University of Virginia Library

TO HIS HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF ORANGE,

THE HUMBLE ADDRESS AND SUPPLICATION OF THE PORTIONERS AND INHABITANTS OF THE FAMOUS TOWN OF LINTOUN, SUB-METROPOLITAN OF TWEEDDALE.

PROLOGUE.

Victorious Sir, still faithful to thy word,
Who conquers more by kindness than by sword.
As thy ancestors brave, with matchless vigour,
Made Hogen Mogen make so great a figure:
So thou that art Great Britain's only Moses,
To guard our marshal thistle, with the roses;
The discords of the harp in tune to bring,
And curb the pride of lilies in the spring,
Permit, great Sir, poor us among the press,
In humble terms, to make this blunt Address,
In Lintoun verse, for as your Highness knows,
You have good store of nonsense else in prose.

EPILOGUE.

Thrice Noble Orange, blessed be the time
Such fair fruit prospered in our Northern clime,
Whose sweet and cordial juice affords us matter,
And sauce, to make our capons eat the better;
Long may thou thrive, and still thy arms advance,
Till England send an Orange unto France,
Well guarded through proud Neptune's waves, and then,
What's sweet to us, may prove sour sauce to them;
As England doth, so Caledonia boasts,
She'll fight with Orange for the Lord of Hosts;
And though the tyrant hath unsheath'd his sword,
Fy, fear him not, he never kept his word.

THE TRAGEDY OF THE DUKE DE ALVA, alias GRAY-BEARD,

Being the Complaint of the Brandy Bottle lost by a poor Carrier, having fallen from the Handle, and found again by a Company of the Presbytery of Peebles, near to Kinkaidylaw, as they returned from Glasgow, immediately after they had taken the Test.

It fell upon the month of November,
A fatal fall my body did dismember;
Many shall tell the tale that never saw
The Brandy Bottle of Kinkaidylaw;
Where, groaning on the ground, I chanc'd to spy
Two men in black devoutly passing by;
So, when my feeble voice their ears could reach,
Poor ancient Gray-beard thus began to preach:
O sons of Levi! messengers of grace,
Have some regard to my old reverend face,
My broken shoulder, and my wrinkled brow,
Plead fast for pity and supply from you;
Help, godly Sirs, and, if it be your will,
Convey me safely home to Biggar-Mill,
Where wand'ring to the widow, I was lost,
Alas! I fear the Carrier pays the cost;
Poor soul, if this mischance should him betide,
He has no more in all the world beside.
They did not relish this discourse of mine,
But vow'd the poor should be put out of pine;
And brought me prisoner to Kinkaidylaw,
Where more of that black company I saw:
Fy, Sirs! said I, You have at Glasgow been,
Swearing allegiance to your God and King;
So do not superadd so foul a deed,
And take poor Gray-beard's blood upon your head;
This cruelty sore should you all repent,
Were he but here whose picture I present;
And yet, before we part, I'll so prevail,
The best of you shall strive to kiss my tail:
This I was taught, when Gray-beard was a child,
That pure religion, and undefil'd,
Did cause the widow's heart to sing for joy,
And fill'd their bottles; you their life destroy.
At first they pitied my cold lifeless skin,
But when they found a cordial heat within,
They quickly flock'd about and me surrounded,
And cruelly into the heart me wounded;
They cried, De Alva never took the Test,
Therefore, rank Papist, go into thy rest,
And brag of thy right honourable tomb,
When thou art buried in a Tester's womb.
Right blyth they were, and drank to one another,
And ay the word went round, Here's to you brother:
I love thy blood so well, says Master Bo,
Thy bones to Tweed shall in procession go.
At last, the hostess of the house comes in,
Finding the brethren in a merry pin,
She tells them, that a Carrier poor had lost
That Brandy Bottle whereof they did boast,
And for a sure unquestionable token,
Look with your eyes, see where the handle's broken;
So, grave and reverend Sirs, be but so handsome
As take a double gill for Gray-beard's ransom.
At which their godly wisdoms were confounded,
For they had no intention to refund it,
Till one stood up, in name of all the rest,
And vow'd he bought it when he took the Test;
So be he rich or poor, the bottle lost,
Doomsday shall come before we pay the cost.
This wife will lodge none since, be it Paul, be it Peter,
If once they swear the Test, for fear they cheat her.
Ye shall not find a cluster of such clowns,
Search all the squads of troopers and dragoons,
Survey the land, try rakes that rant at cards,
Search Mar and Lithgow's regiments of guards.
Such spritty liquor cures us of all sorrow,
Courage, we'll take another Test to-morrow;
And after all is done, we can recant,
And swear to Tendor, Test, or Covenant:
While we are here we'll no sweet comfort shun,
There is no brandy in the world to come.

A REPLY TO THE SCURVY LINES OF ONE MR GOOL, MINISTER OF KIRKMICHAEL,

WHICH HE DESIGNED IN ANSWER TO THE BRANDY BOTTLE, AND IN JUSTIFICATION OF HIS BRETHREN THE MURDERERS OF GRAY-BEARD.

