though dirge in mournful verse is sung;
Soon will the vain parade be o'er,
Their name, their memory no more:
Who love and innocence despis'd,
And ev'ry virtue sacrific'd.
Here Pity, as a statue dumb,
Will pay no tribute to the tomb;

Or wake the memory of those
Who never felt for others woes.

Thou mistress of the feeling heart!
Thy pow'rs of sympathy impart.
If mortals would but fondly prize
Thy falling tears, thy passing sighs,
Then should wan poverty no more
Walk feebly from the rich man's door;
Humility should vanquish pride,
And vice be drove from virtue's side:
Then happiness at length should reign,
And golden age begin again.

BRAID CLAITH.

Ye wha are fain to hae your name
Wrote in the bonny book of fame,
Let merit nae pretension claim
To laurel'd wreath,
But hap ye weel, baith back and wame,
In gude Braid Claith.

He that some ells o' this may fa,
An' slae-black hat on pow like snaw,
Bids bauld to bear the gree awa',
Wi' a' this graith,
Whan bienly clad wi' shell fu' braw
O' gude Braid Claith.

Waesuck for him wha has na fek o't!
For he's a gowk they're sure to geck at,
A chiel that ne'er will be respekit
While he draws breath,
Till his four quarters are bedeckit
Wi' gude Braid Claith.

On Sabbath-days the barber spark,
Whan he has done wi' scrapin wark,
Wi' siller broachie in his sark,
Gangs trigly, faith!
Or to the Meadow, or the Park,
In gude Braid Claith.

Weel might ye trow, to see them there,
That they to shave your haffits bare,
Or curl an' sleek a pickle hair,
Wou'd be right laith,
Whan pacing wi' a gawsy air
In gude Braid Claith.

If ony mettl'd stirrah green
For favour frae a lady's ein,
He maunna care for being seen
Before he sheath
His body in a scabbard clean
O' gude Braid Claith.

For, gin he come wi' coat thread-bare,
A feg for him she winna care,
But crook her bonny mou' fu' sair,
And scald him baith.
Wooers shou'd ay their travel spare
Without Braid Claith.

Braid Claith lends fock an unco heese,
Makes mony kail-worms butter-flies,
Gies mony a doctor his degrees
For little skaith:
In short, you may be what you please
Wi' gude Braid Claith.

For thof ye had as wise a snout on
As Shakespeare or Sir Isaac Newton,
Your judgment fouk wou'd hae a doubt on,
I'll tak my aith,
Till they cou'd see ye wi' a suit on
O' gude Braid Claith.

An ECLOGUE,

To the Memory of Dr William Wilkie, late Professor of Natural Philosophy in the University of St Andrews.

GEORDIE AND DAVIE.
GEORDIE.
Blaw saft, my reed, and kindly to my maen,
Weel may ye thole a saft and dowie strain;
Nae mair to you shall shepherds in a ring,
Wi' blythness skip, or lasses lilt an' sing;
Sic sorrow now maun sadden ilka eie,
An' ilka waefu' shepherd grieve wi' me.

DAVIE.
Wharefor begin a sad an' dowie strain,
Or banish lilting frae the Fifan plain?
Tho' simmer's gane, an' we nae langer view
The blades o' claver wat wi' pearls o' dew.
Cauld winter's bleakest blasts we'll eithly cowr,
Our eldin's driven, an' our har'st is owr;

Our rucks fu' thick are stackit i' the yard,
For the Yule-feast a sautit mart's prepar'd;
The ingle-nook supplies the simmer fields,
An' aft as mony gleefu' maments yields.
Swyth man! fling a' your sleepy springs awa',
An' on your canty whistle gie's a blaw:
Blythness, I trow, maun lighten ilka eie,
An' ilka canty callant sing like me.

GEORDIE.

Na, na; a canty spring wad now impart
Just threefald sorrow to my heavy heart.
Thof to the weet my ripen'd aits had fawn,
Or shake-winds owr my rigs wi' pith had blawn,
To this I cou'd hae said, “I carena by,”
Nor fund occasion now my cheeks to dry.
Crosses like thae, or lake o' warld's gear,
Are naething whan we tyne a friend that's dear.
Ah! waes me for you, Willy! mony a day
Did I wi' you on yon broom-thackit brae
Hound aff my sheep, an' lat them careless gang
To harken to your cheery tale or sang;
Sangs that for ay, on Caledonia's strand,
Shall fit the foremost 'mang her tunefu' band.

I dreamt yestreen his deadly wraith I saw
Gang by my ein as white's the driven snaw;
My colley, Ringie, youf'd an' yowl'd a' night,
Cour'd an' crap near me in an unco fright,
I waken'd fley'd, an' shook baith lith an' limb;
A cauldness took me, an' my sight grew dim;
I kent that it forspak approachin wae
When my poor doggie was disturbit sae.
Nae sooner did the day begin to dawn,
Than I beyont the know fu' speedy ran,
Whare I was keppit wi' the heavy tale
That sets ilk dowie sangster to bewail.

DAVIE.
An' wha on Fifan bents can weel refuse
To gie the tear o' tribute to his muse?—
Fareweel ilk cheery spring, ilk canty note,
Be daffin an' ilk idle play forgot;
Bring ilka herd the mournfu', mournfu' boughs,
Rosemary sad, and ever dreary yews;
Thae lat be steepit i' the saut, saut tear,
To weet wi' hallow'd draps his sacred bier,
Whase sangs will ay in Scotland be rever'd,
While slow-gawn owsen turn the flow'ry swaird;
While bonny lambies lick the dews of spring,
While gaudsmen whistle, or while birdies sing,

GEORDIE.
'Twas na for weel tim'd verse or sangs alane,
He bore the bell frae ilka shepherd swain.
Nature to him had gi'en a kindly lore,
Deep a' her mystic ferlies to explore:
For a' her secret working he could gie
Reasons that wi' her principles agree.
Ye saw yoursell how weel his mailin thrave,
Ay better faugh'd an' snodit than the lave;
Lang had the thristles an' the dockans been
In use to wag their taps upo' the green,
Whare now his bonny riggs delight the view,
An' thrivin hedges drink the caller dew.

DAVIE.
They tell me, Geordie, he had sic a gift
That scarce a stanie blinkit frae the lift,
But he wou'd some auld warld name for't find,
As gart him keep it freshly in his mind:

For this some ca'd him an uncanny wight;
The clash gaed round, “he had the second sight,“
A tale that never fail'd to be the pride
Of grannies spinnin at the ingle side.

GEORDIE.
But now he's gane, an' Fame that, whan alive,
Seenil lats ony o' her vot'ries thrive,
Will frae his shinin name a' motes withdraw,
And on her loudest trump his praises blaw.
Lang may his sacred banes untroubl'd rest!
Lang may his truff in gowans gay be drest!
Scholars and bards unheard of yet shall come,
And stamp memorials on his grassy tomb,
Which in yon antient kirk-yard shall remain,
Fam'd as the urn that hads the Mantuan swain.

AN ECLOGUE.

Twas e'ening whan the spreckled gowdspink sang,
Whan new-fa'an dew in blobs o' chrystal hang;
Than Will and Sandie thought they'd wrought eneugh,
And loos'd their sair toil'd owsen frae the pleugh:
Before they ca'd their cattle to the town,
The lads to draw thir breath e'en sat them down:
To the stiff sturdy aik they lean'd their backs,
While honest Sandie thus began the cracks.
SANDIE.
Yence I could hear the laverock's shrill-tun'd throat,
And listen to the clattering gowdspink's note;
Yence I cou'd whistle cantilly as they,
To owsen, as they till'd my raggit clay;

But now I wou'd as leive maist lend my lugs
To tuneless puddocks croakin i' the boggs;
I sigh at hame, a-field am dowie too,
To sowf a tune I'll never crook my mou.

WILLIE.
Foul fa me gif your bridal had na been
Nae langer bygane than sin Hallow-e'en,
I cou'd hae tell'd you but a warlock's art,
That some daft lightlyin quean had stow'n your heart;
Our beasties here will take their e'ening pluck,
An' now sin Jock's gane hame the byres to muck,
Fain wou'd I houp my friend will be inclin'd
To gie me a' the secrets o' his mind:
Heh! Sandie, lad, what dool's come owr ye now,
That you to whistle ne'er will crook your mou.

SANDIE.
Ah! Willie, Willie, I may date my wae
Frae what beted me on my bridal day;
Sair may I rue the hour in which our hands
Were knit thegither in the haly bands;
Sin that I thrave sae ill, in troth I fancy,
Some fiend or fairy, nae sae very chancy,
Has driven me by pauky wiles uncommon,
To wed this flyting fury of a woman.

WILLIE.
Ah! Sandie, aften hae I heard you tell,
Amang the lasses a' she bure the bell;
And say, the modest glances o' her ein
Far dang the brightest beauties o' the green;
You ca'd her ay sae innocent, sae young,
I thought she kent na how to use her tongue.

SANDIE.
Before I married her, I'll take my aith,
Her tongue was never louder than her breath;
But now its turn'd sae souple and sae bauld,
That Job himsell cou'd scarcely thole the scauld.

WILLIE.
Lat her yelp on, be you as calm's a mouse,
Nor lat your whisht be heard into the house;
Do what she can, or be as loud's she please,
Ne'er mind her flytes but set your heart at ease,
Sit down and blaw your pipe, nor faush your thumb,
An' there's my hand she'll tire, and soon sing dumb;
Sooner shou'd winter cald confine the sea,
An' lat the sma'est o' our burns rin free;
Sooner at Yule-day shall the birk be drest,
Or birds in sapless busses big their nest,
Before a tonguey woman's noisy plea
Shou'd ever be a cause to dantan me.

SANDIE.

Weel cou'd I this abide, but oh! I fear
I'll soon be twin'd o' a' my warldly gear;
My kirnstaff now stands gizzand at the door,
My cheese-rack toom that ne'er was toom before;
My ky may now rin rowtin to the hill,
And on the nakit yird their milkness spill;
She seenil lays her hand upon a turn,
Neglects the kebbuck, and forgets the kirn;
I vow my hair-mould milk would poison dogs,
As it stands lapper'd in the dirty cogs.

Before the seed I sell'd my ferra cow,
An wi' the profit coft a stane o' woo:

I thought, by priggin, that she might hae spun
A plaidie, light, to screen me frae the sun;
But though the siller's scant, the cleedin dear,
She has na ca'd about a wheel the year.
Last ouk but ane I was frae hame a day,
Buying a threave or twa o' bedding strae:
O' ilka thing the woman had her will,
Had fouth o' meal to bake, and hens to kill:
But hyn awa' to Edinbrough scoured she
To get a making o' her fav'rite tea;
And 'cause I left her not the weary clink,
She sell't the very trunchers frae my bink.

WILLIE.
Her tea! ah! wae betide sic costly gear,
Or them that ever wad the price o't spear.
Sin my auld gutcher first the warld knew,
Fouk had na fund the Indies, whare it grew.
I mind mysell, it's nae sae lang sin syne,
Whan Auntie Marion did her stamack tyne,
That Davs our gardiner came frae Apple-bogg,
An' gae her tea to tak by way o' drog.

SANDIE.
Whan ilka herd for cauld his fingers rubbs,
An' cakes o' ice are seen upo' the dubbs;
At morning, whan frae pleugh or fauld I come,
I'll see a braw reek rising frae my lum,
An' ablins think to get a rantin blaze
To fley the frost awa' an' toast my taes;
But whan I shoot my nose in, ten to ane
If I weelfardly see my ane hearthstane;
She round the ingle with her gimmers sits,
Crammin their gabbies wi' her nicest bits,
While the gudeman out-by maun fill his crap
Frae the milk coggie, or the parritch cap.

WILLIE.
Sandie, gif this were ony common plea,
I shou'd the lealest o' my counsel gie;
But mak or meddle betwixt man and wife,
Is what I never did in a' my life.
It's wearin on now to the tail o' May,
An' just between the bear seed and the hay;
As lang's an orrow morning may be spar'd,
Stap your wa's east the haugh, an' tell the laird;
For he's a man weel vers'd in a' the laws,
Kens baith their outs and ins, their cracks and flaws,
An' ay right gleg, whan things are out o' joint,
At sattlin o' a nice or kittle point.
But yonder's Jock, he'll ca' your owsen hame,
And tak thir tidings to your thrawart dame,
That ye're awa' ae peacefu' meal to prie,
And take your supper kail or sowens wi' me.

HALLOW-FAIR.

At Hallowmas, whan nights grow lang,
And starnies shine fu' clear,
Whan fock, the nippin cald to bang,
Their winter hap-warms wear,
Near Edinbrough a fair there hads,
I wat there's nane whase name is,
For strappin dames and sturdy lads,
And cap and stoup, mair famous
Than it that day.

Upo' the tap o' ilka lum
The sun began to keek,
And bad the trig made maidens come
A sightly joe to seek

At Hallow-fair, whare browsters rare
Keep gude ale on the gantries,
And dinna scrimp ye o' a skair
O' kebbucks frae their pantries,
Fu' saut that day.

Here country John in bonnet blue,
An' eke his Sunday's claise on,
Rins after Meg wi' rokelay new,
An' sappy kisses lays on;
She'll tauntin say, Ye silly coof!
Be o' your gab mair spairin;
He'll tak the hint, and criesh her loof
Wi' what will buy her fairin,
To chow that day.

Here chapmen billies tak their stand,
An' shaw their bonny wallies;
Wow, but they lie fu' gleg aff hand
To trick the silly fallows:
Heh, Sirs! what cairds and tinklers come,
An' ne'er-do-weel horse-coupers,
An' spae-wives fenzying to be dumb,
Wi' a' siclike landloupers,
To thrive that day.

Here Sawny cries, frae Aberdeen;
“Come ye to me fa need:
“The brawest shanks that e'er were seen
“I'll sell ye cheap an' guid.
“I wyt they are as protty hose
“As come frae weyr or leem:
“Here tak a rug, and shaw's your pose:
“Forseeth, my ain's but teem
“An' light this day.”

Ye wives, as ye gang thro' the fair,
O mak your bargains hooly!
O' a' thir wylie lowns beware,
Or fegs they will ye spulzie.
For fairn-year Meg Thamson got,
Frae thir mischievous villains,
A scaw'd bit o' a penny note,
That lost a score o' shillins
To her that day.

The dinlin drums alarm our ears,
The serjeant screechs fu' loud,
“A' gentlemen and volunteers
“That wish your country gude,
“Come here to me, and I sall gie
“Twa guineas and a crown,
“A bowl o' punch, that like the sea
“Will soum a lang dragoon
“Wi' ease this day.”

Without the cuissers prance and nicker,
An' our the ley-rig scud;
In tents the carles bend the bicker,
An' rant an' roar like wud.
Then there's sic yellowchin and din,
Wi' wives and wee-anes gablin,
That ane might true they were a-kin
To a' the tongues at Babylon,
Confus'd that day.

Whan Phœbus ligs in Thetis lap,
Auld Reikie gies them shelter,
Whare cadgily they kiss the cap,
An' ca't round helter-skelter.

Jock Bell gaed furth to play his freaks,
Great cause he had to rue it,
For frae a stark Lochaber aix
He gat a clamihewit,
Fu' sair that night.

“Ohon!” quo' he, “I'd rather be
“By sword or bagnet stickit,
“Than hae my crown or body wi'
“Sic deadly weapons nicket.”
Wi' that he gat anither straik
Mair weighty than before,
That gar'd his feckless body aik,
An' spew the reikin gore,
Fu' red that night.

He peching on the cawsey lay,
O' kicks and cuffs weel sair'd;
A Highland aith the serjeant gae,
“She maun pe see our guard.”
Out spak the weirlike corporal,
“Pring in ta drunken sot.”
They trail'd him ben, an' by my saul,
He paid his drunken groat
For that neist day.

Good fock, as ye come frae the fair,
Bide yont frae this black squad;
There's nae sic savages elsewhere
Allow'd to wear cockade.
Than the strong lion's hungry maw,
Or tusk o' Russian bear,
Frae their wanruly fellin paw
Mair cause ye hae to fear
Your death that day.

A wee soup drink dis unco weel
To had the heart aboon;
It's good as lang's a canny chiel
Can stand steeve in his shoon.
But gin a birkie's owr weel sair'd,
It gars him aften stammer
To pleys that bring him to the guard,
An' eke the Council-chawmir,
Wi' shame that day.

Hallow Fair.

[_]

Tune Fy let us a' to the Bridal.

There's fouth of braw Jockies and Jennys
Comes weel-busked into the fair,
With ribbons on their cockernonies,
And fouth o' fine flour on their hair.
Maggie she was sae well busked
That Willie was ty'd to his bride;
The pounie was ne'er better whisked
Wi' cudgel that hang frae his side
Sing farrel, &c.

But Maggie was wondrous jealous
To see Willie busked sae braw;
And Sawney he sat in the alehouse,
And hard at the liquor did caw.
There was Geordy that well lov'd his lassie,
He touk the pint-stoup in his arms,
And hugg'd it, and said, Trouth they're saucy
That loos nae a good father's bairn.
Sing farrel, &c.

There was Wattie the muirland laddie,
That rides on the bonny grey cout,
With sword by his side like a cadie,
To drive in the sheep and the knout.
His doublet sae weel it did fit him,
It scarcely came down to mid thigh,
With hair pouther'd, hatt and a feather,
And housing at courpon and tee.
Sing farrel, &c.

But bruckie play'd boo to bausie,
And aff scour'd the cout like the win':
Poor Wattie he fell in the causie,
And birs'd a' the bains in his skin,
His pistols fell out of the hulsters,
And were a' bedaubed with dirt;
The folks they came round him in clusters,
Some leugh, and cry'd, Lad, was you hurt?
Sing farrel, &c.

But cout wad let nae body steer him,
He was ay sae wanton and skeigh;
The packmans stands he o'erturn'd them,
And gard a' the Jocks stand a-beech;
Wi' sniring behind and before him,
For sic is the metal of brutes:
Poor Wattie, and wae's me for him,
Was fain to gang hame in his boots.
Sing farrel, &c.

Now it was late in the ev'ning,
And boughting-time was drawing near:
The lassies had stench'd their greening
With fouth of braw apples and beer.
There was Lillie, and Tibbie, and Sibbie,
And Ceicy on the spinnell could spin,
Stood glowring at signs & glass winnocks,
But deil a ane bade them come in.
Sing farrel, &c.

God guide's! saw you ever the like o' it?
See yonder's a bonny black swan;
It glowrs as 't wad fain be at us;
What's yon that it hads in its hand?
Awa, daft gouk, cries Wattie.
They're a' but a rickle of sticks;
See there is Bill, Jock, and auld Hackie,
And yonder's Mess John and auld Nick.
Sing farrel, &c.

Quoth Maggie, Come buy us our fairing:
And Wattie right sleely cou'd tell,
I think thou're the flower of the claughing,
In trouth now I'se gie you my sell,
But wha wou'd e'er thought it o' him,
That e'er he had rippled the lint?
Sae proud was he o' his Maggie,
Tho' she did baith scalie and squint.
Sing farrel, &c.

THE LEE RIGG.

Will ye gang o'er the lee-rigg,
My ain kind deary O!
And cuddle there sae kindly
Wi' me, my kind deary O?

At thornie-dike and birken-tree
We'll daff, and ne'er be weary O;
They'll scug ill een frae you and me,
Mine ain kind deary O.

Nae herds wi' kent or colly there,
Shall ever come to fear ye O;
But lav'rocks, whistling in the air,
Shall woo, like me, their deary O!

While others herd their lambs and ewes,
And toil for warld's gear, my jo,
Upon the lee my pleasure grows,
Wi' you, my kind dearie O!

Epitaph on General Wolfe.

In worth exceeding, and in virtue great,
Words would want force his actions to relate.
Silence, ye bards! eulogiums vain forbear,
It is enough to say that Wolfe lies here.

Epigram on the Epitaphs for General Wolfe.

The muse, a shameless mercenary jade!
Has now assum'd the arch-tongu'd lawyer's trade:
In Wolfe's deserving praises silent she,
Till flatter'd with the prospect of a fee.

To the Tron-kirk Bell.

Wanwordy, crazy, dinsome thing,
As e'er was fram'd to jow or ring,
What gar'd them sic in steeple hing
They ken themsel',
But weel wat I they coudna bring
War sounds frae hell.

What de'il are ye? that I shud ban,
Your neither kin to pat nor pan;
Not uly pig, nor master-cann
But weel may gie
Mair pleasure to the ear o' man
Than stroak o' thee.

Fleece merchants may look bald, I trow,
Sin a' Auld Reikie's childer now
Maun stap their lugs wi' teats o' woo,
Thy sound to bang,
And keep it frae gawn thro' and thro'
Wi' jarrin twang.

Your noisy tongue, there's nae abideint,
Like scaulding wife's, there is nae guideint:
Whan I'm 'bout ony bus'ness eident,
It's sair to thole;
To deave me, than, ye tak a pride in't
Wi' senseless knoll.

O! war I provost o' the town,
I swear by a' the pow'rs aboon,
I'd bring ye wi' a reesle down;
Nor shud you think
(Sae sair I'd crack and clour your crown)
Again to clink.

For whan I've toom'd the muckle cap,
An' fain wud fa' owr in a nap,
Troth I cud doze as sound's a tap,
Wer't na for thee,
That gies the tither weary chap
To waukin me.

I dreamt ae night I saw Auld Nick;
Quo he, “this bell o' mine's a trick,
“A wylie piece o' politic,
“A cunnin snare
“To trap fock in a cloven stick,
“'Ere they're aware.

“As lang's my dautit bell hings there,
“A' body at the kirk will skair;
“Quo they, gif he that preaches there
“Like it can wound,
“We douna care a single hair
“For joyfu' sound.”

If magistrates wi' me wud 'gree,
For ay tongue-tackit shud you be,
Nor fleg wi' antimelody
Sic honest fock,
Whase lugs were never made to dree
Thy doolfu' shock.

But far frae thee the bailies dwell,
Or they wud scunner at your knell,
Gie the foul thief his riven bell,
And than, I trow,
The by-word hads, “the de'il himsel'
“Has got his due.”