Infamous scribbler, Nature's fool and shame,
O senseless satyr, beast without a name,
Thou scandal to devotion, scurvy priest,
Why made thou earnest of a merry jest?
Base balladero, had thou no remorse
To turn poor Gray-beard's cause from bad to worse?
I'll make thy sland'ring tongue for ever smart,
Though it run parallel with thy false heart;
And cudgel thy dry carcase into tears,
Were it not for the sacred coat thou wears.
What mortal can read manners good, or grace,
In the dark lanthorn of thy gipsy face,
Thou nasty negro, filthy reesty ram,
O skin like that of a Westphalia ham!
Egyptian mummy, out of sight, begone
With thy foul corpse and stinking skeleton.
A female amourist that were in love,
At thy first view would soon abortive prove,
If by misfortune she should chance to see
So foul a compend of deformity.
Officious Gool, where were thy saucy brags,
When Gulan stript thee from thy lousie rags?
And will thou verify the general evil,
Let beggar's ride they'll gallop to the Devil?
Did this look gospel like, Gool, dare thou say it,
To drink a poor man's Brandy, and not pay it?
Or was it seemly for a man that preaches,
To steal away the bottle in his breeches?
Look that thy absence make thee not despair
And hang thyself, because thou miss'd thy share;
For sure it was, it put thee in a rapture,
That thou forgot both prayers, grace, and chapter.
Why doth this fellow thus his folly vent,
Doth Bo or he our whole Church represent;
Though some of you live far unlike your station,
Should this injure your brethren's reputation?
Amongst the apostles was there not a cheat;
And see we not the tares grow with the wheat?
Do hissing snakes cloud the fair glist'ring morn?
And grow not naughty guilds among the corn?
Now by thy answer, pedant, thou dost vaunt,
That Spaniards wear mustachios, but beards want.
Peace, peace, fool Andrew, let that theme alone,
I've seen five hundred Spaniards to thy one;
And yet, I swear, of all that sun-burnt crew,
I saw not one had thy prodigious hue.
Turn o'er your books, to end this needless war,
And read but Strado on the Belgic War;
Where you will see De Alva's beard and face
The Dutch drew on their bottles in disgrace:
Clap to thy stomach this my blist'ring plaster,
And learn no more to meddle with thy master;
Which, if thou do, the next it shall be sharper,
I fear not thee, far less Tam Souter Harper,
Whom I could whip, but credit me restrains,
Because the fellow is not worth my pains.
Now shew thyself great Cæsar man or nihil,
O Gool, thou fool! mock preacher at Kirkmichael.

ADDRESS TO HIS MAJESTY KING GEORGE, UPON HIS ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND, THE --- DAY OF SEPTEMBER, 1714.

Thrice glorious Sir, our Sovereign Lord and King,
Thy presence doth glad news to Britain bring;
At which, great monarch of our seas and isles,
England triumphs, and Caledonia smiles,
Ireland for joy her harp doth string anew,
And all rejoice, except a popish crew,
Who dare not stir to run their former race,
For fear that Hydra meet our Hercules.
Welcome then, mighty prince, for to inherit
What's yours by law, and much more yours by merit.
Your valiant predecessors did right soon
Crush idol-worship, and the pride of Rome,
Caus'd all their superstitious rites begone,
And brought us out from sinful Babylon,
Who brag their bloody Church to be the best,
And bolt the door of Heaven from all the rest.
Your generous Germans, Sir, now mourn and cry,
For that sad day on which great Anne did die;
Their fainting hearts cannot revived be,
Most gracious Prince, since they took leave of thee.
No land or country in the whole creation,
Have more of candour than your noble nation;
Who, blest be God, hath given us such a King,
As makes all Europe with his praises ring:
Nor is the Stuart's blood extinct in thee,
But circles in thy veins both frank and free.
The Thames, the Rhine, the Wesel, and the Forth,
With all the currents from the south to north,
Now sweetly glide, in concord all agree,
To pay the tribute due, great King, to thee.
Lewis le Grand doth now peace offerings bring,
No more French poets him immortal sing.
We fear no threat'nings from the Gallic shore,
Dunkirk and Mardyke now must be no more.
Get Calvin but with Luther reconcil'd,
And faith, great Sir, ye fairly win the field:
And if you add more lustre to your glory,
For God's sake reconcile the Whig and Torry.
Illustrious Sir, if you perform this thing,
Call it the master-piece of George's reign;
The Devil of mammon causeth all dissention,
And court preferments kindleth much contention.
Preserve the good, throw by the naughty seed,
And then, by George, the dragons kill'd indeed.
Then, generous Sir, give us forth your opinion,
Where lies our profit by the late made Union,
Since all our gilt goes up to London town,
And ne'er a farthing we see coming down.
Now, if in kindness, Sir, you will but deign,
To visit Scotland with your noble train,
It cannot be express'd by human arts,
What joy it would impart to Scotish hearts:
But if for reasons that cannot be done,
Send us, dread Sir, the Prince, your royal son;
And then with him we beg you will restore
Our Privy Council, as we had before,
Made up of faithful, wise, and honest men,
Who will our laws and properties maintain.
Restrain, great Sir, appeals, which throng so fast,
Keep them in bounds, or else we cannot last.
Lessen our taxes, lest they do create
Hardship and grudge, especially the malt.
Then cause the English give us full content
Of what we want of the equivalent.
Next, for our fishing we thy aid implore,
To bring us wealth where we had none before.
More might be said, but read our old address
From Lintoun, which is new come from the press;
Which if you listen to upon the granting,
Our faithful service, Sir, shall ne'er be wanting:
Though warlike William, Sir, we must confess,
Had not the time to mind our first address,
Yet we expect some kinder looks from you,
Brave, generous George, our valiant Prince, adieu.

PETER MANY's OBLIGATION, GIVEN IN TO KING JAMES VI.

FROM AN OLD MANUSCRIPT.

Thou gracious King, baith true and kind
To poor and rich of ilk degree,
To every virtue well inclin'd,
But chiefly given to charity.
By this complaint, which here you see,
Your Majesty may understand,
My wife's come post with poverty,
And newly lighted in this land.
She flytes so fast, since she came hither,
That I would wish her dead or dumb,
Yet if we had some gear together,
I would not care for that a crumb.
Ilk nobleman has height us some,
To help us to our household gear;
That is the cause which gars me come
To get your happy handsel here.
I grant I had your help before,
Which did me good in great distress,
But now, O King, I would have more,
Because I have great business.
What misters me for to express,
My present poverty or wrack,
Even, Sir, gar give us more or less,
Some portion to begin our pack.
Your Highness is right welcome here,
To all your honest Scots ye ken,
But to myself you are most dear,
And reckoned amongst your men;
For I have served you now and then,
With hearty prayers ev'n and morrow,
Now, if your Highness likes to lend,
I would have siller for to borrow.
As for the sum it shall be certain
To be well paid, though I be poor,
When London loups o'er to Dumbarton,
And Caithness comes to Kirremuir.
When Holland is without a whore,
And not a papist into Spain,
That day but doubt, I make you sure,
Your siller shall be paid again:
When hounds and hares do well agree,
When tailors in their trade grow leel,
When Lomond Hills loup in the sea,
When limmers love the common weal:
When pearls are spun with rock and reel,
And tradesmen travel for no gain,
And lordships sald but writ or seal,
Your siller shall be paid again.
When Lothian lives but malt or meal,
When Peter's wife begins to mend,
When websters have no will to steal,
And wretches have good will to spend;
When foxes fear for to offend
A goose, a lamb, or yet a hen,
Then, either gif you come or send,
Your siller shall be paid again.
When French and Spaniards well agree,
When English write the truth of Scots,
When Paris does to Madrid flee,
And Amsterdam to Dublin trots:
When diamond rings are sold for groats,
The Ethiopian's no more black,
And armies fight but sword and shots,
Expect your money to a plack.
Your Highness may perceive, indeed,
What help I would have at your hands,
Ye ken that it is meikle need,
That gars me bind me to such bands.
Would ye have penalties or pawnds?
Your worthy will shall be obey'd,
Take fair St Giles' just as it stands,
For surety till your sum be paid.
Will ye not that security,
I cannot help you worth a pin,
Except ye send down to Dundee,
Within the bounds where I have been,
And take in pledge my mortar stane;
I made it first when I was married,
Sir, it will take a cart its lane,
But all the lave is easy carried.
For in good sooth I am as bare,
As I have been these many years,
The warld is now become so sair,
There's nothing had for fools nor friars;
And yet the brewster wives ay speir,
If I have siller for to send them,
That gars me fyle my face with tears,
Cauld be their cast that e'er I kend them.

A PANEGYRIC UPON THE ROYAL ARMY IN SCOTLAND,

And particularly upon the Troops of Tweeddale and Forest, Gentlemen convened by Royal authority, May 1685, under command of the Laird of Drumellear, to suppress what was then called Rebellion.

PERTH's PENITENTIALS; OR THE CHANCELLOR OF SCOTLAND's FAREWELL.

Farewell, my dearest Sovereign, for thy sake
I run down headlong to the Stygian lake;
For both with soul and body, in my station,
I serv'd thee, even to supererogation.
Oh, horror! have I done that dreadful thing,
Apostatiz'd from God to please my King.
All joys, dread Sir, I leave and loss for you,
Means, friends, sweet freedom, and salvation too.
Charon have o'er, thy barge shall ferry me
Where I shall never more Elysium see.
Melfort embark, my thrice unhappy brother,
Levi must row, and Simeon steer the rudder.
O Jesuits! you enemies to Jesus,
Try now if your black policy can save us;
You that have brought to ruin all you can,
A glorious monarch and a gallant man;
Our ancient King renown'd for power and strength,
By your soul murdering conduct brought this length,
O let me never more your order see,
For where they are, sure there the devil must be.

THE CITY AND COUNTRY MOUSE.

A country mouse, upon a winter's day,
Met with a city mouse, right smooth and gay,
And being old friends, the country mouse would have
The other to his homely fare and cave.
The first he was a sober saving beast,
Yet on occasions could bestow a feast;
What need we more, he gave him wealth of pease,
Scraps of fat bacon, barley, oats, and cheese;
Hoping by these to please the gorgeous taste
Of this his proud and liquorish lipped guest,
While he amongst the chaff himself doth stretch,
And does on darnel feed, or smallest vetch,
The richer grain he to his friend resign'd,
Since for to please him he bent all his mind.
At length the city mouse thus told his friend,
In this dull life what pleasure can you find;
Will you to men and cities bid adieu,
And woods and caves thus sillily pursue;
Short is our life, no relish can we have
Of worldly comforts when laid in our grave;
Then do not slip the tide. These words did rouse,
From his low cell, the homely country mouse,
Who in a haste gets up, and quickly rose
Up from the bed, and with the other goes.
The moon was shining bright, when first they spied
The neighbouring city, and its walls descried;
When straight the city led the country mouse
Unto a wealthy citizen's fair house;
Where silken curtains deck'd the ivory bed;
Finely embost, and rich with gold inlaid;
Baskets well fill'd with meat were to be seen,
For there had lately a brave supper been.
The city mouse then plac'd his country guest
On a rich purple twilt, to grace his feast,
And with great care presents a dainty bit
To the field mouse, but first did taste of it.
The guest, thus glutted with delicious fare,
Puts on a cheerful and obliging air,
Did bless the stars which made him change his lot,
For now his former meanness he forgot.
When suddenly the doors, with shrieking noise,
Alarm'd our guests, and made them quickly rise;
Each run a several way, how pale they grew,
When through the hall the horrid noise it flew,
Of wide-mouth'd hounds, which quickly fill'd the air,
And cast our mice into a deep despair.
Then said the country mouse, my friend farewell,
This life of yours doth frighten me like hell:
Welcome sobriety, my chief delight,
With woods and groves where dwells eternal night.