Good Eating.

Hear, O ye host of Epicurus! hear!
Each portly form, whose overhanging paunch
Can well denote the all-transcendent joy
That springs unbounded from fruition full
Of rich repast; to you I consecrate
The song advent'rous; happy if the Muse
Can cook the numbers to your palates keen,
Or send but half the relish with her song,
That smoking sirloins to your souls convey.

Hence now, ye starv'lings wan! whose empty wombs
Oft echo to the hollow murmuring tones
Of hunger fell—Avaunt ye base-born hinds!

100

Whose fates unkind ne'er destin'd you to gorge
The banquet rare, or wage a pleasing war
With the delicious morsels of the earth.
To you I sing not: for alas! what pain,
What tantalizing tortures would ensue,
To aid the force of Famine's sharpest tooth,
Were I to breathe my accents in your ear!

Hail, Roast Beef! monarch of the festive throng,
To hunger's bane the strongest antidote;
Come, and with all thy rage-appeasing sweets
Our appetites allay; For, or attended
By root Hibernian, or plumb-pudding rare,
Still thou art welcome to the social board.
Say, can the spicy gales from orient blown,
Or zephyrs wing, that from the orange groves
Brushes the breeze, with rich perfumes replete,
More aromatic or reviving smell
To nostrils bring? Or can the glassy streams
Of Pactolus, that o'er its golden sands
Delightful glide, thy luscious drops outvie
That from thy sides imbrown'd unnumber'd fall?
Behold, at thy approach what smiles serene,
Beam from the ravish'd guests.—Still are their tongues,
While they with whetted instruments prepare
For deep incision.—Now the abscess bleeds,
And the devouring band, with stomachs keen
And glutting rage, thy beauteous form destroy,
Leave you a marrowless skeleton and bare,
A prey to dunghills, or vexatious sport
Of torrent rushing from defilement's urns,
That o'er the city's flinty pavement hurls.

So fares it with the man, whose powerful pelf
Once could command respect. Caress'd by all,
His bounties were as lavish as the hand
Of yellow Ceres, till his stores decay'd,
And then (O dismal tale!) those precious drops
Of flattery that bedew'd his spring of fortune,
Leave the sad winter of his state so fall'n,

101

Nor nurse the thorn from which they ne'er can hope
Again to pluck the odour-dropping rose.

For thee, Roast Beef! in variegated shapes
Have mortals toil'd.—The sailor sternly braves
The strength of Boreas, and exulting stands
Upon the sea-wash'd deck—with hopes inspir'd
Of yet indulging in thy wish'd for sweets,
He smiles amidst the dangers that surround him;
Cheerful he steers to cold forbidding climes,
Or to the torrid zone explores his way.

Be kind, ye Powers! and still propitious send
This paragon of feeding to our halls;
With this regal'd, who would vain-glorious wish
For towering pyramids superbly crown'd,
With jellies, syllabubs, or ice-creams rare?
These can amuse the eye, and may bestow
A short-liv'd pleasure to a palate strange;
But, for a moment's pleasure, who would vend
A life-time that would else be spent in joy,
For hateful loathings and for gouty rheums,
Ever preceded by indulg'd excess?

Blest be those walls where Hospitality
And welcome reign at large! There may you oft
Of social cheer partake, and love, and joy,
Pleasures that to the human mind convey
Ideal pictures of the bliss supreme:
But near the gate where Parsimony dwells,
Where Ceremony cool, and brow austere,
Confront the guests, ne'er let thy foot approach;
For, void of kind Benevolence, heavenly virtue!
What is life's garden but a devious wild,
Thro' which the traveller must pass forlorn,
Unguided by the aid of friendship's ray?
Rather if poverty hold converse with thee,
To the lone garret's lofty bield ascend,
Or dive to some sad cell; there have recourse
To meagre offals, where, tho' small thy fare,

102

Freedom shall wing thee to a purer joy
Than banquets with superfluous dainties crown'd,
Mix'd with reserve and coolness, can afford.

But, if your better fortunes have prepar'd
Your purse with ducats, and with health thy frame,
Assemble, friends! and to the tavern straight,
Where the officious drawer, bending low,
Is passive to a fault. Then, nor the Signior grand,
Or Russia's empress, signaliz'd for war,
Can govern with more arbitrary sway.

Ye who for health, for exercise, for air,
Oft saunter from Edina's smoke-capt spires,
And, by the grassy hill or dimpl'd brook
An appetite revive, should oft-times stray
O'er Arthur's seat's green pastures to the town,
For sheep-heads and bone-bridges fam'd of yore,
That in our country's annals stands yclept,
Fair Duddingstonia, where you may be blest
With simple fare and vegetative sweets,
Freed from the clamours of the busy world.

Or, if for recreation you should stray
To Leithian shore, and breathe the keener air
Wafted from Neptune's empire of the main;
If appetite invite, and cash prevail,
Ply not your joints upon the homeward track,
Till Lawson, chiefest of the Scottish hosts!
To nimble-footed waiters give command
The cloth to lay.—Instinctively they come,
And lo! the table, wrapt in cloudy steams,
Groans with the weight of the transporting fare
That breathes frankincense on the guests around.

Now, while stern Winter holds his frigid sway,
And to a period spins the closing year;
While festivals abound, and sportive hours
Kill the remembrance of our weaning time,
Let not Intemperance, destructive fiend!
Gain entrance to your halls.—Despoil'd by him,

103

Shall cloyed appetite, forerunner sad
Of rank disease, inveterate clasp your frame.
Contentment shall no more be known to spread
Her cherub wings round thy once happy dwelling,
But misery of thought, and racking pain,
Shall plunge you headlong to the dark abyss.

Character of a Friend, in an Epitaph which he desired the Author to write.

Under this turf, to mould'ring earth consign'd,
Lies he, who once was fickle as the wind.
Alike the scenes of good and ill he knew,
From the chaste temple to the lewdest stew.
Virtue and vice in him alternate reign'd;
That fill'd his mind, and this his pocket drain'd,
Till in the contest they so stubborn grew,
Death gave the parting blow, and both withdrew.

The Delights of Virtue.

Returning morn, in orient blush array'd,
With gentle radiance hail'd the sky serene;
No rustling breezes wav'd the verdant shade,
Nor swelling surge disturb'd the azure main.

These moments, Meditation, sure are thine;
These are the halcyon joys you wish to find,
When nature's peaceful elements combine
To suit the calm composure of the mind.

104

The Muse, exalted by thy sacred power,
To the green mountain's air-born summit flew,
Charm'd with the thoughtful stillness of an hour,
That usher'd beaming fancy to her view.

Fresh from old Neptune's fluid mansion sprung
The sun, reviver of each drooping flower;
At his approach the lark, with matin song,
In notes of gratitude confess'd his power.

So shines fair Virtue, shedding light divine
On those who wish to profit by her ways;
Who ne'er at parting with their vice repine,
To taste the comforts of her blissful rays.

She with fresh hopes each sorrow can beguile,
Can dissipate Adversity's stern gloom,
Make meagre Poverty contented smile,
And the sad wretch forget his hapless doom.

Sweeter than shady groves in summer's pride,
Than flowery dales or grassy meads is she;
Delightful as the honey'd streams that glide
From the rich labours of the busy bee.

Her paths and alleys are for ever green;
There Innocence, in snowy robes array'd,
With smiles of pure content is hail'd the queen
And happy mistress of the sacred shade.

O let no transient gleam of earthly joy
From Virtue lure your lab'ring steps aside;
Nor instant grandeur future hopes annoy
With thoughts that spring from insolence and pride.

105

Soon will the winged moments speed away,
When you'll no more the plumes of honour wear:
Grandeur must shudder at the sad decay,
And Pride look humble when he ponders there.

Depriv'd of Virtue, where is Beauty's power?
Her dimpled smiles, her roses charm no more;
So much can guilt the loveliest form deflower:
We loath that beauty which we lov'd before.

How fair are Virtue's buds where-e'er they blow,
Or in the desart wild or garden gay!
Her flow'rs how sacred wheresoe'er they show,
Unknown to the canker of decay!

Lines addressed to Gavin Wilson.

To honest Gavn the prince of Sooters
Case makers patent Leather Booters
He who Lays by his strap and awl
And after wark breaths out his Saul
In bonny songs he's never bleat
To Cant the praise o bonny Kate
While Biting Snishen kens my nose
Ile never rank him of my foes
A Friend thro every fortunes blast
That sticks to me as longs his Last.

106

Caller Water.

Whan father Adie first pat spade in
The bonny yeard of antient Eden,
His amry had nae liquor laid in
To fire his mou',
Nor did he thole his wife's upbraidin'
For being fou.

A caller burn o' siller sheen,
Ran cannily out o'er the green,
And whan our gutcher's drouth had been
To bide right sair,
He loutit down and drank bedeen
A dainty skair.

His bairns a' before the flood
Had langer tack o' flesh and blood,
And on mair pithy shanks they stood
Than Noah's line,
Wha still hae been a feckless brood
Wi' drinking wine.

The fuddlin' Bardies now-a-days
Rin maukin-mad in Bacchus' praise,
And limp and stoiter thro' their lays
Anacreontic,
While each his sea of wine displays
As big's the Pontic.

My muse will no gang far frae hame,
Or scour a' airths to hound for fame;
In troth, the jillet ye might blame
For thinking on't,
Whan eithly she can find the theme
Of aqua font.

107

This is the name that doctors use
Their patients noddles to confuse;
Wi' simples clad in terms abstruse,
They labour still,
In kittle words to gar you roose
Their want o' skill.

But we'll hae nae sick clitter-clatter,
And briefly to expound the matter,
It shall be ca'd good Caller Water,
Than whilk I trow,
Few drogs in doctors shops are better
For me or you.

Tho' joints are stiff as ony rung,
Your pith wi' pain be fairly dung,
Be you in Caller Water flung
Out o'er the lugs,
'Twill mak you souple, swack and young,
Withouten drugs.

Tho' cholic or the heart-scad teaze us,
Or ony inward pain should seize us,
It masters a' sic fell diseases
That would ye spulzie,
And brings them to a canny crisis
Wi' little tulzie.

Wer't na for it the bonny lasses
Would glowr nae mair in keeking glasses,
And soon tine dint o' a' the graces
That aft conveen
In gleefu' looks and bonny faces,
To catch our ein.

108

The fairest then might die a maid,
And Cupid quit his shooting trade,
For wha thro' clarty masquerade
Could than discover,
Whether the features under shade
Were worth a lover?

As simmer rains bring simmer show'rs,
And leaves to cleed the birken bow'rs,
Sae beauty gets by caller show'rs,
Sae rich a bloom
As for estate, or heavy dow'rs
Aft stands in room.

What makes Auld Reikie's dames sae fair,
It canna be the halesome air,
But caller burn beyond compare,
The best of ony,
That gars them a' sic graces skair,
And blink sae bonny.

On May-day in a fairy ring,
We've seen them round St Anthon's spring,
Frae grass the caller dew draps wring
To weet their ein,
And water clear as chrystal spring,
To synd them clean.

O may they still pursue the way
To look sae feat, sae clean, sae gay!
Than shall their beauties glance like May,
And, like her, be
The goddess of the vocal Spray,
The Muse, and me.

109

AULD REIKIE,

A POEM.

Auld Reikie, wale o' ilka Town
That Scotland kens beneath the Moon;
Where couthy Chiels at E'ening meet
Their bizzing Craigs and Mous to weet;
And blythly gar auld Care gae bye
Wi' blinkit and wi' bleering Eye:
O'er lang frae thee the Muse has been
Sae frisky on the Simmer's Green,
Whan Flowers and Gowans wont to glent
In bonny Blinks upo' the Bent;
But now the Leaves a Yellow die
Peel'd frae the Branches, quickly fly;
And now frae nouther Bush nor Brier
The spreckl'd Mavis greets your ear;
Nor bonny Blackbird Skims and Roves
To seek his Love in yonder Groves.

Then, Reikie, welcome! Thou canst charm
Unfleggit by the year's Alarm;
Not Boreas that sae snelly blows,
Dare here pap in his angry Nose:
Thanks to our Dads, whase biggin stands
A Shelter to surrounding Lands.

Now Morn, with bonny Purpie-smiles,
Kisses the Air-cock o' St. Giles;
Rakin their Ein, the Servant Lasses
Early begin their Lies and Clashes;

110

Ilk tells her Friend of saddest Distress,
That still she brooks frae scouling Mistress;
And wi' her Joe in Turnpike Stair
She'd rather snuff the stinking Air,
As be subjected to her Tongue,
When justly censur'd in the Wrong.

On Stair wi' Tub, or Pat in hand,
The Barefoot Housemaids looe to stand,
That antrin Fock may ken how Snell
Auld Reikie will at Morning Smell:
Then, with an Inundation Big as
The Burn that 'neath the Nore Loch Brig is,
They kindly shower Edina's Roses,
To Quicken and Regale our Noses.
Now some for this, wi' Satyr's Leesh,
Ha'e gi'en auld Edinburgh a Creesh:
But without Souring nocht is sweet;
The Morning smells that hail our Street,
Prepare, and gently lead the Way
To Simmer canty, braw and gay:
Edina's Sons mair eithly share,
Her Spices and her Dainties rare,
Then he that's never yet been call'd
Aff frae his Plaidie or his Fauld.

Now Stairhead Critics, senseless Fools,
Censure their Aim, and Pride their Rules,
In Luckenbooths, wi' glouring Eye,
Their Neighbours sma'est Faults descry:
If ony Loun should dander there,
Of aukward Gate, and foreign Air,
They trace his Steps, till they can tell
His Pedigree as weel's himsell.

111

Whan Phœbus blinks wi' warmer Ray
And Schools at Noonday get the play,
Then Bus'ness, weighty Bus'ness comes;
The Trader glours; he doubts, he hums:
The Lawyers eke to Cross repair,
Their Wigs to shaw, and toss an Air;
While busy Agent closely plies,
And a' his kittle Cases tries.

Now Night, that's cunzied chief for Fun,
Is wi' her usual Rites begun;
Thro' ilka Gate the Torches blaze,
And Globes send out their blinking Rays.
The usefu' Cadie plies in Street,
To bide the Profits o' his Feet;
For by thir Lads Auld Reikie's Fock
Ken but a Sample, o' the Stock
O' Thieves, that nightly wad oppress,
And make baith Goods and Gear the less.
Near him the lazy Chairman stands,
And wats na how to turn his Hands,
Till some daft Birky, ranting fu',
Has Matters somewhere else to do;
The Chairman willing, gi'es his Light
To Deeds o' darkness and o' Night:

Its never Sax Pence for a Lift
That gars thir Lads wi' fu'ness rift;
For they wi' better Gear are paid,
And Whores and Culls support their Trade.

Near some Lamp-post, wi' dowy Face,
Wi' heavy Ein, and sour Grimace,
Stands she that Beauty lang had kend,
Whoredom her Trade, and Vice her End.

112

But see wharenow she wuns her Bread
By that which Nature ne'er decreed;
And sings sad Music to the Lugs,
'Mang Burachs o' damn'd Whores and Rogues.
Whane'er we Reputation loss
Fair Chastity's transparent gloss!
Redemption seenil kens the Name,
But a's black Misery and Shame.

Frae joyous Tavern, reeling drunk,
Wi' fiery Phizz, and Ein half sunk,
Behad the Bruiser, Fae to a'
That in the reek o' Gardies fa':
Close by his Side, a feckless Race
O' Macaronies shew their Face,
And think they're free frae Skaith or Harm,
While Pith befriends their Leaders Arm:
Yet fearfu' aften o' their Maught,
They quatt the Glory o' the Faught
To this same Warrior wha led
Thae Heroes to bright Honour's Bed;
And aft the hack o' Honour shines
In Bruiser's Face wi' broken Lines:
Of them sad Tales he tells anon,
Whan Ramble and whan Fighting's done;
And, like Hectorian, ne'er impairs
The Brag and Glory o' his Sairs.

Whan Feet in dirty Gutters plash,
And Fock to wale their Fitstaps fash;
At night the Macaroni drunk,
In Pools or Gutters aftimes sunk:
Hegh! what a Fright he now appears,
Whan he his Corpse dejected rears!
Look at that Head, and think if there
The Pomet slaister'd up his Hair!

113

The Cheeks observe, where now cou'd shine
The scancing Glories o' Carmine?
Ah, Legs! in vain the Silk-worm there
Display'd to View her eidant Care;
For Stink, instead of Perfumes, grow,
And clarty Odours fragrant flow.

Now some to Porter, some to Punch,
Some to their Wife, and some their Wench,
Retire, while noisy Ten-hours Drum
Gars a' your Trades gae dandring Home.
Now mony a Club, jocose and free,
Gie a' to Merriment and Glee,
Wi' Sang and Glass, they fley the Pow'r
O' Care that wad harrass the Hour:
For Wine and Bacchus still bear down
Our thrawart Fortunes wildest Frown:
It maks you stark, and bauld and brave,
Ev'n whan descending to the Grave.

Now some, in Pandemonium's Shade
Resume the gormandizing Trade;
Whare eager Looks, and glancing Ein,
Forespeak a Heart and Stamack keen.
Gang on, my lads; it's lang sin syne
We kent auld Epicurus' Line;
Save you, the Board wad cease to rise,
Bedight wi' Daintiths to the Skies;
And Salamanders cease to swill
The Comforts of a Burning Gill.

But chief, O Cape, we crave thy Aid,
To get our Cares and Poortith laid:
Sincerity, and Genius true,
Of Knights have ever been the due:

114

Mirth, Music, Porter deepest dy'd,
Are never here to Worth deny'd;
And Health, o' Happiness the Queen,
Blinks bonny, wi' her Smile serene.

Tho' joy maist Part Auld Reikie owns,
Eftsoons she kens sad sorrows Frowns;
What Group is yon sae dismal grim,
Wi' Horrid Aspect, cleeding Dim?
Says Death, They'r mine, a dowy Crew,
To me they'll quickly pay their last Adieu.

How come mankind, whan lacking Woe,
In Saulie's Face their Heart to show,
As if they were a Clock, to tell
That Grief in them had rung her Bell?
Then, what is Man? why a' this Phraze?
Life's Spunk decay'd, nae mair can blaze.
Let sober Grief alone declare
Our fond Anxiety and Care:
Nor let the Undertakers be
The only waefu' Friends we see.

Come on, my Muse, and then rehearse
The gloomiest Theme in a' your Verse:
In Morning, whan ane keeks about,
Fu' blyth and free frae Ail, nae doubt
He lippens not to be misled
Amang the Regions of the dead:
But straight a painted Corp he sees,
Lang streekit 'neath its Canopies.
Soon, soon will this his Mirth controul,
And send Damnation to his Soul:
Or when the Dead-deal, (awful Shape!)
Makes frighted Mankind girn and gape,

115

Reflection then his Reason sours,
For the niest Dead-deal may be ours.
Whan Sybil led the Trojan down
To haggard Pluto's dreary Town,
Shapes war nor thae, I freely ween
Cou'd never meet the Soldier's Ein.

If Kail sae green, or Herbs delight,
Edina's Street attracts the Sight;
Not Covent-garden, clad sae braw,
Mair fouth o' Herbs can eithly shaw:
For mony a Yeard is here sair sought,
That Kail and Cabbage may be bought;
And healthfu' Sallad to regale,
Whan pamper'd wi' a heavy Meal.
Glour up the Street in Simmer Morn,
The Birks sae green, and sweet Brier-thorn,
Wi' sprangit Flow'rs that scent the Gale,
Ca' far awa' the Morning Smell,
Wi' which our Ladies Flow'r-pat's fill'd,
And every noxious Vapour kill'd.
O Nature! canty, blyth and free,
Whare is there Keeking-glass like thee?
Is there on Earth that can compare
Wi' Mary's Shape, and Mary's Air,
Save the empurpl'd Speck, that grows
In the saft Faulds of yonder Rose?
How bonny seems the virgin Breast,
Whan by the Lillies here carest,
And leaves the Mind in doubt to tell
Which maist in Sweets and Hue excel?

Gillespie's Snuff should prime the Nose
Of her that to the Market goes,
If they wad like to shun the Smells
That buoy up frae markest Cells;

116

Whare Wames o' Paunches sav'ry scent
To Nostrils gi'e great Discontent.
Now wha in Albion could expect
O' Cleanliness sic great Neglect?
Nae Hottentot that daily lairs
'Mang Tripe, or ither clarty Wares,
Hath ever yet conceiv'd, or seen
Beyond the Line, sic Scenes unclean.

On Sunday here, an alter'd Scene
O' Men and Manners meets our Ein:
Ane wad maist trow some People chose
To change their Faces wi' their Clo'es,
And fain wad gar ilk Neighbour think
They thirst for Goodness, as for Drink:
But there's an unco Dearth o' Grace,
That has nae Mansion but the Face,
And never can obtain a Part
In benmost Corner of the Heart.
Why should Religion make us sad,
If good frae Virtue's to be had?
Na, rather gleefu' turn your Face;
Forsake Hypocrisy, Grimace;
And never have it understood
You fleg Mankind frae being good.

In Afternoon, a' brawly buskit,
The Joes and Lasses loe to frisk it:
Some tak a great delight to place
The modest Bongrace o'er the Face;
Tho' you may see, if so inclin'd,
The turning o' the Leg behind.
Now Comely-Garden, and the Park,
Refresh them, after Forenoon's Wark;

117

Newhaven, Leith or Canon-mills,
Supply them in their Sunday's Gills;
Whare Writers aften spend their Pence,
To stock their Heads wi' Drink and Sense.

While dandring Cits delight to stray
To Castlehill, or Public Way,
Whare they nae other Purpose mean,
Than that Fool Cause o' being seen;
Let me to Arthur's Seat pursue,
Whare bonny Pastures meet the View;
And mony a Wild-lorn Scene accrues,
Befitting Willie Shakespeare's Muse:
If Fancy there would join the Thrang,
The desart Rocks and Hills amang,
To Echoes we should lilt and play,
And gie to Mirth the lee-lang Day.