THE EXPOSTULATION OF A FAIR LADY WITH HER GALLANT,

HE BEING TILL THAT TIME IGNORANT OF HER LOVE.

AMORELLA.
I that was once a day courted by many,
Am now most scornfully slighted by thee,
Others some reason had, thou ne'er hadst any,
Rencount'ring my disdain, thus for to flee.
Slave to affection, and thy sweet complexion,
Too much I've been, but no more I'll be;
O rash election, that walks at direction
Of a weak feminine amorous eye.

CELANDER.
Fair maid, thy modesty has been too rigid,
For to make such mistakes 'twixt me and thee;
Although by Nature our sex be obliged,
To the first onset, when objects we see;
Yet thy superlative virtue, birth, beauty,
Did in such a manner surpass my degree,
That, with a sad heart, I thought it my duty
Far from such fruitless presumptions to flee.

AMORELLA.
Did not my countenance plead me a lover,
When fortune blest me with thy company?
Did not my blushes a passion discover,
Ev'n in thy absence, when mentioning thee?
Have not I been to my modesty traitor,
What greater symptoms of love can there be?
Be no more then an insensible creature,
But fairly venture and welcome to me.

CELANDER.
Through airy regions to fly I dare venture,
Cupid will lend me wings to follow thee,
Or with some pilgrim I'll round the earth's centre,
Yea, with Leander I'll hazard the sea.
Silent loves scorching flames long I've endured,
What greater torments than these can there be?
All these I'll suffer, and more, when assured,
Dearest soul, that my love's welcome to thee.

AMORELLA.
Celander, blest be the time when I saw thee
Angling so pleasantly by the brook-side;
There wanton Cupid with silk cords did draw me,
To wish Amorella once slept by thy side.
Too long, alas! my love I concealed,
Modesty shut up my sires in my breast,
Now they burst out, and must be revealed,
Celander's my comfort, my joy, and my feast.

THE MOCK MARRIAGE OF CANTSWALS.

James Forsyth, Gardner, having got Meggie Stothart with bairn, in Lintoun parish, they make an appointment to marry at Newland Kirk, and the neighbouring gentry being convened, the bride in the church, dinner all in readiness, they are interrupted by the minister of Lintoun, Mr Hay.

Fy, Mr William, fy for shame,
Eternally thou'lt bear the blame,
I'm sure thy looks more love discovers,
Than thus to part two longing lovers,
For Meggie came right brisk and blythe,
To join her gear with James Forsyth.
Two limbs she had without compare,
But what they bore was far more fair;
A comely body and a face,
Would make a Dominie stick the grace.
The gardner, like an active blade,
Lent her a trial of his spade;
Which made the couple sweetly 'gree,
That James should labour Meggie's lea;
He fell to work like a brisk fellow,
And soon made Meggie's garden mellow.
“Dear James,” quoth she, “the flesh is frail,
I ken you now both tap and tail:
So, if you love me, do not tarry,
But hasten to the kirk and marry:
The day's but short, the pleasure sweet,
Let's say the grace and fall to meat;
This sinful course must be forsaken,
For many a graceless meal we've taken;
So, dearest, lest fresh warm temptation,
Make us relapse in fornication,
Invite your friends, put all in order,
Get Peter's Pass , then cross my border.”
But, ah! the very hour designed,
That lovely pair were countermined,
The meat was dressed, nothing neglected,
Blaw-wrang, the piper, was expected;
All things were ordered as was fitting,
The bride into the kirk was sitting,
The neighbour gentry were well met,
And at a covered table set;
When suddenly there raise a fray,
By Mar-the-Marriage, Mr Hay,
Who did oppose the match with vigour,
Beyond all Presbyterian rigour.
“Fy, brother,” says he, “you'll be blam'd,
To marry folk not thrice proclaim'd,
And it does not become your station,
To meddle with my congregation:
My hand, dear Bride, ere ye do that,
Must be at your testificate.”
“Sweet Sir,” quoth she, “you'll break my heart,
If thus kind James and I should part;
And, ah! for sorrow, shame, and lack,
To come from church unmarried back:
Yet faith this night, if I have life,
I'll fare as well as your young wife,
And call to mind, if this must be,
Who us denied the remedy;
I'll ask an instrument upon it,
So James take leave, and lift your bonnet.
This clos'd our trist, all was miscarried,
And bonny Maggy's still unmarried.

CORINNÆ CONCUBITUS,

OUT OF OVID. Done by the Author at the age of 18.

Midday it was, when foggy clouds withdrew,
And left the sun to drink the scorched dew;
To ease myself, on softest downs I lay,
Leaving, to temper the too scorching day,
The windows one half shut, which gave a light
Like woods, where boughs conspire with constant night.
Such is the light when Titan yields his reins,
Or just before Aurora gilds the plains,
This is the light which coy maids desire,
To hide their blushing cheeks and secret fire.
Lo, comes Corinna, in a night-gown drest,
Her dangling tresses hid her ivory breast;
Th'Assyrian queen , when Hymen join'd her hand,
Did not so charming half nor beauteous stand;
Nor wanton Lais , who had every art
To gain and keep a youthful lover's heart:
I keenly pull'd her to me, which meanwhile
She struggling seems to shun, but with a smile,
She gives herself the lie, I victor prove
O'er her who slily to be vanquish'd strove.
When from her waist her looser garments flew,
And laid her open to my amorous view,
Methought each part had more than thousand charms,
I saw such squared shoulders, twin like arms,
Her breasts, love's bellows, put my thoughts on fire,
And with their heavings plung'd me in desire,
So smooth a belly rising from her breast,
Such alabaster thighs, such slender waist.
But why each part? Nothing was wanting there
That could be wished for to complete the fair;
What followed then may easily be guess'd,
When both being tired, we gave ourselves to rest.
Would heaven this bliss on me rain down in store,
I'd for new gifts importune it no more.

EPITAPH UPON SIR GEORGE LOCKHART OF CARNWATH,

PRESIDENT OF THE SESSION, WHO WAS BASELY MURDERED BY CHEISLY OF DALRAY, AT THE SITTING DOWN OF THE CONVENTION, ANNO 1689.

So falls our glory, with one fatal blow,
Gone is that head which did us justice show,
That tongue from which such well tuned words did come,
And charmed us all, is now for ever dumb.
Which with such evenness justice did dispense,
As universal judge of wit and sense,
His pointed wit did in us hopes create
To see our church healed, and our tott'ring state;
This stroke doth make them vanish into air,
Leaves us behind to languish in despair.
So when a boist'rous wave doth overwhelm
The skilful pilot that should guide the helm,
And yet the enraged ocean still doth roar,
The passengers must doubt to reach the shore.
Oh heavens! by such a horrid murder must
So brave a man's be mixed with common dust.
Monster, what tiger would thy length have gone?
Ravilac, Clement, Gerard are outdone.
Fatal it seems in pleading to excel,
Just so Rome's pride and glory Tully fell.

TO J. W. THE INGENIOUS TRANSLATOR OF L' ECOSSE FRANCOIS, &c.

Dear friend, I cannot praise thee as I ought,
For all my words are swallowed up in thought;
Thy massy thoughts a just proportion keep,
Thy words flow easy, and thy sense runs deep:
To the great author mighty thanks is due,
Ages to come, when they this work do view,
Will celebrate his praise, and the Translator's too.
This work doth Caledonia's fame revive,
She doth by these immortal pages live.

TO HIS MISTRESS, WHO HE WAS JEALOUS HAD SLIGHTED HIM.

MADAM,

I've seen, but ah! these happy hours are fled,
When you was charmed with every thing I said;
Praised my perfections to a high degree,
Vowed you loved only one, and that was me.
Ah! lovely nymph; can you so faithless prove,
To slight the swain you did so dearly love.
Yes, yes, 'tis true, and I am in despair,
And must I die a martyr to the fair!
Let all who love their peace, of your sex have care,
For every smile, and every look's a snare.

TO HIS MISTRESS, TRANSLATED.

My Lesbia, let us love, and let's despise
The idle whimsies of the grave and wise;
That sun which sets to night, the morrow morn
Shall full as glorious and as bright return;
But we, if death once snatch us from the light,
Are left for ever in eternal night.
My dearest Lesbia, let us then improve
Our little time, and give it all to love.
Give me, then, charming soul, whom I adore,
A thousand kisses, give a thousand more;
Nay, give another thousand, and complete
My joys; now give another thousand yet,
Give yet as many as you gave before,
Now give, my dear, till we can count no more;
That those who do envy my happiness,
May never know how great, how vast it is,
And all their malice still may be
Short of the mighty joy I find in thee.

INDIFFERENT ROBIN TO COY MEG HIS MISTRESS.

Though for a while I sorrow for thy sake,
Yet shall I die? No, that's the devil a straik.
Once but refuse to ease me of my pain,
Cauld be thy cast if e'er I come again.

COPY OF A LETTER FROM MR W. CL. ADVOCATE, TO D. P. THE AUTHOR, May, 1714.

Most noble Doctor, glory of our time,
Parnassus' prince, protector of our rhyme,
Receive this compliment from honest Will,
Who's just returned from our kind Cowie's Mill,
With troops of gypsies who molest our plains,
Raze Spittlehaugh, most charming of our swains;
But now all's calm, serene as you may think,
Since Will's turned poet with Lady Effie's drink.

THE ANSWER.

Brave generous Will, I cannot well rehearse
How pleased I was to read your lofty verse;
So eloquent that every line did smell
Of Tully, and the Heliconian well.
But while both wit and fancy you shew forth,
The praise you give me far exceeds my worth;
Oh! how unequal is the match indeed,
Betwixt your young and my old hoary head;
Your blood is warm, your fancy's on the stage,
This is your spring, but winter of my age,
My muse cools like my blood, and still grows worse,
Yours tours aloft like the Pegasean horse.
Kind and stout patriots you are I vow,
With your brave club to catch the gypsy crew;
Your names should be engraven on marble stones,
For clearing Tweeddale of these vagabonds.
Had Cowie not been known, I do protest
Kind Jonas had been captive with the rest,
And sent to prison, if we should allow
All to be rogues that have the gypsy hue.
Yet, if I live, expect a better tale,
When we meet blithe at Lady Effie's ale.

[God hath no shape; no art nor instrument]

A PARAPHRASE UPON THE SEVENTH CHAPTER OF SOLOMON'S PROVERBS.

INSCRIPTION TO BE PUT AT THE FOOT OF JONAS HAMILTON OF COLDCOAT'S PICTURE, DRAWN BY ------.

Painter, thou hast now with good grace,
Drawn me Coldcoat's martial face,
And manly looks, which do discover
Something likewise of the lover;
His Roman nose, and swarthy hue,
To all doth testify and shew,
To none alive that he will yield,
In Venus's camp, or Mars's field;
For Wor'ster fight, and Nanny Fell,
His valiant deeds and feats can tell.
No less for Bacchus shall his name
Stand in the register of fame;
Save Coldcoat, none Dalhousie knew
Who Jonas could at drink subdue;
Brave Nicolson, who's in his grave,
Did from him many a parley crave;
Drummond, who's yet alive, can tell
How from them all he bore the bell.
No Epitaph we need on stone,
To mind this hero when he's gone,
His name and fame shall surely stand
While Session Books there's in the land.