Or shou'd some canker'd biting Show'r
The Day and a' her Sweets deflour,
To Holy-rood-house let me stray,
And gie to musing a' the Day;
Lamenting what auld Scotland knew
Bien Days for ever frae her View:
O Hamilton, for shame! the Muse
Would pay to thee her couthy Vows,
Gin ye wad tent the humble Strain
And gie's our Dignity again:
For O, waes me! the Thistle springs
In Domicile of ancient Kings,
Without a Patriot to regrete
Our Palace, and our ancient State.

Blest Place! whare Debtors daily run,
To rid themselves frae Jail and Dun;

118

Here, tho' sequester'd frae the Din
That rings Auld Reikie's Waas within,
Yet they may tread the sunny Braes,
And brook Apollo's cheery rays;
Glour frae St. Anthon's grassy Hight,
O'er Vales in Simmer Claise bedight,
Nor ever hing their Head, I ween,
Wi' jealous Fear o' being seen.
May I, whanever Duns come nigh,
And shake my Garret wi' their Cry,
Scour here wi' Haste, Protection get,
To screen mysell frae them and Debt;
To breathe the Bliss of open Sky,
And Simon Fraser's Bolts defy.

Now gin a Lown should ha'e his Clase
In Thread-bare Autumn o' their Days,
St. Mary, Brokers Guardian Saint,
Will satisfy ilk Ail and Want;
For mony a hungry Writer, there
Dives down at Night, wi' cleading bare,
And quickly rises to the View
A Gentleman, perfyte and new.
Ye rich Fock, look no wi' Disdain
Upo' this ancient Brokage Lane!
For naked Poets are supplied,
With what you to their Wants deny'd.

Peace to thy Shade, thou wale o' Men,
Drummond! Relief to Poortith's Pain:
To thee the greatest Bliss we owe;
And Tribute's Tear shall grateful flow:
The Sick are cur'd, the Hungry fed,
And Dreams of Comfort tend their Bed:
As lang as Forth weets Lothians Shore,
As lang's on Fife her billows roar,

119

Sae lang shall ilk whase Country's dear,
To thy Remembrance gie a Tear.
By thee Auld Reikie thrave, and grew
Delightfu' to her Childers View:
Nae mair shall Glasgow Striplings threap
Their City's Beauty and its Shape,
While our New City spreads around
Her bonny Wings on Fairy Ground.

But Provosts now that ne'er afford
The smaest dignity to lord,
Ne'er care tho' every scheme gae wild
That Drummond's sacred hand has cull'd:
The spacious Brig neglected lies,
Tho' plagu'd wi' pamphlets, dunn'd wi' cries;
They heed not tho' destruction come
To gulp us in her gaunting womb.
O shame! that safety canna claim
Protection from a provost's name,
But hidden danger lies behind
To torture and to fleg the mind;
I may as weel bid Arthur's Seat
To Berwick-Law make gleg retreat,
As think that either will or art
Shall get the gate to win their heart;
For Politics are a' their mark,
Bribes latent, and corruption dark:
If they can eithly turn the pence,
Wi' city's good they will dispense;
Nor care tho' a' her sons were lair'd
Ten fathom i' the auld kirk-yard.

To sing yet meikle does remain,
Undecent for a modest strain;
And since the poet's daily bread is
The favour of the Muse or ladies,

120

He downa like to gie offence
To delicacy's bonny sense;
Therefore the stews remain unsung,
And bawds in silence drop their tongue.

Reikie, farewel! I ne'er cou'd part
Wi' thee but wi' a dowy heart;
Aft frae the Fifan coast I've seen,
Thee tow'ring on thy summit green;
So glowr the saints when first is given
A fav'rite keek o' glore and heaven;
On earth nae mair they bend their ein,
But quick assume angelic mein;
So I on Fife wad glowr no more,
But gallop'd to Edina's shore.

A Tavern Elegy.

Fled are the moments of delusive mirth,
The fancy'd pleasure! paradise divine!
Hush'd are the clamours that derive their birth
From generous floods of soul-reviving wine.

Still night and silence now succeed their noise;
The erring tides of passion rage no more;
But all is peaceful as the ocean's voice
When breezeless waters kiss the silent shore.

Here stood the juice, whose care-controuling pow'rs
Could ev'ry human misery subdue,
And wake to sportive joy the lazy hours,
That to the languid senses hateful grew.

121

Attracted by the magic of the bowl,
Around the swelling brim in full array
The glasses circl'd, as the planets roll,
And hail with borrow'd light the god of day.

Here music, the delight of moments gay!
Bade the unguarded tongues their motions cease,
And with a mirthful, a melodious lay,
Aw'd the fell voice of discord into peace.

These are the joys that virtue must approve,
While reason shines with majesty divine,
'Ere our ideas in disorder move,
And sad excess against the soul combine.

What evils have not frenzy'd mortals done
By wine, that ignis fatuus of the mind!
How many by its force to vice are won,
Since first ordain'd to tantalize mankind!

By Bacchus' power, ye sons of riot, say,
How many watchful centinels have bled!
How many travellers have lost their way,
By lamps unguided thro' the ev'ning shade!

O spare those friendly twinklers of the night;
Let no rude cane their hallow'd orbs assail.
For cowardice alone condemns the light,
That shows her countenance aghast and pale.

Now the short taper warns me to depart
'Ere darkness shall assume his dreary sway;
'Ere solitude fall heavy on my heart,
That lingers for the far approach of day.

122

Who would not vindicate the happy doom
To be for ever number'd with the dead,
Rather than bear the miserable gloom,
When all his comfort, all his friends are fled?

Bear me, ye gods! where I may calmly rest
From all the follies of the night secure,
The balmy blessings of repose to taste,
Nor hear the tongue of outrage at my door.

Mutual Complaint of Plainstanes and Causey, in their Mother-tongue.

Since Merlin laid Auld Reikie's causey,
And made her o' his wark right saucy,
The spacious street and plainstanes
Were never kend to crack but anes,
Whilk happened on the hinder night,
Whan Fraser's ulie tint its light,
Of Highland sentries nane were waukin,
To hear thir cronies glibbly taukin;
For them this wonder might hae rotten,
And, like night robb'ry, been forgotten,
Had na' a cadie, wi' his lanthorn,
Been gleg enough to hear them bant'rin,
Wha came to me neist morning early,
To gi'e me tidings o' this ferly.
Ye taunting lowns trow this nae joke,
For anes the ass of Balaam spoke,
Better than lawyers do, forsooth,
For it spake naething but the truth:
Whether they follow its example,
You'll ken best whan you hear the sample.

123

Plainstanes.
My friend, thir hunder years and mair,
We've been forfoughen late and air,
In sun-shine, and in weety weather,
Our thrawart lot we bure thegither.
I never growl'd, but was content
Whan ilk ane had an equal stent,
But now to flyte I'se e'en be bauld,
Whan I'm wi' sic a grievance thrall'd.
How haps it, say, that mealy bakers,
Hair-kaimers, crieshy gezy-makers,
Shou'd a' get leave to waste their powders
Upon my beaux and ladies shoulders?
My travellers are fley'd to deid
Wi' creels wanchancy, heap'd wi' bread,
Frae whilk hing down uncanny nicksticks,
That aften gie the maidens sic licks,
As make them blyth to skreen their faces
Wi' hats and muckle maun bon-graces,
And cheat the lads that fain wad see
The glances o' a pauky eie,
Or gie their loves a wylie wink,
That erst might lend their hearts a clink.
Speak, was I made to dree the laidin
Of Gallic chairman heavy treadin,
Wha in my tender buke bore holes
Wi' waefu' tackets i' the soals
O' broags, whilk on my body tramp,
And wound like death at ilka clamp.

Causey.
Weil crackit friend—It aft hads true,
Wi' naething fock make maist ado:
Weel ken ye, tho' ye doughtna tell,
I pay the sairest kain mysell;

124

Owr me ilk day big waggons rumble,
And a' my fabric birze and jumble;
Owr me the muckle horses gallop,
Enought to rug my very saul up;
And coachmen never trow they're sinning,
While down the street his wheels are spinning,
Like thee, do I not bide the brunt
Of Highland chairman's heavy dunt?
Yet I hae never thought o' breathing
Complaint, or making din for naething.

Plainstanes.

Had sae, and lat me get a word in,
Your back's best fitted for the burden;
And I can eithly tell you why,
Ye're doughtier by far than I;
For whin-stanes, howkit frae the craigs,
May thole the prancing feet of naigs,
Nor ever fear uncanny hotches
Frae clumsy carts or hackney-coaches,
While I, a weak and feckless creature,
Am moulded by a safter nature.
Wi' mason's chissel dighted neat,
To gar me look baith clean and feat,
I scarce can bear a sairer thump
Than comes frae sole of shoe or pump.
I grant, indeed, that, now and than,
Yield to a paten's pith I maun;
But patens, tho' they're aften plenty,
Are ay laid down wi' feet fou tenty,
And stroaks frae ladies, tho' they're teazing,
I freely maun avow are pleasing.

For what use was I made, I wonder,
It was na tamely to chap under

125

The weight of ilka codroch chiel,
That does my skin to targits peel;
But gin I guess aright, my trade is
To fend frae skaith the bonny ladies,
To keep the bairnies free frae harms
Whan airing in their nurses arms,
To be a safe and canny bield
For growing youth or drooping eild.

Take then frae me the heavy load
Of burden-bearers heavy shod,
Or, by my troth, the gude auld town shall
Hae this affair before their council.

Causey.
I dinna care a single jot,
Tho' summon'd by a shelly-coat,
Sae leally I'll propone defences,
As get ye flung for my expences;
Your libel I'll impugn verbatim,
And hae a magnum damnum datum;
For tho' frae Arthur's-seat I sprang,
And am in constitution strang,
Wad it no fret the hardest stane
Beneath the Luckenbooths to grane?
Tho' magistrates the Cross discard,
It makes na whan they leave the Guard,
A lumbersome and stinkin bigging,
That rides the sairest on my rigging.
Poor me owr meikle do ye blame,
For tradesmen tramping on your wame,
Yet a' your advocates and braw fock
Come still to me 'twixt ane and twa clock,
And never yet were kend to range
At Charlie's Statue or Exchange.

126

Then tak your beaux and macaronies,
Gie me trades-fock and country Johnies;
The deil's in't gin ye dinna sign
Your sentiments conjunct wi' mine.

Plainstanes.
Gin we twa cou'd be as auld-farrant
As gar the council gie a warrant,
Ilk lown rebellious to tak,
Wha walks not in the proper track,
And o' three shilling Scottish suck him;
Or in the water-hole sair douk him;
This might assist the poor's collection,
And gie baith parties satisfaction.

Causey.
But first, I think it will be good
To bring it to the Robinhood,
Whare we shall hae the question stated,
And keen and crabbitly debated,
Whether the provost and the baillies,
For the towns' good whase daily toil is,
Shou'd listen to our joint petitions,
And see obtemper'd the conditions.

Plainstanes.
Content am I—But east the gate is
The sun, wha taks his leave of Thetis,
And comes to wauken honest fock,
That gang to wark at sax o'clock;
It sets us to be dumb a while,
And let our words gie place to toil.

127

The Rising of the Session.

To a' men living be it kend,
The Session now is at an end:
Writers, your finger-nebbs unbend,
And quatt the pen,
Till Time wi' lyart pow shall send
Blythe June again.

Tir'd o' the law, and a' its phrases,
The wylie writers, rich as Crœsus,
Hurl frae the town in hackney chaises,
For country cheer:
The powny that in spring-time grazes,
Thrives a' the year.

Ye lawyers, bid fareweel to lies,
Fareweel to din, fareweel to fees,
The canny hours o' rest may please
Instead o' siller:
Hain'd multer hads the mill at ease,
And finds the miller.

Blyth they may be wha wanton play
In fortune's bonny blinkin ray,
Fu' weel can they ding dool away
Wi' comrades couthy,
And never dree a hungert day,
Or e'ening drouthy.

128

Ohon the day for him that's laid,
In dowie poortith's caldrife shade,
Ablins owr honest for his trade,
He racks his wits,
How he may get his buick weel clad,
And fill his guts.

The farmers sons, as yap as sparrows,
Are glad, I trow, to flee the barras,
And whistle to the plough and harrows
At barley seed:
What writer wadna gang as far as
He cou'd for bread.

After their yokin, I wat weel
They'll stoo the kebbuck to the heel;
Eith can the plough-stilts gar a chiel
Be unco vogie,
Clean to lick aff his crowdy-meal,
And scart his cogie.

Now mony a fallow's dung adrift
To a' the blasts beneath the lift,
And tho' their stamack's aft in tift
In vacance time,
Yet seenil do they ken the rift
O' stappit weym.

Now gin a Notar shou'd be wanted,
You'll find the pillars gayly planted;
For little thing protests are granted
Upo' a bill,
And weightiest matters covenanted
For haf a gill.

129

Nae body takes a morning dribb
O' Holland gin frae Robin Gibb;
And tho' a dram to Rob's mair sib
Than is his wife,
He maun take time to daut his Rib
Till siller's rife.

This vacance is a heavy doom
On Indian Peter's coffee-room,
For a' his china pigs are toom;
Nor do we see
In wine the sucker biskets soom
As light's a flee.

But stop, my Muse, nor make a main,
Pate disna fend on that alane;
He can fell twa dogs wi' ae bane,
While ither fock
Maun rest themselves content wi' ane.
Nor farer trock.

Ye change-house keepers never grumble,
Tho' you a while your bickers whumble,
Be unco patientfu' and humble,
Nor make a din,
Tho' gude joot binna kend to rumble
Your weym within.

You needna grudge to draw your breath
For little mair than haf a reath,
Than, gin we a' be spar'd frae death,
We'll gladly prie
Fresh noggans o' your reaming graith
Wi' blythsome glee.

130

The Sow of Feeling.

Well! I protest there's no such thing as dealing
With these starch'd poets—with these Men of Feeling!
Epilogue to the Prince of Tunis.

Malignant planets! do ye still combine
Against this wayward, dreary life of mine!
Has pitiless oppression—cruel case!
Gain'd sole possession of the human race?
By cruel hands has ev'ry virtue bled,
And innocence from men to vultures fled!

Thrice happy, had I liv'd in Jewish time,
When swallowing pork or pig was doom'd a crime;
My husband long had blest my longing arms,
Long, long had known love's sympathetic charms!
My children too—a little suckling race,
With all their father growing in their face,
From their prolific dam had ne'er been torn,
Nor to the bloody stalls of butchers borne.

Ah! luxury! to you my being owes
Its load of misery—its load of woes!
With heavy heart, I saunter all the day,
Gruntle and murmur all my hours away!
In vain I try to summon old desire,
For favourite sports—for wallowing in the mire:
Thoughts of my husband—of my children slain,
Turn all my wonted pleasure into pain!
How oft did we, in Phœbus warming ray,
Bask on the humid softness of the clay?
Oft did his lusty head defend my tail
From the rude whispers of the angry gale;
While nose-refreshing puddles stream'd around,
And floating odours hail'd the dung-cled ground.

131

Near by a rustic mill's inchanting clack,
Where plenteous bushels load the peasant's back,
In straw-crown'd hovel, there to life we came,
One boar our father and one sow our dam:
While tender infants on the mother's breast,
A flame divine on either shone confest;
In riper hours love's more than ardent blaze,
Inkindled all his passion, all his praise!
No deadly, sinful passion fir'd his soul,
Virtue o'er all his actions gain'd controul!
That cherub which attracts the female heart,
And makes them soonest with their beauty part,
Attracted mine:—I gave him all my love,
In the recesses of a verdant grove:
'Twas there I listn'd to his warmest vows,
Amidst the pendant melancholy boughs;
'Twas there my trusty lover shook for me
A show'r of acorns from the oaken tree;
And from the teeming earth, with joy, plough'd out
The roots salubrious with his hardy snout.

But Happiness, a floating meteor thou,
That still inconstant art to man and sow,
Left us in gloomiest horrors to reside,
Near by the deep-dy'd sanguinary tide,
Where whetting steel prepares the butch'ring knives,
With greater ease to take the harmless lives
Of cows, and calves, and sheep, and hog, who fear
The bite of bull-dogs, that incessant tear
Their flesh, and keenly suck the blood-distilling ear!

At length the day, th'eventful day drew near,
Detested cause of many a briny tear!
I'll weep till sorrow shall my eye-lids drain,
A tender husband, and a brother slain!
Alas! the lovely languor of his eye,
When the base murd'rers bore him captive by!
His mournful voice! the music of his groans,
Had melted any hearts—but hearts of stones!

132

O! had some angel at that instant come,
Giv'n me four nimble fingers and a thumb,
The blood-stain'd blade I'd turn'd upon his foe,
And sudden sent him to the shades below—
Where, or Pythagoras' opinion jests,
Beasts are made butchers—butchers chang'd to beasts.

In early times the law had wise decreed,
For human food but reptiles few should bleed;
But monstrous man, still erring from the laws,
The curse of heaven on his banquet draws!
Already has he drain'd the marshes dry
For frogs, new emblems of his luxury;
And soon the toad and lizard will come home,
Pure victims to the hungry glutton's womb:
Cats, rats, and mice, their destiny may mourn,
In time their carcases on spits must turn;
They may rejoice to-day—while I resign
Life, to be number'd 'mongst the feeling swine.

Epilogue, spoken by Mr Wilson, at the Theatre-royal, in the Character of an Edinburgh Buck. Written by R. Fergusson.

Ye who oft finish care in Lethe's cup,
Who love to swear, and roar, and keep it up,
List to a brother's voice, whose sole delight
Is sleep all day, and riot all the night.

Last night, when potent draughts of mellow wine
Did sober reason into wit refine:
When lusty Bacchus had contriv'd to drain
The sullen vapours from our shallow brain,
We sallied forth (for valour's dazzling sun
Up to his bright meridian had run);

133

And, like renowned Quixotte and his squire,
Spoils and adventures were our sole desire.

First we approach'd a seeming sober dame,
Preceded by a lanthorn's pallid flame,
Borne by a livery'd puppy's servile hand,
The slave obsequious of her stern command.
Curse on those cits, said I, who dare disgrace
Our streets at midnight with a sober face;
Let never tallow-chandler give them light,
To guide them thro' the dangers of the night.
The valet's cane we snatch'd, and, demme! I
Made the frail lanthorn on the pavement lie.
The guard, still watchful of the lieges harm,
With slow-pac'd motion stalk'd at the alarm.
Guard, seize the rogues—the angry madam cry'd,
And all the guard with seize ta rogue reply'd.

As in a war, there's nothing judg'd so right
As a concerted and prudential flight;
So we from guard and scandal to be freed,
Left them the field and burial of their dead.

Next we approach'd the bounds of George's square,
Blest place! No watch, no constables come there.
Now had they borrow'd Argus' eyes who saw us,
All was made dark and desolate as chaos;
Lamps tumbled after lamps, and lost their lustres,
Like Doomsday, when the stars shall fall in clusters.
Let fancy paint what dazzling glory grew
From crystal gems, when Phœbus came in view;
Each shatter'd orb ten thousand fragments strews,
And a new sun in ev'ry fragment shews.

Hear then, my Bucks! how drunken fate decreed us
For a nocturnal visit to the Meadows,
And how we, val'rous champions, durst engage,
O deed unequall'd! both the Bridge and Cage,
The rage of perilous winters which had stood,
This 'gainst the wind, and that against the flood;

134

But what nor wind, nor flood, nor heav'n could bend e'er,
We tumbled down, my Bucks, and made surrender.

What are your far fam'd warriors to us,
'Bout whom historians make such mighty fuzz:
Posterity may think it was uncommon
That Troy should be pillag'd for a woman;
But ours your ten years sieges will excel,
And justly be esteem'd the nonpareil.
Our cause is slighter than a dame's betrothing,
For all these mighty feats have sprung from nothing.

ODE to the BEE.

Herds, blythsome tune your canty reeds,
And welcome to the gowany meads
The pride o' a' the insect thrang,
A stranger to the green sae lang,
Unfald ilk buss and ilka brier,
The bounties o' the gleesome year,
To him whase voice delights the spring,
Whase soughs the saftest slumbers bring.

The trees in simmer-cleething drest,
The hillocks in their greenest vest,
The brawest flow'rs rejoic'd we see,
Disclose their sweets, and ca' on thee,
Blythly to skim on wanton wing
Thro' a' the fairy haunts of spring.

Whan fields ha'e got their dewy gift,
And dawnin breaks upo' the lift,
Then gang ye're wa's thro' hight and how,
Seek caller haugh or sunny know,

135

Or ivy'd craig, or burnbank brae,
Whare industry shall bid ye gae,
For hiney or for waxen store,
To ding sad poortith frae your door.

Cou'd feckless creature, man, be wise,
The simmer o' his life to prize,
In winter he might fend fu' bald,
His eild unkend to nippin cald,
Yet thir, alas! are antrin fock
That lade their scape wi' winter stock.
Auld age maist feckly glowrs right dour
Upo' the ailings of the poor,
Wha hope for nae comforting, save
That dowie dismal house, the grave.
Then feeble man, be wise, take tent
How industry can fetch content:
Behad the bees whare'er they wing,
Or thro' the bonny bow'rs of spring,
Whare vi'lets or whare roses blaw,
And siller dew-draps nightly fa',
Or whan on open bent they're seen,
On hether-bell or thristle green;
The hiney's still as sweet that flows
Frae thistle cald or kendling rose.

Frae this the human race may learn
Reflection's hiney'd draps to earn,
Whither they tramp life's thorny way,
Or thro' the sunny vineyard stray.

Instructive bee! attend me still,
O'er a' my labours sey your skill:
For thee shall hiney-suckles rise,
With lading to your busy thighs,
And ilka shrub surround my cell,
Whareon ye like to hum and dwell:

136

My trees in bourachs o'er my ground
Shall fend ye frae ilk blast o' wind;
Nor e'er shall herd, wi' ruthless spike,
Delve out the treasures frae your bike,
But in my fence be safe, and free
To live, and work, and sing like me.

Like thee, by fancy wing'd, the Muse
Scuds ear' and heartsome o'er the dews,
Fu' vogie, and fu' blyth to crap
The winsome flow'rs frae Nature's lap,
Twining her living garlands there,
That lyart time can ne'er impair.

The Farmer's Ingle.

Et multo in primis hilarans convivia Baccho,
Ante focum, si frigus erit.
Virg. Buc.

I

Whan gloming grey out o'er the welkin keeks,
Whan Batie ca's his owsen to the byre,
Whan Thrasher John, sair dung, his barn-door steeks,
And lusty lasses at the dighting tire:
What bangs fu' leal the e'enings coming cauld,
And gars snaw-tapit winter freeze in vain;
Gars dowie mortals look baith blyth and bauld,
Nor fley'd wi' a' the poortith o' the plain;
Begin, my Muse, and chant in hamely strain.

137

II

Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill,
Wi' divets theekit frae the weet and drift,
Sods, peats, and heath'ry trufs the chimley fill,
And gar their thick'ning smeek salute the lift;
The gudeman, new come hame, is blyth to find,
Whan he out o'er the halland flings his een,
That ilka turn is handled to his mind,
That a' his housie looks sae cosh and clean;
For cleanly house looes he, tho' e'er sae mean.

III

Weel kens the gudewife that the pleughs require
A heartsome meltith, and refreshing synd
O' nappy liquor, o'er a bleezing fire:
Sair wark and poortith douna weel be join'd.
Wi' butter'd bannocks now the girdle reeks,
I' the far nook the bowie briskly reams;
The readied kail stand by the chimley cheeks,
And had the riggin het wi' welcome steams,
Whilk than the daintiest kitchen nicer seems.

IV

Frae this lat gentler gabs a lesson lear;
Wad they to labouring lend an eidant hand,
They'd rax fell strang upo' the simplest fare,
Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand.
Fu' hale and healthy wad they pass the day,
At night in calmest slumbers dose fu' sound,
Nor doctor need their weary life to spae,
Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound,
Till death slip sleely on, and gi'e the hindmost wound.

138

V

On sicken food has mony a doughty deed
By Caledonia's ancestors been done;
By this did mony wight fu' weirlike bleed
In brulzies frae the dawn to set o' sun:
'Twas this that brac'd their gardies, stiff and strang,
That bent the deidly yew in antient days,
Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird alang,
Gar'd Scottish thristles bang the Roman bays;
For near our crest their heads they doughtna raise.

VI

The couthy cracks begin whan supper's o'er,
The cheering bicker gars them glibly gash
O' simmer's showery blinks and winters sour,
Whase floods did erst their mailins produce hash:
'Bout kirk and market eke their tales gae on,
How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride,
And there how Marion, for a bastard son,
Upo' the cutty-stool was forc'd to ride,
The waefu' scald o' our Mess John to bide.

VII

The fient a chiep's amang the bairnies now;
For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane:
Ay maun the childer, wi' a fastin mou',
Grumble and greet, and make an unco mane,
In rangles round before the ingle's low:
Frae gudame's mouth auld warld tale they hear,
O' Warlocks louping round the Wirrikow,
O' gaists that win in glen and kirk-yard drear,
Whilk touzles a' their tap, and gars them shak wi' fear.

139

VIII

For weel she trows that fiends and fairies be
Sent frae the de'il to fleetch us to our ill;
That ky hae tint their milk wi' evil eie,
And corn been scowder'd on the glowing kill.
O mock na this, my friends! but rather mourn,
Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear,
Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return,
And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear;
The mind's ay cradled whan the grave is near.

IX

Yet thrift, industrious, bides her latest days,
Tho' age her sair dow'd front wi' runcles wave,
Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays,
Her e'enin stent reels she as weel's the lave.
On some feast-day, the wee-things buskit braw
Shall heeze her heart up wi' a silent joy,
Fu' cadgie that her head was up and saw
Her ain spun cleething on a darling oy,
Careless tho' death shou'd make the feast her foy.

X

In its auld lerroch yet the deas remains,
Whare the gudeman aft streeks him at his ease,
A warm and canny lean for weary banes
O' lab'rers doil'd upo' the wintry leas:
Round him will badrins and the colly come,
To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' eie
To him wha kindly flings them mony a crum
O' kebbock whang'd, and dainty fadge to prie;
This a' the boon they crave, and a' the fee.

140

XI

Frae him the lads their morning counsel tak,
What stacks he wants to thrash, what rigs to till;
How big a birn maun lie on bassie's back,
For meal and multure to the thirling mill.
Niest the gudewife her hireling damsels bids
Glowr thro' the byre, and see the hawkies bound,
Take tent case Crummy tak her wonted tids,
And ca' the leglin's treasure on the ground,
Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow pound.

XII

Then a' the house for sleep begin to grien,
Their joints to slack frae industry a while;
The leaden God fa's heavy on their ein,
And hafflins steeks them frae their daily toil:
The cruizy too can only blink and bleer,
The restit ingle's done the maist it dow;
Tacksman and cottar eke to bed maun steer,
Upo' the cod to clear their drumly pow,
Till wauken'd by the dawning's ruddy glow.

XIII

Peace to the husbandman and a' his tribe,
Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to year;
Lang may his sock and couter turn the gleyb,
And bauks o' corn bend down wi' laded ear.
May Scotia's simmers ay look gay and green,
Her yellow har'sts frae scowry blasts decreed;
May a' her tenants sit fu' snug and bien,
Frae the hard grip of ails and poortith freed,
And a lang lasting train o' peaceful hours succeed.

141

The Ghaists: A Kirk-yard Eclogue.

Did you not say, on good Ann's day,
And vow and did protest, Sir,
That when Hanover should come o'er,
We surely should be blest, Sir?
An auld Sang made new again.

Whare the braid planes in dowy murmurs wave
Their antient taps out o'er the cald, clad grave,
Whare Geordie Girdwood, mony a lang-spun day,
Houkit for gentlest banes the humblest clay,
Twa sheeted ghaists, sae grizly and sae wan,
'Mang lanely tombs their douff discourse began.
Watson.
Cauld blaws the nippin north wi' angry sough,
And showers his hailstanes frae the Castle Cleugh
O'er the Greyfriars, whare, at mirkest hour,
Bogles and spectres wont to tak their tour,
Harlin' the pows and shanks to hidden cairns,
Amang the hamlocks wild, and sun-burnt fearns,
But nane the night save you and I hae come
Frae the dern mansions of the midnight tomb,
Now whan the dawning's near, whan cock maun craw,
And wi' his angry bougil gar's withdraw,
Ayont the kirk we'll stap, and there tak bield,
While the black hours our nightly freedom yield.

Herriot.
I'm weel content; but binna cassen down,
Nor trow the cock will ca' ye hame o'er soon,

142

For tho' the eastern lift betakens day,
Changing her rokelay black for mantle grey,
Nae weirlike bird our knell of parting rings,
Nor sheds the caller moisture frae his wings.
Nature has chang'd her course; the birds o' day
Dosin' in silence on the bending spray,
While owlets round the craigs at noon-tide flee,
And bludey bawks sit singand on the tree.
Ah, Caledon! the land I yence held dear,
Sair mane mak I for thy destruction near;
And thou, Edina! anes my dear abode,
Whan royal Jamie sway'd the sovereign rod,
In thae blest days, weel did I think bestow'd,
To blaw thy poortith by wi' heaps o' gowd;
To mak thee sonsy seem wi' mony a gift,
And gar thy stately turrets speel the lift:
In vain did Danish Jones, wi' gimcrack pains,
In Gothic sculpture fret the pliant stanes:
In vain did he affix my statue here,
Brawly to busk wi' flow'rs ilk coming year;
My tow'rs are sunk, my lands are barren now,
My fame, my honour, like my flow'rs maun dow.

Watson.
Sure Major Weir, or some sic warlock wight,
Has flung beguilin' glamer o'er your sight;
Or else some kittle cantrup thrown, I ween,
Has bound in mirlygoes my ain twa ein,
If ever aught frae sense cou'd be believ'd
(And seenil hae my senses been deceiv'd),
This moment, o'er the tap of Adam's tomb,
Fu' easy can I see your chiefest dome:
Nae corbie fleein' there, nor croupin' craws,
Seem to forspeak the ruin of thy haws,
But a' your tow'rs in wonted order stand,
Steeve as the rocks that hem our native land.

143

Herriot.

Think na I vent my well-a-day in vain,
Kent ye the cause, ye sure wad join my mane.
Black be the day that e'er to England's ground
Scotland was eikit by the Union's bond;
For mony a menzie of destructive ills
The country now maun brook frae mortmain bills,
That void our test'ments, and can freely gie
Sic will and scoup to the ordain'd trustee,
That he may tir our stateliest riggins bare,
Nor acres, houses, woods, nor fishins spare,
Till he can lend the stoitering state a lift
Wi' gowd in gowpins as a grassum gift;
In lieu o' whilk, we maun be weel content
To tyne the capital at three per cent.
A doughty sum indeed, whan now-a-days
They raise provisions as the stents they raise,
Yoke hard the poor, and lat the rich chiels be,
Pamper'd at ease by ither's industry.

Hale interest for my fund can scantly now
Cleed a' my callants backs, and stap their mou'.
How maun their weyms wi' sairest hunger slack,
Their duds in targets flaff upo' their back,
Whan they are doom'd to keep a lasting Lent,
Starving for England's weel at three per cent.

Watson.
Auld Reikie than may bless the gowden times,
Whan honesty and poortith baith are crimes;
She little kend, whan you and I endow'd
Our hospitals for back-gaun burghers gude,
That e'er our siller or our lands shou'd bring
A gude bien living to a back-gaun king,

144

Wha, thanks to ministry! is grown sae wise,
He douna chew the bitter cud of vice;
For gin, frae Castlehill to Netherbow,
Wad honest houses baudy-houses grow,
The crown wad never spier the price o' sin,
Nor hinder younkers to the de'il to rin;
But gif some mortal grien for pious fame,
And leave the poor man's pray'r to sane his name,
His geer maun a' be scatter'd by the claws
O' ruthless, ravenous, and harpy laws.
Yet, shou'd I think, altho' the bill tak place,
The council winna lack sae meikle grace
As lat our heritage at wanworth gang,
Or the succeeding generations wrang
O' braw bien maintenance and walth o' lear,
Whilk else had drappit to their children's skair;
For mony a deep, and mony a rare engyne
Ha'e sprung frae Herriot's wark, and sprung frae mine.

Herriot.
I find, my friend, that ye but little ken,
There's einow on the earth a set o' men,
Wha, if they get their private pouches lin'd,
Gie na a winnelstrae for a' mankind;
They'll sell their country, flae their conscience bare,
To gar the weigh-bauk turn a single hair.
The government need only bait the line
Wi' the prevailing flee, the gowden coin,
Then our executors, and wise trustees,
Will sell them fishes in forbidden seas,
Upo' their dwining country girn in sport,
Laugh in their sleeve, and get a place at court.

145

Watson.
'Ere that day come, I'll 'mang our spirits pick
Some ghaist that trokes and conjures wi' Auld Nick,
To gar the wind wi' rougher rumbles blaw,
And weightier thuds than ever mortal saw:
Fire-flaught and hail, wi' tenfald fury's fires,
Shall lay yird-laigh Edina's airy spires:
Tweed shall rin rowtin' down his banks out o'er,
Till Scotland's out o' reach o' England's pow'r;
Upo' the briny Borean jaws to float,
And mourn in dowy saughs her dowy lot.

Herriot.
Yonder's the tomb of wise Mackenzie fam'd,
Whase laws rebellious bigotry reclaim'd,
Freed the hail land frae covenanting fools,
Wha erst ha'e fash'd us wi' unnumber'd dools;
Till night we'll tak the swaird aboon our pows,
And than, whan she her ebon chariot rows,
We'll travel to the vaut wi' stealing stap,
And wauk Mackenzie frae his quiet nap:
Tell him our ails, that he, wi' wonted skill,
May fleg the schemers o' the mortmain-bill.

The BUGS.

Thou source of song sublime! thou chiefest Muse!
Whose sacred fountain of immortal fame
Bedew'd the flowrets cull'd for Homer's brow,
When he on Grecian plains the battles sung

146

Of frogs and mice: Do thou, thro' Fancy's maze
Of sportive pastime, lead a lowly Muse
Her rites to join, while, with a faultering voice,
She sings of reptiles yet in song unknown.

Nor you, ye Bards! who oft have struck the lyre,
And tun'd it to the movement of the spheres
In harmony divine, reproach the lays,
Which, though they wind not thro' the starry host
Of bright creation, or on earth delight
To hunt the murm'ring cadence of the floods
Thro' scenes where Nature, with a hand profuse,
Hath lavish strew'd her gems of precious dye;
Yet, in the small existence of a gnat,
Or tinny bug, doth she, with equal skill,
If not transcending, stamp her wonders there,
Only disclos'd to microscopic eye.

Of old the dryads near Edina's walls
Their mansions rear'd, and groves unnumber'd rose
Of branching oak, spread beech, and lofty pine,
Under whose shade, to shun the noontide blaze,
Did Pan resort, with all his rural train
Of shepherds and of nymphs.—The Dryads pleas'd,
Would hail their sports, and summon echo's voice,
To send her greetings thro' the waving woods;
But the rude ax, long brandish'd by the hand
Of daring innovation, shav'd the lawns;
Then not a thicket or a copse remain'd
To sigh in concert with the breeze of eve.

Edina's mansions with lignarian art
Were pil'd and fronted.—Like an ark she seem'd
To lie on mountain's top, with shapes replete,
Clean and unclean, that daily wander o'er
Her streets, that once were spacious, once were gay.
To Jove the Dryads pray'd, nor pray'd in vain,
For vengeance on her sons.—At midnight drear
Black show'rs descend, and teeming myriads rise

147

Of Bugs abhorrent, who by instinct steal
Thro' the diseased and corrosive pores
Of sapless trees, that late in forest stood
With all the majesty of summer crown'd.

By Jove's command dispers'd, they wander wide
O'er all the city.—Some their cells prepare
'Midst the rich trappings and the gay attire
Of state luxuriant, and are fond to press
The waving canopy's depending folds;
While others, destin'd to an humbler fate,
Seek shelter from the dwellings of the poor,
Plying their nightly suction in the bed
Of toil'd mechanic, who, with folded arms,
Enjoys the comforts of a sleep so sound,
That not th'alarming sting of glutting Bug
To murd'rous deed can rouse his brawny arm
Upon the blood-swoln fiend, who basely steals
Life's genial current from his throbbing veins.

Happy were Grandeur, could she triumph here,
And banish from her halls each misery,
Which she must brook in common with the poor,
Who beg subsistence from her sparing hands;
Then might the rich, to fell disease unknown,
Indulge in fond excess, nor ever feel
The slowly creeping hours of restless night,
When shook with guilty horrors—But the wind,
Whose fretful gusts of anger shake the world,
Bear more destructive on th'aspiring roofs
Of dome and palace, than on cottage low,
That meets Eolus with his gentler breath,
When safely shelter'd in the peaceful vale.

Is there a being breathes, howe'er so vile,
Too pitiful for Envy.—She, with venom'd tooth
And grinning madness, frowns upon the bliss
Of every species.—From the human form
That spurns the earth, and bends his mental eye
Thro' the profundity of space unknown,
Down to the crawling Bug's detested race.

148

Thus the lover pines, that reptile rude
Should 'midst the lillies of fair Cloe's breast
Implant the deep carnation, and enjoy
Those sweets which angel modesty hath seal'd
From eyes profane—Yet murmur not, ye few
Who gladly would be Bugs for Cloe's sake!
For soon, alas! the fluctuating gales
Of earthly joy invert the happy scene;
The breath of spring may, with her balmy pow'r,
And warmth diffusive, give to Nature's face
Her brightest colours—But how short the space!
Till angry Eurus, from his petrid cave,
Deform the year, and all these sweets annoy.

Ev'n so befalls it to this creeping race,
This envy'd commonwealth—For they a while
On Cloe's bosom, alabaster fair,
May steal ambrosial bliss—or may regale
On the rich viands of luxurious blood,
Delighted and suffic'd. But mark the end:
Lo! Whitsuntide appears with gloomy train
Of growing desolation.—First Upholsterer rude
Removes the waving drapery, where, for years,
A thriving colony of old and young
Had hid their numbers from the prying day;
Anon they fall, and gladly would retire
To safer ambush, but his merciless foot,
Ah, cruel pressure! cracks their vital springs,
And with their deep-dy'd scarlet smears the floor.

Sweet pow'rs! has pity in the female breast
No tender residence—no lov'd abode?
To urge from murd'rous deed th'avenging hand
Of angry house-maid—She'll have blood for blood!
For lo! the boiling streams from copper tube,
Hot as her rage, sweep myriads to death.
Their carcases are destin'd to the urn
Of some chaste Naiad, that gives birth to floods,

149

Whose fragrant virtues hail Edina, fam'd
For yellow limpid—Whose chaste name the Muse
Thinks too exalted to retail in song.

Ah me! No longer they at midnight shade,
With baneful sting, shall seek the downy couch
Of slumbering mortals.—Nor shall love-sick swain,
When, by the bubling brook, in fairy dream,
His nymph, but half reluctant to his wish,
Is gently folded in his eager arms,
E'er curse the shaft envenom'd, that disturbs
His long-lov'd fancies.—Nor shall hungry bard,
Whose strong imagination, whetted keen,
Conveys him to the feast, be tantaliz'd
With pois'nous tortures, when the cup, brimful
Of purple vintage, gives him greater joy
Than all the Heliconian streams that play
And murmur round Parnassus. Now the wretch,
Oft doom'd to restless days and sleepless nights,
By bugbear conscience thrall'd, enjoys an hour
Of undisturb'd repose—The miser too,
May brook his golden dreams, nor wake with fear
That thieves or kindred (for no soul he'll trust)
Have broke upon his chest, and strive to steal
The shining idols of his useless hours.

Happy the Bug, whose unambitious views
To gilded pomp ne'er tempt him to aspire;
Safely may he, enwrapt in russet fold
Of cobweb'd curtain, set at bay the fears
That still attendant are on Bugs of state:
He never knows at morn the busy brush
Of scrubbing chambermaid: his coursing blood
Is ne'er obstructed with obnoxious dose
By Oliphant prepar'd—Too pois'nous drug!
As deadly fatal to this crawling tribe
As ball and powder to the sons of war.

150

DIRGE.

I

The waving yew or cypress wreath
In vain bequeathe the mighty tear;
In vain the awful pomp of death
Attends the sable shrouded bier.

II

Since Strephon's virtue's sunk to rest,
Nor pity's sigh, nor sorrow's strain,
Nor magic tongue, have e'er confest
Our wounded bosom's secret pain.

III

The just, the good, more honours share
In what the conscious heart bestows,
Than vice adorn'd with sculptor's care,
In all the venal pomp of woes.

IV

A sad-ey'd mourner at his tomb,
Thou, Friendship! pay thy rites divine,
And echo thro' the midnight gloom
That Strephon's early fall was thine.

151

To R. FERGUSSON.

Deed R. I e'en man dip my pen,
But how to write I dinna ken;
For learning, I got fint a grain,
To tell me how
To write to ony gentleman,
Sic like as you.

How blyth am I whan I do see
A piece o' your fine poetrie,
It gars me laugh fou merrilie,
Because there's nane
That gies sic great insight to me,
As your's itlane.

Trouth, Fergusson, I'm verry shier,
(Therefore I think I need na spier)
That ye dwalt anes abien the mier.
For ye do crack
The very sam way we do here
At Amond back.

Ye've English plain enough nae doubt,
And Latin too, but ye do suit
Your lines, to fock that's out about
'Mang hills and braes:
This is the thing that gars me shout
Sae loud your praise.

Gin ever ye come here awa',
I hope ye'll be sae gude as ca'
For Andrew Gray, at Whistle-ha,
The riddle macker,
About a riglength frae Coolsa,
Just o'er the water.

152

We's treat ye, lad, for doing sae weel,
Wi' bannocks o' guid barley meal,
And wi' as mony Cabbage kail
As ye can tak:
And twa three chappins o' guid ale,
To gar ye crack.

Whan this ye see, tak up your pen
And write word back to me again:
And fou you are, mind lat me ken
Without delay;
To hear ye're weel, I'll be right fain;
Your's, Andrew Gray.

Whistle-ha', June 1st, 1773.

To ANDREW GRAY.

Nae langer bygane, than the streen,
Your couthy letter met my ein;
I lang to wag a cutty speen
On Amond water;
And claw the lips o' truncher tree'n
And tak a clatter.

“Frae Whistleha” your muse doth cry;
Whare'er ye win I carena by;
Ye're no the laird o' Whistledry,
As lang's ye can,
Wi' routh o' reekin kail supply
The inward man.

153

You'll trow me, Billy, kail's fu' geed
To synd an' peerify the bleid;
'Twill rin like ony scarlet reid,
While patt ye put on,
Wi' wethers that round Amond feed,
The primest mutton.

Ane wad maist think ye'd been at Scoon,
Whan kings wure there the Scottish crown;
A soupler or mair fletching loun
Ne'er hap'd on hurdies,
Whan courtier's tongues war' there in tune,
For oily wordies.

Can you nae ither theme divine
To blaw upon, but my engyne?
At nature keek, she's unco fine
Redd up, and braw;
And can gie scouth to muses nine
At Whistle-ha.

Her road awhile is rough an' round,
An' few poetic gowans found;
The stey braes o' the muses ground
We scarce can crawl up;
But on the tap we're light as wind
To scour an' gallop.

Whan first ye seyd to mak a riddle
You'd hae an unco fike an' piddle,
An ablins brak aff i' the middle,
Like Samy Butler:
'Tis ein sae wi' Apollo's fiddle,
Before we wit lear.

154

Then flegna at this weary practice,
That's tane to get this wyly nack nice;
The eidant muse begins to crack wise,
An' ne'er cry dule:
It's idleseat, that banefu' black vice,
That gars her cool.

Andrew, at Whistleha, your ein
May lippen for me very sien:
For barley scones my grinders grien.
They're special eating;
Wi' bizzin cogs that ream abien,
Our thrapple weeting.