A LETTER TO ALEXANDER BAILIE OF CALENS,

WHO HAD BORROWED A SHEARING HAY SPADE FROM THE AUTHOR, BUT STILL DELAYED TO RETURN THE SAME.

Calens, I send you rhyme, send me reason,
Why you keep up my spade so long a season?
What say you for yourself, man? Fy for shame,
Should not a lend come always laughing hame.
I sent my boy, I did so little doubt it,
And yet the silly goose came back without it.
Sir, to our skaith it's kend, a shorter time
Might with great ease shorn both your hay and mine.
What was it, Calens, that made you so cross,
Was you then preses at the noble house;
When you with old Nathaniel and Halmire,
Were keeping committees at Sandy's fire?
It sets you well to labour in your station
To raise up soldiers for a reformation;
We ken the school that ye were trained in,
An arch malignant, so are all your kin.
Now send me back my spade, or I'm a knave,
If that same spade help not to dig your grave.

ELEGY UPON THE SUPPOSED DEATH OF JONAS HAMILTON OF COLDCOAT,

AT THE DESIRE OF A PERSON OF QUALITY.

Kind Cowie, our delight, our only one,
The best of comrades, is dead and gone;
Fy on the Lachesis that had not spun
His thread of life for centuries to come;
The rich, the poor, the young, the old, and all
That e'er knew Cowie, do lament his fall.
His converse so to every man endeared him,
And women for his natural parts admired him;
He was conspicuous for a comely grace,
A royal nose on a mulatto face.
Though in his youth, as fame most loudly speaks,
Both Lancaster and York shined in his cheeks,
Pure red and white, but that the son of new,
Dy'd bonny Jonas of the gypsy hue;
His hair at twenty was like threads of gold,
At thirty black, like snow when he grew old.
Valiant he was, at Worcester fight and town,
Where with much bravery he threw severals down,
Who were not slain, but pleased with his pranks
Rose up again, and gave kind Cowie thanks.
O, Nature, reconcile him if you can,
A debauchee, and yet a sober man.
Riches he scorned, yet knew not what was want,
A bawdy sinner, yet a harmless saint;
Drink, swear, and kiss, he could, yea pious be,
And, Proteus like, suit with all company.
His doughty deeds no tongue can better tell
Than Thomson, Braidfoot, and sweet Nanny Fell;
Who to her praises this is not the least,
That Cringilty once suck'd her wanton breast.
No less for Bacchus shall kind Colcoat's name
Be mustered in the registers of fame;
For all that bragged him still the battle lost,
Ask Hawthorn, and strong Dalhousie's ghost.
But all these rare endowments, and his worth,
The Session-book of Newlands can set forth,
Where he was ruling elder, and with vigour
Trac'd all the steps of Presbyterian rigour .
Heaven hath him now, which he expected never,
And to his patrons bids adieu for ever.

ON THE MINISTER OF NEWLAND's BOLD MASTIFF CALLED TURK, WHOM HIS MASTER IN PASSION SLEW WITH ONE STROKE OF HIS FOOT.

Howl and lament, ye Newland tykes and curs,
Ye who for lesser matters make great sturs;
Bark with a hideous noise, and direful moan,
For Tory's Turk, your captain's dead and gone.
The trusty punler of the Newland pease,
Lies breathless, ah! and none knew his disease;
His awful looks the traveller did affright,
The vagabond by day, the thief by night,
With vigilance and care he kept the store,
And seldom wandered from his master's door;
No beggar, yea no laird, durst make their entry
Without leave asked of this valiant sentry;
Hell's porter, Cerberus, though fierce and cruel,
Durst never face this hero at a duel.
Now he is past both physic, oil, and plaster,
And murdered lies by his too cruel master;
Who yet may vow and swear to his last breath,
He had no hand in his kind mastiff's death.

UPON THE MARRIAGE OF AN OLD CRAZY PRESBYTERIAN DIVINE WITH A BRISK YOUNG VIRGIN. EPITHALAMIUM.

You mighty monarchs henceforth cease to brag,
Hath not old Hamilton his Abishag.
Great Alexander, that bright spark at arms,
Was longer proof of fair Statira's charms,
And is it not a scandal justly counted,
To see old cuff upon young Helen mounted.
Helen is brisk and lovely, as she's chaste,
Yet amorous thoughts may rob her of some rest;
Though this bridegroom be called a man of sense,
Will that give Helen due benevolence?
Though he's esteemed both learned, rich, and good,
Will this conjure the devil of flesh and blood?
Oh! no: For now such miracles are ceas'd,
Our church believes against the Popish priest.
What monstrous weather will that season render,
When florid May is matched with cold December.
From such a wedlock Lord deliver me,
If this be Presbyterian parity.

INSCRIPTION AT PAISLEY UPON THE TOMBSTONE OF HAMILTON EARL OF ABERCORN, LORD PAISLEY.

Scotland's honour, England's wonder,
Ireland's terror, here lies under.

EPITAPH UPON THE TOMBSTONE OF OLD MR ROBERT ELLIOT, MINISTER OF LINTON,

AT THE DESIRE OF YOUNG MR ROBERT, HIS SON AND SUCCESSOR, Anno 1682.

Stay passenger, weep and retire,
Thy fatal hour approacheth near,
Let Elliot's cold stone monument,
Teach poor frail mortals to repent.
Powerful he was, in terms right ample,
To preach by precept and example;
No man he judged but himself,
And scorned that cut-throat worldly pelf.
His praise in one line to insert,
God's book he had by tongue and heart;
His head was learned, his face was gracious,
His heart was honest, his soul's now precious.