Till than may you had hale and fier,
That we to Maltman's browst may steer,
And ilka care and ilka fear
To dogdrive ding;
While cheek for chow we laugh and jeer;
And crack and sing.

R. Fergusson. Edinburgh, June 23, 1773.

On seeing a Butterfly in the Street.

Daft gowk, in Macaroni dress,
Are ye come here to shew your face,
Bowden wi' pride o' simmer gloss,
To cast a dash at Reikie's cross;
And glowr at mony twa-legg'd creature,
Flees braw by art, tho' worms by nature?

155

Like country Laird in city cleeding,
Ye're come to town to lear' good breeding;
To bring ilk darling toast and fashion,
In vogue amang the flee creation,
That they, like buskit Belles and Beaus,
May crook their mou' fu' sour at those
Whase weird is still to creep, alas!
Unnotic'd 'mang the humble grass;
While you, wi' wings new buskit trim,
Can far frae yird and reptiles skim;
Newfangle grown wi' new got form,
You soar aboon your mither Worm.

Kind Nature lent but for a day
Her wings to make ye sprush and gay;
In her habuliments a while
Ye may your former sel' beguile,
And ding awa' the vexing thought
Of hourly dwining into nought,
By beenging to your foppish brithers,
Black Corbies dress'd in Peacocks feathers;
Like thee they dander here an' there,
Whan simmer's blinks are warm an' fair,
An' loo to snuff the healthy balm
Whan ev'nin' spreads her wing sae calm;
But whan she girns an' glowrs sae dowr
Frae Borean houff in angry show'r,
Like thee they scoug frae street or field,
An' hap them in a lyther bield;
For they war' never made to dree
The adverse gloom o' Fortune's eie,
Nor ever pried life's pining woes,
Nor pu'd the prickles wi' the rose.

Poor Butterfly! thy case I mourn,
To green kail-yeard and fruits return:

156

How cou'd you troke the Mavis' note
For “penny pies all-piping hot?”
Can Lintie's music be compar'd
Wi' gruntles frae the City-guard?
Or can our flow'rs at ten hours bell
The gowan or the spink excel.

Now shou'd our sclates wi' hailstanes ring,
What cabbage fald wad screen your wing?
Say, fluttering fairy! wer't thy hap
To light beneath braw Nany's cap,
Wad she, proud butterfly of May!
In pity lat you skaithless stay;
The fury's glancing frae her ein
Wad rug your wings o' siller sheen,
That, wae for thee! far, far outvy
Her Paris artist's finest dye;
Then a' your bonny spraings wad fall,
An' you a worm be left to crawl.

To sic mishanter rins the laird
Wha quats his ha'-house an' kail-yard,
Grows politician, scours to court,
Whare he's the laughing-stock and sport
Of Ministers, wha jeer an' jibe,
And heeze his hopes wi' thought o' bribe,
Till in the end they flae him bare,
Leave him to poortith, and to care.
Their fleetching words o'er late he sees,
He trudges hame, repines and dies.

Sic be their fa' wha dirk thir ben
In blackest business no their ain;
And may they scad their lips fu' leal,
That dip their spoons in ither's kail.

157

Hame Content. A Satire.

To all whom it may concern.

Some fock, like Bees, fu glegly rin
To bykes bang'd fu' o' strife and din,
And thieve and huddle crumb by crumb,
Till they have scrapt the dautit Plumb,
Then craw fell crously o' their wark,
Tell o'er their turners mark by mark,
Yet darna think to lowse the pose,
To aid their neighbours ails and woes.

Gif Gowd can fetter thus the heart,
And gar us act sae base a part,
Shall Man, a niggard near-gawn elf!
Rin to the tether's end for pelf;
Learn ilka cunzied scoundrel's trick,
Whan a's done sell his saul to Nick:
I trow they've coft the purchase dear,
That gang sic lengths for warldly gear.

Now whan the Dog-day heats begin
To birsel and to peel the skin,
May I lie streekit at my ease,
Beneath the caller shady trees,
(Far frae the din o'Borrowstown,)
Whar water plays the haughs bedown,
To jouk the simmer's rigor there,
And breath a while the caller air
'Mang herds, an' honest cottar fock,
That till the farm and feed the flock;
Careless o' mair, wha never fash
To lade their kist wi' useless cash,
But thank the gods for what they've sent
O' health eneugh, and blyth content,

158

An' pith, that helps them to stravaig
Our ilka cleugh and ilka craig,
Unkend to a' the weary granes
That aft arise frae gentler banes,
On easy-chair that pamper'd lie,
Wi' banefu' viands gustit high,
And turn and fald their weary clay,
To rax and gaunt the live-lang day.

Ye sages, tell, was man e'er made
To dree this hatefu' sluggard trade?
Steekit frae Nature's beauties a'
That daily on his presence ca';
At hame to girn, and whinge, and pine
For fav'rite dishes, fav'rite wine:
Come then, shake off thir sluggish ties,
And wi' the bird o' dawning rise;
On ilka bauk the clouds hae spread
Wi' blobs o' dew a pearly bed;
Frae falds nae mair the owsen rout,
But to the fatt'ning clever lout,
Whare they may feed at heart's content,
Unyokit frae their winter's stent.

Unyoke then, man, an' binna sweer
To ding a hole in ill-haind gear;
O think that eild, wi' wyly fitt,
Is wearing nearer bit by bit;
Gin yence he claws you wi' his paw,
What's siller for? Fiend haet awa,
But gowden playfair, that may please
The second Sharger till he dies.

Some daft chiel reads, and takes advice;
The chaise is yokit in a trice;
Awa drives he like huntit de'il,
And scarce tholes time to cool his wheel,

159

Till he's Lord kens how far away,
At Italy, or Well o' Spaw,
Or to Montpelier's safter air;
For far aff fowls hae feathers fair.

There rest him weel; for eith can we
Spare mony glakit gouks like he;
They'll tell whare Tibur's waters rise;
What sea receives the drumly prize,
That never wi' their feet hae mett
The marches o' their ain estate.

The Arno and the Tibur lang
Hae run fell clear in Roman sang;
But, save the reverence of schools!
They're baith but lifeless dowy pools.
Dought they compare wi' bonny Tweed,
As clear as ony lammer-bead?
Or are their shores mair sweet and gay
Than Fortha's haughs or banks o' Tay?
Tho' there the herds can jink the show'rs
'Mang thriving vines an' myrtle bow'rs,
And blaw the reed to kittle strains,
While echo's tongue commends their pains,
Like ours, they canna warm the heart
Wi' simple, saft, bewitching art.
On Leader haughs an' Yarrow braes,
Arcadian herds wad tyne their lays,
To hear the mair melodious sounds
That live on our poetic grounds.

Come, Fancy, come, and let us tread
The simmer's flow'ry velvet bed,
And a' your springs delightfu' lowse
On Tweeda's banks or Cowdenknows,
That, ta'en wi' thy inchanting sang,
Our Scottish lads may round ye thrang,
Sae pleas'd, they'll never fash again
To court you on Italian plain;

160

Soon will they guess ye only wear
The simple garb o' Nature here;
Mair comely far, an' fair to sight
Whan in her easy cleething dight,
Than in disguise ye was before
On Tibur's, or on Arno's shore.

O Bangour! now the hills and dales
Nae mair gi'e back thy tender tales!
The birks on Yarrow now deplore
Thy mournfu' muse has left the shore:
Near what bright burn or chrystal spring
Did you your winsome whistle hing?
The muse shall there, wi' wat'ry eie,
Gi'e the dunk swaird a tear for thee;
And Yarrow's genius, dowy dame!
Shall there forget her blude-stain'd stream,
On thy sad grave to seek repose,
Wha mourn'd her fate, condol'd her woes.

Leith Races.

I

In July month, ae bonny morn,
Whan Nature's rokelay green
Was spread o'er ilka rigg o' corn
To charm our roving een;
Glouring about I saw a quean,
The fairest 'neath the lift;
Her Een ware o' the siller sheen,
Her Skin like snawy drift,
Sae white that day.

161

II

Quod she, “I ferly unco sair,
“That ye sud musand gae,
“Ye wha hae sung o' Hallow-fair,
“Her winter's pranks and play:
“Whan on Leith-Sands the racers rare,
“Wi' Jocky louns are met,
“Their orro pennies there to ware,
“And drown themsel's in debt
“Fu' deep that day.”

III

An' wha are ye, my winsome dear,
That takes the gate sae early?
Whare do ye win, gin ane may spier,
For I right meikle ferly,
That sic braw buskit laughing lass
Thir bonny blinks shou'd gi'e,
An' loup like Hebe o'er the grass,
As wanton and as free
Frae dule this day.

IV

“I dwall amang the caller springs
“That weet the Land o' Cakes,
“And aften tune my canty strings
“At bridals and late-wakes:
“They ca' me Mirth; I ne'er was kend
“To grumble or look sour,
“But blyth wad be a lift to lend,
“Gif ye wad sey my pow'r
“An' pith this day.”

162

V

A bargain be't, and, by my feggs,
Gif ye will be my mate,
Wi' you I'll screw the cheery pegs,
Ye shanna find me blate;
We'll reel an' ramble thro' the sands,
And jeer wi' a' we meet;
Nor hip the daft and gleesome bands
That fill Edina's street
Sae thrang this day.

VI

Ere servant maids had wont to rise
To seeth the breakfast kettle,
Ilk dame her brawest ribbons tries,
To put her on her mettle,
Wi' wiles some silly chiel to trap,
(And troth he's fain to get her,)
But she'll craw kniefly in his crap,
Whan, wow! he canna flit her
Frae hame that day.

VII

Now, mony a scaw'd and bare-ars'd lown
Rise early to their wark,
Enough to fley a muckle town,
Wi' dinsome squeel and bark.
“Here is the true an' faithfu' list
“O' Noblemen and Horses;
“Their eild, their weight, their height, their grist,
“That rin for Plates or Purses
“Fu' fleet this day.”

163

VIII

To Whisky Plooks that brunt for wooks
On town-guard soldiers faces,
Their barber bauld his whittle crooks,
An' scrapes them for the races:
Their Stumps erst us'd to filipegs,
Are dight in spaterdashes,
Whase barkent hides scarce fend their legs
Frae weet, and weary plashes
O' dirt that day.

IX

“Come, hafe a care (the captain cries),
“On guns your bagnets thraw;
“Now mind your manual exercise,
“An' marsh down raw by raw.”
And as they march he'll glowr about,
'Tent a' their cuts and scars:
'Mang them fell mony a gausy snout
Has gusht in birth-day wars,
Wi' blude that day.

X

Her Nanesel maun be carefu' now,
Nor maun she pe misleard,
Sin baxter lads hae seal'd a vow
To skelp and clout the guard:
I'm sure Auld Reikie kens o' nane
That wou'd be sorry at it,
Tho' they should dearly pay the kane,
An' get their tails weel sautit
And sair thir days.

164

XI

The tinkler billies i' the Bow
Are now less eidant clinking,
As lang's their pith or siller dow,
They're daffin', and they're drinking.
Bedown Leith-walk what burrochs reel
Of ilka trade and station,
That gar their wives an' childer feel
Toom weyms for their libation
O' drink thir days.

XII

The browster wives thegither harl
A' trash that they can fa' on;
They rake the grounds o' ilka barrel,
To profit by the lawen:
For weel wat they a skin leal het
For drinking needs nae hire;
At drumbly gear they take nae pet;
Foul Water slockens Fire
And drouth thir days.

XIII

They say, ill ale has been the deid
O' mony a beirdly lown;
Then dinna gape like gleds wi' greed
To sweel hail bickers down;
Gin Lord send mony ane the morn,
They'll ban fu' sair the time
That e'er they toutit aff the horn
Which wambles thro' their weym
Wi' pain that day.

165

XIV

The Buchan bodies thro' the beech
Their bunch of Findrums cry,
An' skirl out baul', in Norland speech,
“Gueed speldings, fa will buy.”
An', by my saul, they're nae wrang gear
To gust a stirrah's mow;
Weel staw'd wi' them, he'll never spear
The price o' being fu'
Wi' drink that day.

XV

Now wyly wights at Rowly Powl,
An' flingin' o' the Dice,
Here brake the banes o' mony a soul
Wi' fa's upo' the ice:
At first the gate seems fair an' straught,
So they had fairly till her;
But wow! in spite o' a' their maught,
They're rookit o' their siller
An' goud that day.

XVI

Around whare'er ye fling your een,
The Haiks like wind are scourin';
Some chaises honest folk contain,
An' some hae mony a Whore in;
Wi' rose and lilly, red and white,
They gie themselves sic fit airs,
Like Dian, they will seem perfite;
But its nae goud that glitters
Wi' them thir days.

166

XVII

The LYON here, wi' open paw,
May cleek in mony hunder,
Wha geck at Scotland and her law,
His wyly talons under;
For ken, tho' Jamie's laws are auld,
(Thanks to the wise recorder),
His Lyon yet roars loud and bawld,
To had the Whigs in order
Sae prime this day.

XVIII

To town-guard Drum of clangor clear,
Baith men and steeds are raingit;
Some liveries red or yellow wear,
And some are tartan spraingit:
And now the red, the blue e'en-now
Bids fairest for the market;
But, 'ere the sport be done, I trow
Their skins are gayly yarkit
And peel'd thir days.

XIX

Siclike in Robinhood debates,
Whan twa chiels hae a pingle;
E'en-now some couli gets his aits,
An' dirt wi' words they mingle,
Till up loups he, wi' diction fu',
There's lang and dreech contesting;
For now they're near the point in view;
Now ten miles frae the question
In hand that night.

167

XX

The races o'er, they hale the dools,
Wi' drink o' a' kin-kind;
Great feck gae hirpling hame like fools,
The cripple lead the blind.
May ne'er the canker o' the drink
E'er make our spirits thrawart,
'Case we git wharewitha' to wink
Wi' een as blue's a blawart
Wi' straiks thir days!

Summons.

To Jeemy Neehum our Recorder
Heralds and purs'vants of that order
Whereas tis meant and shewn to me
This month of August seventy three
That some unlicensed prying blades
Of Late have occupied the Shades
The Like in future to prevent
It is our Sovereign intent
That from this month of August So forth
You shall debarr all Knights of No worth
By Lockfast Doors at Noontide hours
To keep it from the Rascals powers
To pitch and blackguard any more
As they have acted heretofore
Therefore I charge you that ye Summon
Precentor base born Son of Woman
To answer in the hour of Cause
For Open Insult to our Laws
Like as ordain him to depone
If he has Lybells any one

168

Containing Treasonable Rhymes
Or other Treasonable Crimes
Which he has Issued gainst the Shades
And all our Bumper drinking blades
All things before said Which to do
We hereby do Committ to you
As all of you and Every one
Shall answer to us thereupon—

A Mournful Ditty from the Knight of Complaints

MOTTO

What should I do up town my business lies all in the Canongate

[I]

How blyth was I ilk day to see
Auchleck come tripping doun
His ain forestairs at Netherbow
To drink his dram at Noon

Chorus

Oh the Shades the Caller Caller Shades
Where I have oft complaind
Till Luckies Bottle C.F.D.
Was to the bottom drain'd

II

I neither wanted drink nor dram
Whan Tam Dicks house was nigh
But now in Canongate I dwell
A dismal place and dry

169

III

Hard fate that I should banish'd be
Gang heavily and mourn
Because I lood the Warmest dram
That Eer in Mouth did burn

IV

She brought a Gill sae Strong and Sweet
The Knights stood drouthy by
Even Pitcher Hume in dumbness gazd
He was so very dry

V

Our Bottle and the Little Stoup
That held our wee soup dram
Ye Thirsty Knights for Liquor Coup
I will not Care a Damn

VI

Adiew ye Cooling Shades adiew
Fareweel my forenoons Gill
By Tam Dicks fire I'll Sitt no more
My Horrors all to kill

Cape Song.

[_]

Tune—How happy a State does the Miller possess

[I]

How happy a State does the Cape knight possess,
With Sixpence he'll purchase a Crouns worth of bliss,
O'er a Foaming green Stoup, he depends for some Sport;
From a Liquid that never can do a man hurt.

170

II

What though in Capehall he should goosified Spew
From peuking with Porter, no thirst can Ensue,
Not so my Dear knights, Fares the Ignorant ass
Who drinks all the Evening at burning Molass.

III

Now in the Cape Closet a Table's preparing
With Welch Rabbits garnish'd by good Glasgow herring
Oh What Caller Tippony then shall be quaffd?
And of thee O Thames Water a Terrible Draught!

IV

In freedoms gay frolick, we shorten the night
With humorous pitching and Songs of Delight,
Then Who would not rather in Capehall get drunk
For Sixpence, than give half a Croun to a Punk?

SONG.

The progress of Knighthood.

By The Knight of Precentor

[_]

Tune—In Infancy—

In Infancy the Cape was small
Few Knights assembled there,
Nor to adorn their spacious Hall
Did one Green Stoup appear

171

No Pitching then or song was heard
Brisk Laughter to afford
But now some score of Vocal Knights
With Musick hail the Board

On all around bright Candles shine
And Broun Stouts Coal burns clear
A Coal whose Influence divine
The dullest Knight can chear

Fresh Streams of Porter deep imbroun'd
Remove our Care and pain
And they who taste thereof but once
Must surely taste again—

SONG.

[Hollo! keep it up, boys—and push round the glass]

[_]

Tune—Lumps of Pudding

Hollo! keep it up, boys—and push round the glass,
Let each seize his bumper, and drink to his lass:
Away with dull thinking—'tis madness to think—
And let those be sober who've nothing to drink. Tal de ral &c.

Silence that vile clock, with its iron-tongu'd bell,
Of the hour that's departed still ringing the knell:
But what is't to us that the hours flie away?
'Tis only a signal to moisten the clay.

Huzza, boys! let each take a bumper in hand,
And stand—if there's any one able to stand.
How all things dance round me!—'tis life, tho' my boys:
Of drinking and spewing how great are the joys!

172

My head! oh, my head!—but no matter, 'tis life;
Far better than moping at home with one's wife.
The pleasure of drinking you're sure must be grand,
When I'm neither able to think, speak, nor stand.

On seeing a Collection of Pictures painted by Mr Runciman .

O could my Muse, like thee, with magic skill,
Subdue the various passions at her will,
Like thee make each idea stand confest,
That honours or depraves the human breast;
Like thee could make the awe-struck world admire
An Ossian's fancy, and a Fingal's fire,
Boldly aspiring at exalted lays,
The Poet then should sing the Painter's praise.

On James Cumming.

Just now in fair Edina lives,
That famous Antient Town
At a known place hight Blackfry'rs Wynd
A knight of Odd renown

A Druids Sacred form he bears
With Saucer Eyes of Fire
An Antique Hat on's head he wears
Like Ramsays the Town Cryer

Down in the Wynd his Mansion Stands
All gloomy dark within
Here mangled Books like blood and Bones
Strew'd in a Giants Den

173

Crude indigested half devour'd
On groaning Shelves theyr thrown
Such Manuscripts no Eye can read
No hand Write but his own

No Prophet he like Sydrophel
Can future times explore
But what has happend he can tell
Five hundred years and more

A Walking Alm'nack he appears
Step't from some mouldy wall
Worn out of Use thro' dust and years
Like Scutcheons in his Hall

By rusty Coins old Kings he'll trace
And know their Air and Mein
King Fergus he knows well by face
'Tho George he ne'er has seen

This wight th'outsides of Churches loo'd
Almost unto a Sin
Spires gothic of more use he prov'd
Than Pulpits are within

Ye Jackdaws that are us'd to talk
Like Us of human race
When nigh you see James Cumming walk
Loud chatter forth his praise

When e'er the fatal day shall come
For come alas it must
When this good knight must stay at home
And turn to antique dust

The solemn Dirge ye Owls prepare
Ye Bats more hoarsly skreak
Croak all ye Ravens Round the bier
And all ye Church Mice Squeak

174

TEA. A Poem.

Ye maidens modest! on whose sullen brows
Hath weaning chastity her wrinkles cull'd,
Who constant labour o'er consumptive oil
At midnight knell, to wash sleep's nightly balm
From closing eye-lids, with the grateful drops
Of TEA's blest juices; list th'obsequious lays
That come not with Parnassian honours crown'd
To dwell in murmurs o'er your sleepy sense,
But fresh from Orient blown to chace far off
Your Lethargy, that dormant Needles rous'd
May pierce the waving Mantua's silken folds:
For many a dame, in chamber sadly pent,
Hath this reviving limpid call'd to life;
And well it did, to mitigate the frowns
Of anger reddening on Lucinda's brow
With flash malignant, that had harbour'd there,
If she at masquerade, or play, or ball,
Appear'd not in her newest, best attire.
But Venus, goddess of th'eternal smile,
Knowing that stormy brows but ill become
Fair patterns of her beauty, hath ordain'd
Celestial Tea. A fountain that can cure
The ills of passion, and can free the Fair
From frowns and sighs, by disappointment earn'd.

To her, ye fair, in adoration bow!
Whether at blushing morn, or dewy eve;
Her smoaking cordials greet your fragrant board,
With Sushong, Congo, or coarse Bohea crown'd.
At midnight skies, ye Mantua-makers, hail
The sacred offering!—For the haughty Belles
No longer can upbraid your lingering hands
With trains upborn aloft by dusty gales
That sweep the ball-room—swift they glide along,
And, with their sailing streamers, catch the eye
Of some Adonis, mark'd to love a prey,

175

Whose bosom ne'er had panted with a sigh,
But for the silken draperies that inclose
Graces which nature has by art conceal'd.

Mark well the fair! observe their modest eye,
With all the innocence of beauty blest.
Could slander o'er that tongue its power retain
Whose breath is music? Ah, fallacious thought!
The surface is Ambrosia's mingled sweets;
But all below is death. At Tea-board met,
Attend their prattling tongues—they scoff—they rail
Unbounded; but their darts are chiefly aim'd
At some gay Fair, whose beauties far eclipse
Her dim beholders:—Who with haggard eyes
Would blight those charms where raptures long have dwelt
In extacy delighted and sufficed.

In vain hath Beauty, with her varied robe,
Bestow'd her glowing blushes o'er her cheeks,
And call'd attendant graces to her aid,
To blend the scarlet and the lilly fair.
In vain did Venus in her fav'rite mould
Adapt the slender form to Cupid's choice;
When slander comes, her blasts too fatal prove;
Pale are those cheeks where youth and beauty glow'd,
Where smiles, where freshness, and where roses grew:
Ghastly and wan their Gorgon picture comes
With every fury grinning from the locks
Of frightful monster—Envy's hissing tongue
With deepest vengeance wounds, and every wound
With deeper canker, deeper poison teems.

O GOLD! thy luring lustre first prevail'd
On Man to tempt the fretful winds and waves,
And hunt new fancies. Still thy glaring form
Bids commerce thrive, and o'er the Indian waves
O'er-stemming danger draw the lab'ring keel
From China's coast to Britain's colder clime,
Fraught with the fruits and herbage of their vales;
In them whatever vegetable springs,
How loathsome and corrupted, triumphs here,

176

The bane of life, of health the sure decay;
Yet, yet we swallow, and extol the draught,
Tho' nervous ails should spring, and vap'rish qualms
Our senses and our appetites destroy.

Look round, ye sipplers of the poison'd cup
From foreign plant distilled! no more repine
That Nature, sparing of her sacred sweets,
Hath doom'd you in a wilderness to dwell,
While round Britannia's streams she kindly rears
Green Sage and Wild Thyme.—These were sure decreed
As plants of Britain to regale her sons
With native moisture, more refreshing sweet,
And more profuse of health and vigor's balm,
Than all the stems that India can boast.

Ode to the Gowdspink

Frae fields whare Spring her sweets has blawn
Wi' caller verdure o'er the lawn,
The Gowdspink comes in new attire,
The brawest 'mang the whistling choir,
That, 'ere the sun can clear his ein,
Wi' glib notes sane the simmer's green.

Sure Nature herried mony a tree,
For spraings and bonny spats to thee:
Nae mair the rainbow can impart
Sic glowing ferlies o' her art,
Whase pencil wrought its freaks at will
On thee the sey-piece o' her skill.
Nae mair thro' Straths in simmer dight
We seek the Rose to bless our sight;
Or bid the bonny wa'flowers sprout
On yonder Ruin's lofty snout.

177

Thy shining garments far outstrip
The cherries upo' Hebe's lip,
And fool the tints that Nature chose
To busk and paint the crimson rose.

'Mang man, wae's-heart! we aften find
The brawest drest want peace of mind,
While he that gangs wi' ragged coat
Is weil contentit wi' his lot.
Whan wand wi' glewy birdlime's set,
To steal far aff your dautit mate,
Blyth wad ye change your cleething gay
In lieu of lav'rock's sober grey.
In vain thro' woods you sair may ban
Th'envious treachery of man,
That, wi' your gowden glister ta'en,
Still hunts you on the simmer's plain,
And traps you 'mang the sudden fa's
O' winter's dreery dreepin' snaws.
Now steekit frae the gowany field,
Frae ilka fav'rite houff and bield,
But mergh, alas! to disengage
Your bonny bouck frae fettering cage,
Your free-born bosom beats in vain
For darling liberty again.
In window hung, how aft we see
Thee keek around at warblers free,
That carrol saft, and sweetly sing
Wi' a' the blythness of the spring?
Like Tantalus they hing you here
To spy the glories o' the year;
And tho' you're at the burnie's brink,
They douna suffer you to drink.

Ah, Liberty! thou bonny dame,
How wildly wanton is thy stream,
Round whilk the birdies a' rejoice,
An' hail you wi' a gratefu' voice.

178

The Gowdspink chatters joyous here,
And courts wi' gleesome sangs his peer:
The Mavis frae the new-bloom'd thorn
Begins his lauds at earest morn;
And herd lowns louping o'er the grass,
Needs far less fleetching till his lass,
Than paughty damsels bred at courts,
Wha thraw their mou's, and take the dorts:
But, reft of thee, fient flee we care
For a' that life ahint can spare.
The Gowdspink, that sae lang has kend
Thy happy sweets (his wonted friend),
Her sad confinement ill can brook
In some dark chamber's dowy nook:
Tho' Mary's hand his nebb supplies,
Unkend to hunger's painfu' cries,
Ev'n beauty canna cheer the heart
Frae life, frae liberty apart;
For now we tyne its wonted lay,
Sae lightsome sweet, sae blythly gay.

Thus Fortune aft a curse can gie,
To wyle us far frae liberty:
Then tent her syren smiles wha list,
I'll ne'er envy your girnal's grist;
For whan fair freedom smiles nae mair,
Care I for life? Shame fa' the hair;
A field o'ergrown wi' rankest stubble,
The essence of a paltry bubble.

179

An Expedition to Fife and the Island of May, on board the Blessed Endeavour of Dunbar, Captain Roxburgh Commander.

List, O ye slumberers on the peaceful shore!
Whose lives are one unvariegated calm
Of stillness and of sloth: And hear, O nymph!
In heaven yclepit Pleasure; from your throne
Effulgent send a heavenly radiant beam,
That, cheer'd by thee, the Muse may bend her way,
For from no earthly flight she builds her song,
But from the bosom of green Neptune's main
Would fain emerge, and, under Phebe's reign,
Transmit his numbers to inclining ears.

Now when the choiring songsters quit the groves,
And solemn sounding whisp'rings lull the spray
To meditation sacred, let me roam
O'er the blest floods that wash our natal shore,
And view the wonders of the deep profound,
While now the western breezes reign around,
And Boreas, sleeping in his iron cave,
Regains his strength and animated rage
To wake new tempests and inswell new seas.

And now Favonius wings the sprightly gale;
The willing canvass, swelling with the breeze,
Gives life and motion to our bounding prow,
While the hoarse boatswain's pipe shrill sounding far,
Calls all the tars to action. Hardy sons!
Who shudder not at life's devouring gales,
But smile amidst the tempest's sounding jars,
Or 'midst the hollow thunders of the war:
Fresh sprung from Greenland's cold, they hail with joy
The happier clime, the fresh autumnal breeze
By Syrius guided to allay the heat

180

That else would parch the vigour of their veins.
Hard change, alas! from petrifying cold
Instant to plunge to the severest ray
That burning Dog-star or bright Phebus sheds,
Like comet whirling thro' th'etherial void,
Now they are reddened with the solar blaze,
Now froze and tortur'd by the frigid zone.

Thrice happy Britons! whose well temper'd clay
Can face all climes, all tempests, and all seas.
These are the sons that check the growing war;
These are the sons that hem Britannia round
From sudden innovation, awe the shores,
And make their drooping pendants hail her queen
And mistress of the globe.—They guard our beds,
While fearless we enjoy secure repose,
And all the blessings of a bounteous sky.
To them in fev'rous adoration bend,
Ye fashioned Macaronies! whose bright blades
Were never dimm'd or stain'd with hostile blood,
But still hang dangling on your feeble thigh,
While through the Mall or Park you shew away,
Or thro' the drawing-room on tiptoe steal.

On poop aloft, to messmates laid along,
Some son of Neptune, whose old wrinkl'd brow
Has bay'd the rattling thunder, tells his tale
Of dangers, sieges, and of battles dire,
While they, elate with success of the day,
Cheer him with happy smiles, or bitter sighs,
When fortune with a sourer aspect grins.

Ah! how unstable are the joys of life?
The pleasures, ah! how few?—Now smile the skies
With visage mild, and now the thunders shake,
And all the radiance of the heavens deflow'r.
Thro' the small op'ning of the mainsail broad,
Lo, Boreas steals, and tears him from the yard,
Where long and lasting he has play'd his part.
So suffers Virtue. When in her fair form
The smallest flaw is found, the whole decays.

181

In vain she may implore with piteous eye,
And spread her naked pinions to the blast.
A reputation maim'd finds no repair
Till death, the ghastly monarch, shuts the scene.

And now we gain the May, whose midnight light,
Like vestal virgins off'rings undecay'd,
To mariners bewilder'd acts the part
Of social friendship, guiding those that err
With kindly radiance to their destin'd port.

Thanks, kindest Nature! for those floating gems,
Those green-grown isles, with which you lavish strew
Great Neptune's empire. But for thee! the main
Were an uncomfortable mazy flood.
No guidance then would bless the steersman's skill,
No resting place would crown the mar'ner's wish,
When he to distant gales his canvass spreads,
To search new wonders.—Here the verdant shores
Teem with new freshness, and regale our sight
With haunts that antient time, in days of yore,
Sequester'd for the haunt of Druid lone,
There to remain in solitary cell,
Beyond the power of mortals to disjoin
From holy meditation.—Happy now
To cast our eyes around from shore to shore,
While by the oozy caverns on the beech
We wander wild, and listen to the roar
Of billows murmuring with incessant noise.

And now, by fancy led, we wander wild
Where o'er the rugged steep the buried dead
Remote lie anchor'd in their parent mould;
Where a few fading willows point the state
Of man's decay. Ah, death! where-e'er we fly,
Whether we seek the busy and the gay,
The mourner or the joyful, there art thou.
No distant isle, no surly swelling surge,
E'er aw'd thy progress, or controul'd thy sway,
To bless us with that comfort, length of days,
By all aspir'd at, but by few attain'd.

182

To Fife we steer, of all beneath the sun
The most unhallow'd 'midst the Scotian plains!
And here, sad emblem of deceitful times!
Hath sad hypocrisy her standard borne.
Mirth knows no residence, but ghastly fear
Stands trembling and appall'd at airy sights.
Once, only only once! Reward it, O ye powers!
Did Hospitality, with open face,
And winning smile, cheer the deserted sight,
That else had languish'd for the blest return
Of beauteous day, to dissipate the clouds
Of endless night, and superstition wild,
That constant hover o'er the dark abode.
O happy Lothian! Happy thrice her sons!
Who ne'er yet ventur'd from the southern shore,
To tempt misfortune on the Fifan coast,
Again with thee we dwell, and taste thy joys,
Where sorrow reigns not, and where every gale
Is fraught with fullness, blest with living hope,
That fears no canker from the year's decay.

To the Principal and Professors of the University of St Andrews, on their superb treat to Dr Samuel Johnson.

St Andrews town may look right gawsy,
Nae Grass will grow upon her cawsey,
Nor wa'-flow'rs of a yellow dye,
Glour dowy o'er her Ruins high,
Sin Samy's head weel pang'd wi' lear
Has seen the Alma Mater there:

183

Regents, my winsome billy boys!
'Bout him you've made an unco noise;
Nae doubt for him your bells wad clink,
To find him upon Eden's brink,
An' a' things nicely set in order,
Wad kep him on the Fifan border:
I'se warrant now frae France an' Spain,
Baith Cooks and Scullions mony ane
Wad gar the pats an' kettles tingle
Around the college kitchen ingle,
To fleg frae a' your craigs the roup,
Wi' reeking het and crieshy soup;
And snails and puddocks mony hunder
Wad beeking lie the hearth-stane under,
Wi' roast and boild, an' a' kin kind,
To heat the body, cool the mind.

But hear me lads! gin I'd been there,
How I wad trimm'd the bill o' fare!
For ne'er sic surly wight as he
Had met wi' sic respect frae me,
Mind ye what Sam, the lying loun!
Has in his Dictionar laid down?
That Aits in England are a feast
To cow an' horse, an' sican beast,
While in Scots ground this growth was common
To gust the gab o' Man an' Woman.
Tak tent, ye Regents! then, an' hear
My list o' gudely hamel gear,
Sic as ha'e often rax'd the wyme
O' blyther fallows mony time;
Mair hardy, souple, steive an' swank,
Than ever stood on Samy's shank.

Imprimis, then, a haggis fat,
Weel tottl'd in a seything pat,
Wi' spice and ingans weel ca'd thro',
Had help'd to gust the stirrah's mow,

184

And plac'd itsel in truncher clean
Before the gilpy's glowrin een.

Secundo, then a gude sheep's head
Whase hide was singit, never flead,
And four black trotters cled wi' girsle,
Bedown his throat had learn'd to hirsle.
What think ye neist, o' gude fat brose
To clag his ribs? a dainty dose!
And white and bloody puddins routh,
To gar the Doctor skirl, O Drouth!
Whan he cou'd never houp to merit
A cordial o' reaming claret,
But thraw his nose, and brize and pegh
O'er the contents o' sma' ale quegh:
Then let his wisdom girn an' snarl
O'er a weel-tostit girdle farl,
An' learn, that maugre o' his wame,
Ill bairns are ay best heard at hame.

Drummond, lang syne, o' Hawthornden,
The wyliest an' best o' men,
Has gi'en you dishes ane or mae,
That wad ha' gard his grinders play,
Not to roast beef, old England's life,
But to the auld east nook of Fife,
Whare Creilian crafts cou'd weel ha'e gi'en
Scate-rumples to ha'e clear'd his een;
Then neist, whan Samy's heart was faintin,
He'd lang'd for scate to mak him wanton.

Ah! willawins, for Scotland now,
Whan she maun stap ilk birky's mow
Wi' eistacks, grown as 'tware in pet
In foreign land, or green-house het,
When cog o' brose an' cutty spoon
Is a' our cottar childer's boon,
Wha thro' the week, till Sunday's speal,
Toil for pease-clods an' gude lang kail.

185

Devall then, Sirs, and never send
For daintiths to regale a friend,
Or, like a torch at baith ends burning,
Your house'll soon grow mirk and mourning.

What's this I hear some cynic say?
Robin, ye loun! it's nae fair play;
Is there nae ither subject rife
To clap your thumb upon but Fife?
Gi'e o'er, young man, you'll meet your corning,
Than caption war, or charge o' horning;
Some canker'd surly sour-mow'd carline
Bred near the abbey o' Dumfarline,
Your shoulders yet may gi'e a lounder,
An' be of verse the mal-confounder.

Come on ye blades! but 'ere ye tulzie,
Or hack our flesh wi' sword or gulzie,
Ne'er shaw your teeth, nor look like stink,
Nor o'er an empty bicker blink:
What weets the wizen an' the wyme,
Will mend your prose and heal my rhyme.

The ELECTION.

Nunc est bibendum, et bendere Bickerum magnum; Cavete Town-guardum, D---l G---dd---m atque C---pb---m.

I

Rejoice, ye Burghers, ane an' a',
Lang look't for's come at last;
Sair war your backs held to the wa'
Wi' poortith an' wi' fast:

186

Now ye may clap your wings an' craw,
And gayly busk ilk' feather,
For Deacon Cocks hae pass'd a law
To rax an' weet your leather
Wi' drink thir days.

II

Haste, Epps, quo' John, an' bring my gez,
Take tent ye dinna't spulzie:
Last night the barber ga't a friz,
An' straikit it wi' ulzie.
Hae done your paritch lassie Liz,
Gi'e me my sark an' gravat;
I'se be as braw's the Deacon is
Whan he taks Affidavit
O' Faith the day.

III

Whar's Johnny gaun, cries neebor Bess,
That he's sae gayly bodin
Wi' new kam'd wig, weel syndet face,
Silk hose, for hamely hodin?
“Our Johny's nae sma' drink you'll guess,
“He's trig as ony muir-cock,
“An' forth to mak a Deacon, lass;
“He downa speak to poor fock
Like us the day.”

187

IV

The coat ben-by i' the kist-nook,
That's been this towmonth swarmin,
Is brought yence mair thereout to look,
To fleg awa the vermin:
Menzies o' Moths an' Flaes are shook,
An' i' the floor they howder,
Till in a birn beneath the crook
They're singit wi' a scowder
To death that day.

V

The canty cobler quats his sta',
His rozet an' his lingans;
His buik has dree'd a sair, sair fa'
Frae meals o' bread an' ingans:
Now he's a pow o' wit an' law,
An' taunts at soals an' heels;
To Walker's he can rin awa,
There whang his creams an' jeels
Wi' life that day.

VI

The lads in order tak their seat,
(The de'il may claw the clungest)
They stegh an' connach sae the meat,
Their teeth mak mair than tongue haste:
Their claes sae cleanly dight an' feat,
An' eke their craw-black beavers,
Like masters mows hae found the gate
To tassels teugh wi' slavers
Fu' lang that day.

188

VII

The dinner done, for brandy strang
They cry, to weet their thrapple,
To gar the stamack bide the bang,
Nor wi' its laden grapple.
The grace is said—its no o'er lang;
The claret reams in bells;
Quod Deacon let the toast round gang,
“Come, here's our Noble sel's
Weel met the day.”

VIII

Weels me o' drink, quo' cooper Will,
My barrel has been geyz'd ay,
An' has na gotten sic a fill
Sin fu' on handsel-Teysday:
But makes-na, now it's got a sweel,
Ae gird I shanna cast lad,
Or else I wish the horned de'el
May Will wi' kittle cast dad
To h---ll the day.

IX

The Magistrates fu' wyly are,
Their lamps are gayly blinking,
But they might as leive burn elsewhere,
Whan fock's blind fu' wi' drinking.
Our Deacon wadna ca' a chair,
The foul ane durst him na-say;
He took shanks-naig, but fient may care,
He arselins kiss'd the cawsey
Wi' bir that night.

189

X

Weel loes me o' you, souter Jock,
For tricks ye buit be trying,
Whan greapin for his ain bed-stock,
He fa's whare Will's wife's lying,
Will coming hame wi' ither fock,
He saw Jock there before him;
Wi' Master Laiglen, like a brock
He did wi' stink maist smore him
Fu' strang that night.

XI

Then wi' a' souple leathern whang
He gart them fidge and girn ay,
“Faith, Chiel, ye's no for naething gang
“Gin ye man reel my pirny.”
Syne wi' a muckle alshin lang
He brodit Maggie's hurdies;
An' 'cause he thought her i' the wrang,
There pass'd nae bonny wordies
'Mang them that night.

XII

Now, had some laird his lady fand
In sic unseemly courses,
It might hae loos'd the haly band,
Wi' law-suits an' Divorces:
But the niest day they a' shook hands,
And ilka crack did sowder,
While Megg for drink her apron pawns,
For a' the gude-man cow'd her
Whan fu' last night.

190

XIII

Glowr round the cawsey, up an' down,
What mobbing and what plotting!
Here politicians bribe a loun
Against his saul for voting.
The gowd that inlakes half a crown
Thir blades lug out to try them,
They pouch the gowd, nor fash the town
For weights an' scales to weigh them
Exact that day.

XIV

Then Deacons at the counsel stent
To get themsel's presentit:
For towmonths twa their saul is lent,
For the town's gude indentit:
Lang's their debating thereanent;
About Protests they're bauthrin,
While Sandy Fife, to mak content,
On Bells plays Clout the caudron
To them that day.

XV

Ye lowns that troke in doctor's stuff,
You'll now hae unco slaisters;
Whan windy blaws their Stamacks puff,
They'll need baith pills an' plaisters;
For tho' ev'now they look right bluff,
Sic drinks, 'ere Hillocks meet,
Will hap some Deacons in a truff,
Inrow'd in the lang leet
O' death yon night.

191

On the Music-bells playing yesterday forenoon, prior to Brown and Wilson's execution, on the Deacons being presented to Council.

HAPPY the folks that rule the roast!
Our council-men are chearful;
To mirth they now devote each toast,
And bells fill ev'ry ear full.
When man's condemn'd to suffer death
For his unlicens'd crimes,
Instead of psalms they quit their breath
To merry-making chimes.

Elegy on John Hogg, late Porter to the University of St Andrews.

Death, what's ado? the de'il be licket,
Or wi' your stang, you ne'er had pricket,
Or our auld alma mater tricket
O' poor John Hogg,
And trail'd him ben thro' your mark wicket
As dead's a log.

Now ilka glaikit scholar lown
May dander wae wi' duddy gown;
Kate Kennedy to dowy crune
May mourn and clink,
And steeples o' Saint Andrew's town
To yird may sink.

192

Sin' Pauly Tam, wi' canker'd snout,
First held the students in about
To wear their claes as black as soot,
They ne'er had reason,
Till death John's haffit ga'e a clout
Sae out o' season.

Whan regents met at common schools,
He taught auld Tam to hale the dules,
And eidant to row right the bowls
Like ony emmack;
He kept us a' within the rules
Strict academic.

Heh! wha will tell the students now
To meet the Pauly cheek for chow,
Whan he, like frightsome wirrikow,
Had wont to rail,
And set our stamacks in a low,
Or we turn'd tail.

Ah, Johnny! aften did I grumble
Frae cozy bed fu' ear' to tumble;
Whan art and part I'd been in some ill,
Troth I was sweer,
His words they brodit like a wumill
Frae ear to ear.

Whan I had been fu' laith to rise,
John than begude to moralize:
“The tither nap, the sluggard cries,
“And turns him round;
“Sae spake auld Solomon the wise
“Divine profound!”

193

Nae dominie, or wise mess John,
Was better lear'd in Solomon;
He cited proverbs one by one
Ilk vice to tame;
He gar'd ilk sinner sigh an' groan,
And fear hell's flame.

“I hae nae meikle skill, quo' he,
“In what you ca' philosophy;
“It tells that baith the earth and sea
“Rin round about;
“Either the Bible tells a lie,
“Or you're a' out.

“Its i' the psalms o' David writ,
“That this wide warld ne'er shou'd flit,
“But on the waters coshly sit
“Fu' steeve and lasting;
“An' was na he a head o' wit
“At sic contesting!”

On einings cauld wi' glee we'd trudge
To heat our shins in Johnny's lodge;
The de'il ane thought his bum to budge
Wi' siller on us:
To claw het pints we'd never grudge
O' molationis.

Say ye, red gowns! that aften here
Hae toasted bakes to Kattie's beer,
Gin 'ere thir days hae had their peer,
Sae blyth, sae daft;
You'll ne'er again in life's career
Sit ha'f sae saft.

194

Wi' haffit locks, sae smooth and sleek,
John look'd like ony antient Greek;
He was a Nazarene a' the week,
And doughtna tell out
A bawbee Scots to straik his cheek
Till Sunday fell out.