THE COMPLAINT OF THE WIDOW AND FATHERLESS,

UPON THE DEATH OF OLD MR PATRICK PURDIE, 54 YEARS MINISTER OF THE CHURCH OF NEWLANDS.

Farewell all joy, ye mournful souls come near,
And view what doleful spectacle is here.
Ah! aged father Purdie now lies dead,
The poor's plight anchor in their time of need;
Fourscore and four years must these hands destroy,
That caus'd the widow's heart to sing for joy.
God hath that soul translated now to heaven,
And all his peccadilios here forgiven;
Who to his dying day did never tire
To feed and lodge a Lazarus at his fire;
A man ingenuous far beyond the fashion,
Wholly compos'd of pity and compassion.
Afflicted Newlands, mourn for his decease,
Who still liv'd with thee in perpetual peace;
Gratis he taught, which all men much admire,
His parish poor, full four and forty year;
Grammar to some, others to write and read,
And warded many a blow from Priscian's head.
Let all this be engraven upon his hearse,
Who living was most liberal of his verse.
So, friends, farewell, give every one his due,
Write it who will, this Epitaph is true.

THE EPITAPH OF ARTHUR HAMILTON, KING CHARLES THE FIRST'S MASTER WRIGHT.

Composed by Mr John Adamson, Primer of the College of Edinburgh, at the desire of William Wallace, Master Mason, Cutter of the Stone.

Here lies interr'd, under this stone,
Good honest Arthur Hamilton;
A man in his life both just and upright,
For skill in his craft, the king's master wright.
William Wallace, the king's master mason,
Hew'd out this stone in a goodly fashion;
Arthur's heart was so kind, I'm sure if he wist,
He would wish to be living to make William a kist .

UPON THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER PENNECUIK OF NEW-HALL,

Sometime Chirurgeon to General Bannier in the Swedish Wars, and since Chirurgeon-General to the Auxiliary Scots Army in England.

Come try your talents, mourn and bear a part,
Ye candidates of learn'd Machaon's art;
For death, at length, hath shuffled from the stage,
The oldest Æsculapius of our age.
A Scotsman true, a faithful friend and sure,
Who flattered not the rich, nor scourg'd the poor.
Where shall we go for help? Whom shall we trust?
Our Scots Apollo's humbled in the dust.
Many poor souls will miss him in their need,
To whom his hands gave health, yea clothes and bread;
Thrice thirty years doth now those hands destroy,
That cur'd our maladies, and caus'd our joy.
Five mighty Kings, from his birth to his grave,
The Caledonian sceptre swayed have,
Four times his eyes hath seen from cloak to gown,
Prelate and presbyter turn'd upside down.
He lov'd his native country as himself,
And ever scorn'd the greed of worldly pelf.
From old forbeirs much worth he did inherit,
A gentleman by birth, and more by merit.
Nothing is here exprest but what is true,
Farewell, old Pennecuik, reader adieu.

THE AUHTOR's ANSWER TO HIS BROTHER J. P.'s MANY LETTERS,

Dissuading him from staying longer in the Country, and inviting him to come and settle his residence in Edinburgh.

UPON THE DEATH OF HIS WORTHY FRIEND AND NEIGHBOUR, ALEXANDER BAILIE ELDER OF CALENS.

Farewell, old Calens, canny all thy life,
By birth, by issue, and a virtuous wife;
By gifts of mind, and fortune from above,
The fruits of Ceres, and the country's love;
Just, kind, and honest, to thy fatal breath,
Prudent thy life, and patient was thy death;
Thou left this world with pleasure more than pain,
Alas! the loss was ours, but thine the gain,
With true remorse for thy frail youthful errors,
Which made thee fearless face the king of terrors.
This tomb of paper praise, which I erect,
May show thy worth, and my unfeigned respect,
But these fresh thriving branches sprung from thee,
Will live thy lasting monument to be;
To whom I recommend my mournful verse,
To be with funeral tears strew'd on thy hearse.

A TRANSLATION OUT OF GUARINI's PASTOR FIDO,
O Mirtillo anima mia, &c.

O Mirtil, best of shepherds, if thine eye
Could pierce my breast, and secret thoughts descry,
The heart you fancy there of flint to find,
Alas! is of the softest, easiest kind;
No more you would complain of fruitless love,
For mine, I'm sure, would more your pity move;
In both our breasts an equal flame doth burn,
Yet our unhappy loves we both must mourn.
By nature led, if on the sin we run,
And it's a virtue the dear charm to shun.
O, too imperfect nature, that gainstands,
That frets and champs the bit of law's commands!
O, too too rigorous law, that does control,
The secret inbred motions of the soul!
The savage kind, rang'd in the forest round,
Are by no charter but by nature bound;
The generous courser, with his dappled miss,
Do fear no dull constraint to stop their bliss.
All we can claim their privilege is above,
To know no other rules of love but love.
But why this idle reasoning, since it's clear,
She loves but little who to die does fear.
Mirtil, dear soul, how could I yield my breath,
For love of thee, alas! I fear not death!
Honour, thou greatest of all deities,
To whom each well-born soul must sacrifice,
My stock of love I on thy altar lay,
And freely all thy holy laws obey.
Pardon, dear shepherd, if no gentle beam
I grant of favour, but all icy seem;
It's but in looks and words, it's only art
To cover the great feeble of my heart;
But if revenge you wish to ease your mind,
In your own grief a subject you may find.
For if thou'rt mine by such resistless flame,
As scarce the pow'rs that made can quench the same,
Your grief is mine, your groans, the brinny flood
Of tears you shed, is of my choicest blood,
Of sighs that rend your breast, the pains I feel,
More vive than those caus'd by the keenest steel.