For John ay lo'ed to turn the pence,
Thought poortith was a great offence:
“What recks tho' ye ken mood and tense?
“A hungry weyme
“For gowd wad wi' them baith dispense
“At ony time.

“Ye ken what ails maun ay befal
“The chiel that will be prodigal;
“Whan wasted to the very spaul
“He turns his tusk,
“For want o' comfort to his saul
“O' hungry husk.”

Ye royit lowns! just do as he'd do;
For mony braw green shaw and meadow
He's left to cheer his dowy widow,
His winsome Kate,
That to him prov'd a canny she-dow,
Baith ear' and late.

195

DUMFRIES.

The gods sure in some canny hour,
To bonny Nith hae t'aen a tour,
Whare bonny blinks the caller flow'r
Beside the stream,
And sportive there hae shawn their pow'r
In fairy dream.

Had Kirkhill here but kent the gate,
The beauties on Dumfries that wait,
He'd never turn'd his canker'd pate
Of satire keen,
Whan ilka thing's sae trig and feat,
To cheer the ein.

I ken the stirrah loo'd fu' weil
Amang the drinking loons to reel,
An Claret wine or Porter sweel,
Whilk he cou'd get,
After a shank o' beer he'd peel,
His craig to wet.

Marshall's an Bushby's then had fund
Some kitchen gude, to lay the grund,
And Cheshire mites had helped to hund
And fley awa'
The heart-scad an' a scud o' wind
Frae stamach raw.

196

Had Horace liv'd, that pleasant sinner,
That loo'd gude wine to synd his dinner,
His muse tho' douf, the de'il be in her,
She'd lous'd her tongue,
The drink cou'd round Parnassus rin her
In blythest sang.

Nae mair he'd sung to auld Maecenas,
The blinking ein o' bonny Venus,
His leave o' them he'd ta'en at anis
For Claret here,
Which Jove and a' his Gods still rain us
Frae year to year.

O Jove, man, gie's some orrow pence,
Mair siller, an' a wie mair sense,
I'd big to you a rural spence,
An' bide a' simmer,
An' cald frae saul and body fence
With frequent brimmer.

197

A POEM TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

Sing his Praises, that doth keep
Our Flocks from harm,
Pan, the Father of our Sheep:
And Arm in Arm
Tread we softly in a Round,
While the hollow neighb'ring Ground
Fills the Music with her Sound.
Beaumont and Fletcher.

Ye mournful Meanders and Groves,
Delight of the Muse and her Song;
Ye Grottos and dreeping Alcoves,
No Strangers to Corydon's Tongue.

Let each Sylvan and Dryad declare
His Themes and his Musick how dear,
Their Plaints and their Dirges prepare,
Attendant on Corydon's Bier.

The Echo that join'd in the Lay,
So amorous, sprightly, and free,
Shall send forth the Sounds of Dismay,
And sigh with sad Pity for thee.

198

Wild wander his Flocks with the Breeze;
His Reed can no longer controul;
His Numbers no longer can please,
Or send kind Relief to the Soul.

But long may they wander and bleat,
To Hills tell the Tale of their Woe;
The Woodlands the Tale shall repeat,
And the Waters shall mournfully flow.

For these were the Haunts of his Love,
The sacred Retreats of his Ease,
Where favourite Fancy would rove,
As wanton, as light, as the Breeze.

Her Zone will discolour'd appear,
With fanciful Ringlets unbound,
A Face pale and languid she'll wear,
A Heart fraught with Sorrow profound.

The Reed of each Shepherd will mourn;
The Shades of Parnassus decay:
The Muses will dry their sad Urn,
Since 'reft of young Corydon's Lay.

To him every Passion was known
That throbb'd in the Breast with Desire;
Each gentle Affection was shown
In the soft sighing Songs of his Lyre.

Like the carroling Thrush on the Spray
In Music soft warbling and wild,
To Love was devoted each Lay,
In Accents pathetic and mild.

199

Let Beauty and Virtue revere,
And the Songs of the Shepherd approve,
Who felt, who lamented the Snare,
When repining at pityless Love.

The Summer but languidly gleams,
Pomona no comfort can bring,
Nor Vallies, nor Grottos, nor Streams,
Nor the May-born Flourets of Spring.

They have fled all with Corydon's Muse,
For his Brows to form Chaplets of woe,
Whose Reed oft awaken'd their Boughs
As the whispering Breezes that blow.

To many a fanciful Spring
His Lyre was melodiously strung;
While Fairies and Fauns in a Ring
Have applauded the Swain as he sung.

To the chearful he usher'd his Smiles,
To the woeful his Sigh and his Tear;
A Condoler with Want and her Toils,
When the Voice of Oppression was near.

Tho' Titles and Wealth were his due,
Tho' Fortune denied the Reward;
Yet Truth and Sincerity knew
What the Goddess would never regard.

Avails ought the generous Heart,
Which Nature to Goodness design'd,
If Fortune denies to impart
Her kindly Relief to the Mind?

200

'Twas but faint the Relief to Dismay,
The Cells of the wretched among;
Tho' Sympathy sung in the Lay,
Tho' Melody fell from his Tongue.

Let the favour'd of Fortune attend
To the Ails of the wretched and poor:
Tho' Corydon's Lays could befriend,
'Tis Riches alone that can cure.

But they to Compassion are dumb,
To Pity their Voices unknown;
Near Sorrow they never can come,
'Till Misfortune has mark'd them her own.

Now the Shades of the Evening depend;
Each Warbler is lull'd on the Spray;
The Cypress doth ruefully bend
Where the Corps of cold Corydon stay.

Adieu then the Songs of the Swain,
Let Peace still attend on his Shade;
And his Pipe that is dumb to his Strain,
In the Grave be with Corydon laid.

SONG.

[Be Envy hush be Censure Dumb]

Be Envy hush be Censure Dumb
Deep buried in the gloomy tomb
For Worth must now resplendent Shine
In harmonys Sweet Breath divine

201

Tis Ours the worthy name to raise
Immortal by our tuneful Lays
Genius shall tour on Lofty wing
And Laurels shall perpetual Spring

St Luke shall Every honour Claim
The Muses brightest only theme
And Summer shall unbounded Smile
To Crown our Joy and bless our Toil

To Sir John Fielding, on his Attempt to suppress the Beggar's Opera

When you censure the age,
Be cautious and sage,
Lest the courtiers offended should be;
When you mention vice or bribe,
'Tis so pat to all the tribe,
Each cries, it was levell'd at me.
GAY.

'Tis woman that seduces all mankind.
Filch.

Beneath what cheerful region of the sky
Shall wit, shall humour, and the muses fly?
For our's, a cold, inhospitable clime,
Refuses quarter to the muse and rhime.
If on her brows an envy'd laurel springs,
They shake its foliage, crop her growing wings,
That with the plumes of virtue wisely soar,
And all the follies of the age explore;
But should old Grub her rankest venom pour,
And ev'ry virtue with a vice deflow'r,

202

Her verse is sacred, Justices agree;
Even Justice Fielding signs the wise decree.

Let fortune-dealers, wise predictors! tell
From what bright planet Justice Fielding fell;
Augusta trembles at the awful name;
The darling tongue of liberty is tame,
Basely confin'd by him in Newgate chains,
Nor dare exclaim how harshly Fielding reigns.

In days when every mercer has his scale,
To tell what pieces lack, how few prevail,
I wonder not the low-born menial trade,
By partial Justice has aside been laid:
For she gives no discount for virtue worn,
Her aged joints are without mercy torn.

In vain, O GAY! thy muse explor'd the way
Of yore to banish the Italian lay,
Gave homely numbers sweet, tho' warmly strong;
The British chorus blest the happy song;
Thy manly voice and Albion's then were heard,
Felt by her sons, and by her sons rever'd:
Eunuchs, not men, now bear aloft the palm,
And o'er our senses pour lethargic balm.

The stage the truest mirror is of life;
Our passions there revolve in active strife;
Each character is there display'd to view;
Each hates his own, tho' well assur'd tis true.
No marvel then, that all the world should own,
In Peachum's treach'ry Justice Fielding's known,
Since thieves so common are, and Justice you
Thieves to the gallows for reward pursue.
Had gay by writing rous'd the stealing trade,
You'd been less active to suppress your bread;
For, trust me, when a robber loses ground,
You lose your living with your forty pound.

'Twas woman first that snatch'd the luring bait,
The tempter taught her to transgress and eat;

203

Tho' wrong the deed, her quick compunction told;
She banish'd Adam from an age of gold.

When women now transgress fair virtue's rules,
Men are their pupils, and the stews their schools;
From simple wh*d*m greater sins began
To shoot, to bloom, to center all in man;
Footpads on Hounslow flourish here today,
The next old Tyburn sweeps them all away;
For woman's falls, the cause of every wrong!
Men robb'd and murder'd, thieves at Tyburn strung.
In panting breasts to raise the fond alarm,
Make females in the cause of virtue warm,
Gay has compar'd them to the summer flow'r,
The boast and glory of an idle hour;
When cropp'd it falls, shrinks, withers, and decays,
And to oblivion dark consigns its days.

Hath this a power to win the female heart
Back from its vice, from virtue ne'er to part;
If so the wayward virgin will restore,
And murders, rapes and plunders be no more.

These were the lays of him who virtue knew,
Rever'd her dictates, and practis'd them too;
No idle theorist in her stainless ways,
He gave the parent Goddess all his days.

O Queensberry! his best and earliest friend,
All that his wit or learning could commend;
Best of patrons! the Muse's only pride!
Still in her pageant shalt thou first preside;
No idle pomp that riches can procure,
Sprung at a start, and faded in an hour,
But pageant lasting as the uncropp'd bay,
That verdant triumphs with the Muse of Gay.

204

To Dr Samuel Johnson:

Food for a new Edition of his Dictionary.

Let Wilkes and Churchill rage no more,
Tho' scarce provision, learning's good;
What can these hungry's next implore,
Even Samuel Johnson loves our food.
Rodondo.

Great Pedagogue, whose literanian lore,
With syllable and syllable conjoin'd
To transmutate and varyfy, has learn'd
The whole revolving scientific names
That in the alphabetic columns lie,
Far from the knowledge of mortalic shapes,
As we, who never can peroculate
The miracles by thee miraculiz'd,
The Muse silential long, with mouth apert
Would give vibration to stagnatic tongue,
And loud encomiate thy puissant name,
Eulogiated from the green decline
Of Thames's banks to Scoticanian shores,
Where Loch-lomondian liquids undulize.

To meminate thy name in after times,
The mighty Mayor of each regalian town
Shall consignate thy work to parchment fair
In roll burgharian, and their tables all
Shall fumigate with fumigation strong:
Scotland, from perpendicularian hills,
Shall emigrate her fair muttonian store,
Which late had there in pedestration walk'd,
And o'er her airy heights perambuliz'd.

Oh, blackest execrations on thy head,
Edina shameless! tho' he came within

205

The bounds of your notation; tho' you knew
His honorific name, you noted not,
But basely suffer'd him to chariotize
Far from your tow'rs, with smoke that nubilate,
Nor drank one amicitial swelling cup
To welcome him convivial. Bailies all,
With rage inflated, Catenations tear,
Nor ever after be you vinculiz'd,
Since you that sociability denied
To him whose potent Lexiphanian stile
Words can prolongate, and inswell his page
With what in others to a line's confin'd.

Welcome, thou verbal potentate and prince!
To hills and vallies, where emerging oats
From earth assurge our pauperty to bay,
And bless thy name, thy dictionarian skill,
Which there definitive will still remain,
And oft be speculiz'd by taper blue,
While youth studentious turn thy folio page.

Have you as yet, in per'patetic mood,
Regarded with the texture of the eye
The cave cavernick, where fraternal bard,
Churchill, depicted pauperated swains
With thraldom and black want, reducted sore,
Where Nature, coloriz'd, so coarsely fades,
And puts her russet par'phernalia on?
Have you as yet the way explorified,
To let lignarian chalice, swell'd with oats,
Thy orofice approach? Have you as yet,
With skin fresh rubified by scarlet spheres,
Apply'd brimstonic unction to your hide,
To terrify the salamandrian fire
That from involuntary digits asks
The strong allaceration?—Or can you swill
The usquebalian flames of whisky blue
In fermentation strong? Have you apply'd
The kelt aerian to your Anglian thighs,

206

And with renunciation assigniz'd
Your breeches in Londona to be worn?
Can you, in frigor of Highlandian sky,
On heathy summits take nocturnal rest?
It cannot be—You may as well desire
An alderman leave plumb-puddenian store,
And scratch the tegument from pottage-dish,
As bid thy countrymen, and thee conjoin'd,
Forsake stomachic joys. Then hie you home,
And be a malcontent, that naked hinds,
On lentiles fed, can make your kingdom quake,
And tremulate Old England libertiz'd.

Epigram on seeing Scales used in a Mason Lodge.

WHY should the Brethren, met in Lodge,
Adopt such aukward measures,
To set their scales and weights to judge
The value of their treasures?

The law laid down from age to age
How can they well o'ercome it?
For it forbids them to engage
With ought but Line and Plummet.

Epigram on a Lawyer's desiring one of the Tribe to look with respect to a Gibbet.

The lawyers may revere that tree
Where thieves so oft have strung,
Since, by the Law's most wise decree,
Her thieves are never hung.

207

EPIGRAM written Extempore, at the desire of a Gentleman who was rather ill-favoured, but who had a beautiful Family of Children.

Scott and his children emblems are
Of real good and evil;
His children are like cherubims,
But Scott is like the devil.

On the Author's intention of going to Sea.

Fortune and BOB, e'er since his birth,
Could never yet agree,
She fairly kickt him from the earth
To try his fate at sea.

Epigram on James Boswell, Esq.; and Dr. Samuel Johnson being confined to the Isle of Sky.

Two gems, the nation's greatest boast,
To Scotia's plains drew near,
Bright to illume her dismal coast,
And barren fields to cheer.

She, fearing that their gracious forms,
To other climes would fly,
Learning and Liberty by storms
Confin'd to Isle of Sky.

208

The Sitting of the Session.

Phoebus, sair cow'd wi' simmer's hight,
Cours near the yird wi' blinking light;
Cauld shaw the haughs, nae mair bedight
Wi' simmer's claes,
They heeze the heart o' dowy wight
That thro' them gaes.

Weel lo'es me o' you, business, now;
For ye'll weet mony a drouthy mou',
That's lang a eisning gane for you,
Withouten fill
O' dribbles frae the gude brown cow,
Or Highland gill.

The Court o' Session, weel wat I,
Pitts ilk chiel's whittle i' the pye,
Can criesh the slaw-gaun wheels whan dry,
Till Session's done,
Tho' they'll gi'e mony a cheep and cry
Or twalt o' June.

Ye benders a', that dwall in joot,
You'll tak your liquor clean cap out,
Synd your mouse-wabbs wi' reaming stout,
While ye ha'e cash,
And gar your cares a' tak the rout,
An' thumb ne'er fash.

Rob Gibb's grey gizz, new frizzl'd fine,
Will white as ony snaw-ba' shine;
Weel does he lo'e the lawen coin
Whan dossied down,
For whisky gills or dribbs of wine
In cauld forenoon.

209

Bar-keepers now, at outer door,
Tak tent as fock gang back and fore;
The fient ane there but pays his score,
Nane wins toll-free,
Tho' ye've a cause the house before,
Or agent be.

Gin ony here wi' canker knocks,
And has na lous'd his siller pocks,
Ye need na think to fleetch or cox;
“Come shaw's your gear;
“Ae scabbit yew spills twenty flocks,
“Ye's no be here.”

Now at the door they'll raise a plea;
Crack on, my lads!—for flyting's free;
For gin ye shou'd tongue-tacket be,
The mair's the pity,
Whan scalding but and ben we see
Pendente lite.

The lawyer's skelfs, and printer's presses,
Grain unco sair wi' weighty cases;
The clark in toil his pleasure places,
To thrive bedeen;
At five-hour's bell scribes shaw their faces,
And rake their ein.

The country fock to lawyers crook,
“Ah! Weels me on your bonny buik!
“The benmost part o' my kist nook
“I'll ripe for thee,
“And willing ware my hindmost rook
“For my decree.”

210

But law's a draw-well unco deep,
Withouten rim fock out to keep:
A donnart chiel, whan drunk, may dreep
Fu' sleely in,
But finds the gate baith stay and steep,
'Ere out he win.

A DRINK ECLOGUE.

LANDLADY, BRANDY and WHISKY.
On auld worm-eaten skelf, in cellar dunk,
Whare hearty benders syn'd their drouthy trunk,
Twa chappin bottles, pang'd wi' liquor fu',
Brandy the tane, the tither Whisky blue,
Grew canker'd; for the twa war het within,
An' het-skin'd fock to flyting soon begin,
The Frenchman fizz'd, and first wad foot the field,
While paughty Scotsman scorn'd to beenge or yield.
BRANDY.
Black be your fa! ye cottar loun mislear'd,
Blawn by the porters, chairmen, city-guard;
Ha'e ye nae breeding, that you shaw your nose
Anent my sweetly gusted cordial dose.
I've been near pauky courts, and aften there
Ha'e ca'd hystericks frae the dowy fair;
And courtiers aft gaed greening for my smack,
To gar them bauldly glour, and gashly crack,
The priest, to bang mishaunters black, and cares,
Has sought me in his closet for his prayers.

211

What tig then takes the fates, that they can thole,
Thrawart to fix me in this weary hole,
Sair fash'd wi' din, wi' darkness, and wi' stinks,
Whare cheery day-light thro' the mirk ne'er blinks.

WHISKY.
But ye maun be content, and mauna rue,
Tho' erst ye've bizz'd in bonny madam's mou';
Wi' thoughts like thae your heart may sairly dunt;
The warld's now chang'd, its no like use and wont;
For here, wae's me! there's nouther lord nor laird
Come to get heartscad frae their stamack skair'd:
Nae mair your courtier louns will shaw their face,
For they glowr eiry at a friend's disgrace:
But heeze your heart up—Whan at court you hear
The patriot's thrapple wat wi' reaming beer;
Whan chairman, weary wi' his daily gain,
Can syn his whistle wi' the clear champaign;
Be hopefu', for the time will soon row round,
Whan you'll nae langer dwall beneath the ground.

BRANDY.
Wanwordy gowk! did I sae aften shine
Wi' gowdin glister thro' the chrystal fine,
To thole your taunts, that seenil hae been seen
Awa frae luggie, quegh, or truncher treein;
Gif honour wad but lat, a challenge shou'd
Twin ye o' Highland tongue and Highland blude;
Wi' cairds like thee I scorn to file my thumb,
For gentle spirits gentle breeding doom.

212

WHISKY.

Truly I think it right you get your amis,
Your high heart humbled amang common drams;
Braw days for you, whan fools newfangle fain,
Like ither countries better than their ain,
For there ye never saw sic chancy days,
Sic balls, assemblies, operas, or plays:
Hame-o'er langsyne you ha'e been blyth to pack
Your a' upon a sarkless soldier's back;
For you thir lads, as weel-lear'd trav'lers tell,
Had sell'd their sarks, gin sarks they'd had to sell.

But worth gets poortith an' black burning shame,
To draunt and drivel out a life at hame.
Alake! the byword's o'er weel kend throughout,
“Prophets at hame are held in nae repute;”
Sae fair'st wi' me, tho' I can heat the skin,
And set the saul upon a merry pin,
Yet I am hameil, there's the sour mischance!
I'm no frae Turkey, Italy, or France;
For now our Gentles gabbs are grown sae nice,
At thee they toot, an' never speer my price:
Witness—for thee they hight their tenants rent,
And fill their lands wi' poortith, discontent;
Gar them o'er seas for cheaper mailins hunt,
An' leave their ain as bare's the Cairn-o'-mount.

BRANDY.
Tho' lairds take toothfu's o' my warming sap,
This dwines nor tenants gear, nor cows their crap:
For love to you, there's mony a tenant gaes
Bare-ars'd and barefoot o'er the Highland braes:

213

For you nae mair the thrifty gudewife sees
Her lasses kirn, or birze the dainty cheese;
Crummie nae mair for Jenny's hand will crune
Wi' milkness dreeping frae her teats adown:
For you o'er ear' the ox his fate partakes,
And fa's a victim to the bludey aix.

WHISKY.
Wha is't that gars the greedy Bankers prieve
The maiden's tocher, but the maiden's leave:
By you when spulzied o' her charming pose,
She tholes in turn the taunt o' cauldrife joes;
Wi' skelps like this fock sit but seenil down
To wether-gammond or how-towdy brown;
Sair dung wi' dule, and fley'd for coming debt,
They gar their mou'-bits wi' their incomes mett,
Content eneugh gif they ha'e wherewithal
Scrimply to tack their body and their saul.

BRANDY.
Frae some poor poet, o'er as poor a pot,
Ye've lear'd to crack sae crouse, ye haveril Scot!
Or burgher politician, that embrues
His tongue in thee, and reads the claiking news;
But waes heart for you! that for ay maun dwell
In poet's garret, or in chairman's cell,
While I shall yet on bien-clad tables stand,
Bouden wi' a' the daintiths o' the land.

214

WHISKY.
Troth I ha'e been 'ere now the poet's flame,
And heez'd his sangs to mony blythsome theme.
Wha was't gar'd Allie's chaunter chirm fu' clear,
Life to the saul, and music to the ear:
Nae stream but kens, and can repeat the lay
To shepherds streekit on the simmer brae,
Wha to their whistle wi' the lav'rock bang,
To wauken flocks the rural fields amang.

BRANDY.
But here's the brouster-wife, and she can tell
Wha's win the day, and wha shou'd wear the bell:
Ha'e done your din, an' lat her judgment join
In final verdict 'twixt your pley and mine.

LANDLADY.

In days o' yore I cou'd my living prize,
Nor faush'd wi' dolefu' gaugers or excise;
But now-a-days we're blyth to lear the thrift
Our heads 'boon licence and excise to lift;
Inlakes o' brandy we can soon supply
By whisky tinctur'd wi' the saffron's dye.

Will you your breeding threep, ye mongrel loun!
Frae hame-bred liquor dy'd to colour brown?
So flunky braw, whan drest in master's claise,
Struts to Auld Reikie's cross on sunny days,
Till some auld comerade, ablins out o' place,
Near the vain upstart shaws his meagre face;
Bumbaz'd he loups frae sight, and jooks his ken,
Fley'd to be seen amang the tassel'd train.

215

To my Auld Breeks.

Now gae your wa's—Tho' anes as gude
As ever happit flesh and blude,
Yet part we maun—The case sae hard is,
Amang the Writers and the Bardies,
That lang they'll brook the auld I trow,
Or neibours cry, “Weel brook the new;”
Still making tight wi' tither steek,
The tither hole, the tither eik,
To bang the birr o' winter's anger,
And had the hurdies out o' langer.

Sicklike some weary wight will fill
His kyte wi' drogs frae doctor's bill,
Thinking to tack the tither year
To life, and look baith haill an' fier,
Till at the lang-run death dirks in,
To birze his saul ayont his skin.

You needna wag your duds o' clouts,
Nor fa' into your dorty pouts,
To think that erst you've hain'd my tail
Frae wind and weet, frae snaw and hail,
And for reward, whan bald and hummil,
Frae garret high to dree a tumble.
For you I car'd, as lang's ye dow'd
Be lin'd wi' siller or wi' gowd:
Now to befriend, it wad be folly,
Your raggit hide an' pouches holey;
For wha but kens a poet's placks
Get mony weary flaws an' cracks,
And canna thole to hae them tint,
As he sae seenil sees the mint?
Yet round the warld keek and see,
That ithers fare as ill as thee;

216

For weel we lo'e the chiel we think
Can get us tick, or gie us drink,
Till o' his purse we've seen the bottom,
Then we despise, and ha'e forgot him.

Yet gratefu' hearts, to make amends,
Will ay be sorry for their friends,
And I for thee—As mony a time
Wi' you I've speel'd the braes o' rime,
Whare for the time the Muse ne'er cares
For siller, or sic guilefu' wares,
Wi' whilk we drumly grow, and crabbit,
Dowr, capernoited, thrawin gabbit,
And brither, sister, friend and fae,
Without remeid of kindred, slay.

You've seen me round the bickers reel
Wi' heart as hale as temper'd steel,
And face sae apen, free and blyth,
Nor thought that sorrow there cou'd kyth;
But the niest mament this was lost,
Like gowan in December's frost.

Cou'd Prick-the-louse but be sae handy
To make the breeks and claise to stand ay,
Thro' thick and thin wi' you I'd dash on,
Nor mind the folly of the fashion:
But, hegh! the times' vicissitudo,
Gars ither breeks decay as you do.
Thae Macaronies, braw and windy,
Maun fail—Sic transit gloria mundi!

Now speed you to some madam's chaumer,
That butt an' ben rings dule an' claumer,
Ask her, in kindness, if she seeks
In hidling ways to wear the breeks?

217

Safe you may dwall, tho' mould and motty,
Beneath the veil o' under coatie,
For this mair faults nor yours can screen
Frae lover's quickest sense, his ein.

Or if some bard, in lucky times,
Shou'd profit meikle by his rhimes,
And pace awa', wi smirky face,
In siller or in gowden lace,
Glowr in his face, like spectre gaunt,
Remind him o' his former want,
To cow his daffin and his pleasure,
And gar him live within the measure.

So Philip, it is said, who wou'd ring
O'er Macedon a just and gude king,
Fearing that power might plume his feather,
And bid him stretch beyond the tether,
Ilk morning to his lug wad ca'
A tiny servant o' his ha',
To tell him to improve his span,
For Philip was, like him, a man.

Rob. Fergusson's Last Will.

While sober folks, in humble prose,
Estate, and goods, and gear dispose,
A poet surely may disperse
His moveables in doggrel verse;
And fearing death my blood will fast chill,
I hereby constitute my last will.

Then wit ye me to have made o'er
To Nature my poetic lore;
To her I give and grant the freedom
Of paying to the bards who need 'em

218

As many talents as she gave,
When I became the Muses slave.

Thanks to the gods, who made me poor!
No lukewarm friends molest my door,
Who always shew a busy care
For being legatee or heir:
Of this stamp none will ever follow
The youth that's favour'd by Apollo.

But to those few who know my case,
Nor thought a poet's friend disgrace,
The following trifles I bequeath,
And leave them with my kindest breath;
Nor will I burden them with payment
Of debts incurr'd, or coffin raiment,
As yet 'twas never my intent
To pass an Irish compliment.

To Jamie Rae, who oft jocosus,
With me partook of cheering doses,
I leave my snuff-box, to regale
His senses after drowsy meal,
And wake remembrance of a friend
Who lov'd him to his latter end:
But if this pledge should make him sorry,
And argue like memento mori,
He may bequeath't 'mong stubborn fellows,
To all the finer feelings callous,
Who think that parting breath's a sneeze
To set sensations all at ease.

To Oliphant, my friend, I legate
Those scrolls poetic which he may get,
With ample freedom to correct
Those writs I ne'er cou'd retrospect,
With power to him and his succession
To print and sell a new impression:
And here I fix on Ossian's Head,
A domicile for Doric reed,

219

With as much power ad Musæ bona,
As I in propria persona.

To Hamilton I give the task
Outstanding debts to crave and ask;
And that my Muse he may not dub ill,
For loading him with so much trouble,
My debts I leave him singulatim,
As they are mostly desperatim.

To Woods, whose genius can provoke
His passions to the bowl or sock,
For love to thee, and to the nine,
Be my immortal Shakespeare thine:
Here may you thro' the alleys turn,
Where Falstaff laughs, where heroes mourn,
And boldly catch the glowing fire
That dwells in raptures on his lyre.

Now at my dirge (if dirge there be!),
Due to the Muse and poetry,
Let Hutcheson attend, for none is
More fit to guide the ceremonies;
As I in health with him wou'd often
This clay-built mansion wash and soften,
So let my friends with him partake
The gen'rous wine at dirge or wake—

And I consent to registration
Of this my will for preservation,
That patent it may be, and seen
In Walter's Weekly Magazine.
Witness whereof, these presents wrote are
By William Blair, the public notar,
And, for the tremor of my hand,
Are sign'd by him at my command.

R. F. ✗ his Mark.

220

Lines written to Collector Charles Lorimer.

When teased with vapors, urged with spleen,
And clouds of gloomy thoughts conveen;
When youthful blood, once child of fun,
Weeps o'er the mirthful glass that's run,
With Nature fading from his sight,
He views the day by candle light:

What then can cheer the forlorn breast
Of him whose mind's unknown to rest,
If friendship can't extort a smile,
And dissipate his grief the while?

When I my friend had cause to blame,
Straight to my aid his letter came
With quantity of precious ore,
That's made me happy heretofore.
But now these airy dreams are past—
Nor could the golden aera last:
From Coin then Dissipation rose,
My cruelest and worst of foes.

Thanks to the donor, though his present
Shine not as erst with aspect pleasant;
But let my breast be tied to care,
And I be plunged in worst despair,
When gratitude shall this forsake,
Nor thanks for friendly favours wake.

My compliments to all the folks
With whom I've drunk and cracked my jokes:
Tell them, O tell, too sadly true,
That lips in wine I scarce embrue.
Nor dare I join the list with Bachus,
Afraid new horrors should attack us,

221

Till health again with winning face
My brain shall clear, my nerves shall brace;
Then will I with indulgent vein
By blyth and crack my jokes again.

Codicile to Rob. Fergusson's Last Will.

Whereas, by test'ment, dated blank,
Inroll'd in the poetic rank,
'Midst brighter themes that weekly come
To make parade at Walter's drum,
I there, for certain weighty causes,
Produc'd some kind bequeathing clauses,
And left to friends (as 'tis the custom
With nothing till our death to trust 'em),
Some token of a pure regard
From one who liv'd and died a Bard.

If poverty has any crime in
Teaching mankind the art of rhiming,
Then by these presents, know all mortals,
Who come within the Muses portals,
That I approve my will aforesaid,
But think that something might be more said,
And only now would humbly seek
The liberty to add and eik
To test'ment which already made is
And duly register'd as said is.

To Tulloch, who, in kind compassion,
Departed from the common fashion,
And gave to me, who never paid it,
Two flasks of port upon my credit,
I leave the flasks, as full of air
As his of ruddy moisture were;
Nor let him to complain begin,
He'll get no more of cat than skin.

222

To Walter Ruddiman, whose pen
Still screen'd me from the Dunce's Den,
I leave of phiz a picture, saving
To him the freedom of engraving
Therefrom a copy to embellish,
And give his work a smarter relish;
For prints and frontispieces bind do
Our eyes to stationary window,
As superfluities in cloaths
Set off and signalize the beaux;
Not that I think in readers eyes
My visage will be deem'd a prize;
But works that others would out-rival,
At glaring copperplates connive all
And prints do well with him that led is
To shun the substance, hunt the shadows;
For if a picture, 'tis enough,
A Newton or a Jamie Duff:
Nor would I recommend to Walter
This scheme of copperplates to alter,
Since others at the samen prices
Propose to give a dish that nice is,
Folks will desert his ordinary,
Unless, like theirs, his dishes vary.

To Williamson, and his resetters,
Dispersing of the burial letters,
That they may pass with little cost
Fleet on the wings of penny-post;
Always providing and declaring,
That Peter shall be ever sparing
To make, as use is, the demand
For letters that may come to hand,
To me address'd, while locum tenens
Of earth and of corporeal penance;
Where, if he fail, it is my will,
His legacy is void and null.

Let honest Greenlaw be the staff
On which I lean for Epitaph.

223

And that the Muses at my end
May know I had a learned friend,
Whate'er of character he's seen
In me thro' humour or chagrin,
I crave his genius may narrate in
The strength of Ciceronian Latin.

Reserving to myself the pow'r
To alter this at latest hour,
Cum privilegio revocare,
Without assigning ratio quare:
And I (as in the will before did)
Consent this deed shall be recorded:
In testimonium cujus rei,
These presents are deliver'd by

R. Fergusson.

HORACE, Ode XI. Lib. I.

Ne'er fash your thumb what gods decree
To be the weird o' you or me,
Nor deal in cantrup's kittle cunning
To speir how fast your days are running,
But patient lippen for the best,
Nor be in dowy thought opprest,
Whether we see mare winters come
Than this that spits wi' canker'd foam.

Now moisten weel your geyzen'd wa'as
Wi' couthy friends and hearty blaws;
Ne'er lat your hope o'ergang your days,
For eild and thraldom never stays;
The day looks gash, toot aff your horn,
Nor care yae strae about the morn.

224

The AUTHOR's LIFE.

My life is like the flowing stream
That glides where summer's beauties teem,
Meets all the riches of the gale
That on its watry bosom sail,
And wanders 'midst Elysian groves
Thro' all the haunts that fancy loves.
May I, when drooping days decline,
And 'gainst those genial streams combine,
The winter's sad decay forsake,
And center in my parent lake.

SONG.

[Since brightest beauty soon must fade]

[I]

Since brightest beauty soon must fade,
That in life's spring so long has roll'd,
And wither in the drooping shade,
E'er it return to native mould:

II

Ye virgins, seize the fleeting hour,
In time catch Cytherea's joy,
Ere age your wonted smiles deflower,
And hopes of love and life annoy.

ODE to DISAPPOINTMENT.

I

Thou joyless fiend, life's constant foe,
Sad source of care and spring of woe,
Soft pleasure's hard controul;
Her gayest haunts for ever nigh,
Stern mistress of the secret sigh,
That swells the murm'ring soul.

225

II

Why haunt'st thou me thro' desart drear?
With grief-swoln sounds why wound my ear,
Denied to pity's aid?
Thy visage wan did e'er I woo,
Or at thy feet in homage bow,
Or court thy sullen shade.

III

Even now enchanted scenes abound,
Elysian glories strew the ground,
To lure th'astonish'd eyes;
Now Horrors, Hell, and Furies reign,
And desolate the fairy scene
Of all its gay disguise.

IV

The passions, at thy urgent call,
Our reasons and our sense inthrall
In frenzy's fetters strong.
And now despair with lurid eye
Doth meagre poverty discry,
Subdu'd by famine long.

V

The lover flies the haunts of day,
In gloomy woods and wilds to stray,
There shuns his Jessy's scorn;
Sad sisters of the sighing grove
Attune their lyres to hapless love,
Dejected and forlorn.

226

VI

Yet hope undaunted wears thy chain,
And smiles amidst the growing pain,
Nor fears thy sad dismay;
Unaw'd by power her fancy flies
From earth's dim orb to purer skies,
Realms of endless day.

ODE to HORROR.

O thou who with incessant gloom
Court'st the recess of midnight tomb!
Admit me of thy mournful throng,
The scattered woods and wilds among;
If e'er thy discontented ear
The voice of sympathy can chear,
My melancholy bosom's sigh
Shall to your mournful plaint reply;
There to the fear foreboding owl
The angry Furies hiss and howl;
Or near the mountain's pendent brow
Where rush-clad streams in cadent murmurs flow.

EPODE.

WHO's he that with imploring eye
Salutes the rosy dawning sky?
The cock proclaims the morn in vain,
His sp'rit to drive to its domain;
For morning light can but return
To bid the wretched wail and mourn:
Not the bright dawning's purple eye
Can cause the frightful vapours fly,

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Nor sultry Sol's meridian throne
Can bid surrounding fears begone;
The gloom of night will still preside,
While angry conscience stares on either side.

STROPHE.

TO ease his sore distemper'd head,
Sometimes upon the rocky bed
Reclin'd he lies, to list the sound
Of whispering reed in vale profound.
Happy if Morpheus visits there
A while to lull his woe and care;
Send sweeter fancies to his aid,
And teach him to be undismay'd;
Yet wretched still, for when no more
The gods their opiate balsam pour,
Ah, me! he starts, and views again
The Lybian monster prance along the plain.

Now from the oozing caves he flies,
And to the city's tumults hies,
Thinking to frolick life away,
Be ever chearful, ever gay:
But tho' enwrapt in noise and smoke,
They ne'er can heal his peace when broke;
His fears arise, he sighs again
For solitude on rural plain;
Even there his wishes all conveen
To bear him to his noise again.
Thus tortur'd, rack'd, and sore opprest,
He constant hunts, but never finds his rest.

ANTISTROPHE.

Oh exercise! thou healing power,
The toiling rustic's chiefest dower;
Be thou with parent virtue join'd
To quell the tumults of the mind;

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Then man as much of joy can share
From ruffian winter, bleakly bare,
As from the pure ætherial blaze
That wantons in the summer rays;
The humble cottage then can bring
Content, the comfort of a king;
And gloomy mortals wish no more
For wealth and idleness to make them poor.

ON NIGHT.

Now murky shades surround the pole;
Darkness lords without controul;
To the notes of buzzing owl
Lions roar, and tygers howl.
Fright'ning from their azure shrine,
Stars that wont in orbs to shine:
Now the sailor's storm-tost bark
Knows no blest celestial mark,
While, in the briny troubled deep,
Dolphins change their sport for sleep:
Ghosts, and frightful spectres gaunt,
Church-yards dreary footsteps haunt,
And brush, with wither'd arms, the dews
That fall upon the drooping yews.

JOB, Chap III. Paraphrased.

Perish the fatal Day when I was born,
The Night with dreary darkness be forlorn;
The loathed, hateful, and lamented night
When Job, 'twas told, had first perceiv'd the light;

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Let it be dark, nor let the God on high
Regard it with the favour of his eye;
Let blackest darkness and death's awful shade
Stain it, and make the trembling earth afraid;
Be it not join'd unto the varying year,
Nor to the fleeting months in swift career.
Lo.! Let the night in solitude's dismay
Be dumb to joy, and waste in gloom away;
On it may twilight stars be never known;
Light let it wish for, Lord! but give it none;
Curse it let them who curse the passing day,
And to the voice of mourning raise the lay;
Nor ever be the face of dawning seen
To ope its lustre on th'enamel'd green;
Because it seal'd not up my mother's womb,
Nor hid from me the Sorrows doom'd to come.
Why have I not from mother's womb expir'd?
My life resign'd when life was first requir'd?
Why did supporting knees prevent my death,
Or suckling breasts sustain my infant breath?
For now my soul with quiet had been blest,
With kings and counsellors of earth at rest,
Who bade the house of desolation rise,
And awful ruin strike tyrannic eyes,
Or with the princes unto whom were told
Rich store of silver and corrupting gold;
Or, as untimely birth, I had not been,
Like infant who the light hath never seen;
For there the wicked from their trouble cease,
And there the weary find their lasting peace;
There the poor prisoners together rest,
Nor by the hand of injury opprest;
The small and great together mingl'd are,
And free the servant from his master there;
Say, Wherefore has an over-bounteous heaven
Light to the comfortless and wretched given?
Why should the troubl'd and oppress'd in soul
Fret over restless life's unsettled bowl,

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Who long for death, who lists not to their pray'r,
And dig as for the treasures hid afar;
Who with excess of joy are blest and glad,
Rejoic'd when in the tomb of silence laid?
Why then is grateful light bestow'd on man,
Whose life is darkness, all his days a span?
For 'ere the morn return'd my sighing came,
My mourning pour'd out as the mountain stream;
Wild visag'd fear, with sorrow-mingled eye,
And wan destruction piteous star'd me nigh;
For though nor rest nor safety blest my soul,
New trouble came, new darkness, new controul.

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APPENDIX A. SONGS FROM THE ROYAL SHEPHERD.

[From Act I. Scene II.]

Tho' I this humble garb do wear
And be of fortune low,
A shepherd still shall I appear,
Nor wish more great to grow.

But if, against my own desire,
Heaven should exalt my state,
Heaven will exalted thoughts inspire,
And fit me to be great.

[From Act I. Scene III.]

'Till now the Heavens were my guide,
Conquering foes on every side,
And each star propitious shines,
Fav'ring still my bold designs.

May they on this action smile,
And befriend me all the while,
They who zealously inclin'd
With justice to adorn my mind.

[From Act I. Scene VI.]

Can I know from whence arise
All these tender heaving sighs,
And this mild consuming flame,
Thrilling thro' my vital frame?

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[From Act I. Scene VII.]

Now Phoebus arising
His beams doth display,
And music enticing
Proclaims the new day.

CHORUS.

May fair Cupid send love,
Transporting this pair,
Their cares to remove,
And enliven the fair.

[From Act I. Scene VIII.]

Let our mirth and joy proclaim
Great Amintas' happy name;
May such merit be renown'd,
And may virtue still be crown'd:
May he free from trouble reign,
And his subjects peace maintain;
Tyrants stormy laws shall die,
Pleasing calms around us fly.

[From Act II. Scene IV.]

Tho' Heavens good pleasure has alter'd my state,
My mind's still the same, tho' by fortune I'm great;
Nor shall mighty conquests and sudden alarms,
Chase from my fond heart my true love's dear charms.

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[From Act II. Scene V.]

Send me means which will repay
Him that gave the royal sway;
May I still in mind retain
How I rul'd my fleecy train,
That with bounty I may learn,
With peace and justice to govern.

[From Act II. Scene VII.]

[I]

My fears still oppress me, I'm troubled with grief,
No aid doth approach me, no happy relief,
My mind's still uneasy with anxious cares,
Till death close the scene, and betray my false fears.

II

The sailor, thus frighted when dangers appear,
Surveys the swift billows around him with fear;
No hope, no blest refuge, no safety he'll find,
Till death from his troubles and cares free his mind.

[From Act II. Scene IX.]

QUARTETTO

Amint.

Ah! Eliza, did you know
How you fill my breast with woe,
You'd cease to wound my heart,
Or cruel sounds impart.
Hear me, then, ye Fates above,
Send fresh comfort to my love,
And crown my soul with peace,
Her mind with friendly ease.

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Eliza.

While shepherds cruel prove,
Slighting their former love,
Tell me, Amintas, then,
Are you still that humble swain,
Who by me your flocks wou'd feed,
Playing on your tuneful reed;
Am I banish'd from your mind?
Shall I no more favour find?

Amint. and Agen.

Lets away, and sigh alone,
All our former peace is gone;
Joy fills the peasants breast,
They alone are truly blest;
When the Nobles' births are crost,
And in many troubles lost.
Don't move us with your tears,
Free our sad soul from fears.

Tham.

Are the Fates so unkind?
Are our vows out of mind?
Are you so cruel grown,
Your true lover to disown?
Tell my why you thus complain,
Frowning on us with disdain?
Shall we our sufferings know,
The source of all our woe?

CHORUS.

Cruel Fortune, cease to frown,
Take again your subtle crown;
Let gay looks from lovers dart,
And enliven every heart:
Let our souls be freed from grief,
And each lover find relief;
That Shepherds ever may be blest,
And Shepherdesses sweet carest.

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[From Act III. Scene I.]

When chilling frosts their visits pay,
And frigid Winter bears the sway;
If then with flow'rs the hills are crown'd,
And leafy trees adorn the ground,
Tell me then my faithless heart
No soothing pity can impart.

[From Act III. Scene III.]

No sweet refuge can I find,
Since my lover proves unkind;
Can you then behold my pain,
And such cruel thoughts maintain?

Fortune, frowning with disdain,
Hears my vow and sighs in vain:
My lover's gone, I will not rest,
A thousand fears distract my breast.

[From Act III. Scene IV.]

May those bright eyes for ever see
That morning's golden rays,
Which stole my lover's heart away,
And brought thy happy days.

Let Phoebus, when that morn he spies,
The earth with joy survey;
May beauty gild the chearful skies,
And hail the bounteous day.

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[From Act III. Scene V.]

[I]

Agenor, sure, does not deserve
For me to suffer so;
From our past vows I'll never swerve,
But calm his present woe.
My crown I freely will resign
For fond Agenor's charms;
No more shall my fond heart repine,
But fly into his arms.

II

Sure he who wou'd my thoughts condemn,
No valour can impart;
No virtue can his soul inflame,
Or grow within his heart.
Love's pleasant days laid up in store,
Shall bounteously repay
Our present woes, when we no more
Shall meet with such delay.