A TRANSLATION OUT OF THE SAME AUTHOR,
Care selve beate.

AN ADVICE TO A PAINTER TO DRAW MY MISTRESS' PICTURE.

Painter, come here, and draw me to my mind,
The noblest, fairest of the female kind.
First, I would have her hair a chesnut bright,
In various tresses, pleasing to the sight;
For her complexion, let it not be fair,
But something of the black and brunet share:
Leda was black, for whom Jove from above,
In shape of swan, came down to feast his love.
Her forehead gently rising smooth and even,
The mirror of perfection here is seen.
Her eye-brows small, draw with such subtile art
That scarce the like your pencil can impart.
Next, draw these orbs, so full of life, so clear,
Heaven's brightest lights with her's but dull appear;
These eyes of her's, which first my ruin wrought,
Fettered my sense, and chained all my thought;
The pointed rays of which do so combine
To burn me up, they'll me to dust calcine.
Betwixt these orbs, her nose let gently fall,
Which neither swells too big, nor is too small.
Next, let her cheeks with lovely colours shine,
The rose doth there with lilies white combine.
Then draw her ruby lips, which opened show,
Of oriental pearl, the brightest row.
The chin, which bounds the orb of that fair face,
Draw of a just proportion and true grace.
Her alabaster neck, so round, so even,
Where through the skin the azure veins are seen;
These well shap'd shoulders, and these pretty balls,
Where love sits sporting as they rise and fall.
Her round plump arms, her long and milk white hand,
Such charms of body no heart can withstand.
Let drapery round her waist and middle go,
In pleasant form, which variously doth flow.
Thy task is done, her clothes the rest conceal,
Happy, thrice happy, he to whom she'll that reveal.
But should I give the picture of her mind,
Where could I words or fit expressions find?

ON A GLUTTON.

A glutton, who had at one meal
Eat a sturgeon to the head,
With surfeit did grow very pale,
And looked like a man that's dead.
Then many a clyster, many a pill,
Did this glutton's belly fill;
But nought would do, his friends in end,
Told him no physic could him mend,
For that his fatal hour was come,
And this they gave to him for doom.
Well, Sirs, said he, since that must be,
I fully am resolv'd to die;
But e'er I am of life bereft,
Bring here the sturgeon's head I left.

TWO INGENIOUS GENTLEMEN

Travelling betwixt Monimusk and Fettercairn, fell out of the Road, and went astray a great part of the night; at length they fell upon Drum Irwing's House, where they found much kindness, and all things commendable, save a great Quech, which they were made to drink out of. To amend which, one of the gentlemen, after departure, sent a lesser one with these lines.

Brave Sir, of late it was my lot to stray
Alongst a desart and a thorny way;
Where steepy rocks against the heavens did swell,
And dreadful gulphs, much like the abyss of hell,
Did promise nothing, in our toilsome path,
But wand'ring error and affrighting death.
O! here, like Ixion wrestling with his cloud,
O'ercharg'd with fear and grief, amaz'd we stood;
And, like distracted pilgrims from their way,
We knew not where to go, nor what to say;
Till heaven, in pity of our sad distress,
T'allay the anguish of our bitterness,
Convey'd us to thy home, and made us try
Thy gracious strains of hospitality.
O, then what found we! or what found we not,
That majesty and virtue would allot;
For though without thy harbour seem'd but homely,
Yet all within was handsome, neat, and comely;
Thy pavements were clean, thy fires were clear,
And for a preface to some better cheer,
Thou made each corner of thy house to look
Like Vulcan's furnace clean'd with Indian smoke.
As for our table, I dare say this much,
That brave Lucullus, in his richest touch,
Pompey's Apollo, or Ptolemy's girl ,
Who fed the consul with elixir pearl,
Could never say, in their unpampered strain,
Their diet was more sweet, more sovereign.
Nor were our cups inferior in their rank,
For, lo! the juice that decks Corinthus' bank,
Ran there in such a rapid course and strain,
That hoary Nilus in his proudest theme,
Fair Ganges, that beholds the sun new born,
And Ister that laughs Danube's streams to scorn,
The Po, the Rhone, the Rhine, the Thames, the Forth,
And all the currents from the south to north,
Might hing their heads, and be ashamed to see
So rich a cluster pressed and drank in thee.
Yet, lest thy nectar and ambrosia should
Complain as if their current were controul'd,
O what a concert and bewitching air,
Of well composed Doric mirth was there;
For there came Cupid, blind of both his eyes,
Sole mareshal of our festivities;
Who taking in his hand th'Amphisian harp,
With touches somewhat flat and somewhat sharp,
Tuned all his crotchets, quavers, semibrieves,
His longs, his large, his rounds, his squares by brieves,
In such a sort that, sure I am, the quire
Of nymphs which in Apollo's school appear,
Could ne'er so sweetly tune the descant string,
Amongst their harps delicious fingering.
And whilst he thus doth captivate our sense,
With well tuned notes of diapason tense.
Then Mercury and Mars , these roaring boys,
Not drunk with wine, but over drunk with joys,
Rose up and on their tiptoes danc'd a dance
That all the light-foot satyrs within France,
Could ne'er for all their documents of art,
Have play'd the like in whole or yet in part.
And while nothing defective was that might
Advance contentment, or procure delight,
Thy gracious lady made our feast complete,
By courteous welcome did us kindly treat.
But, oh! brave Sir, amidst this sport and play,
That looked like Janus' face on New-years-day,
I saw a fretting moth, a pricking thorn,
Which curbed the glory of the glistering morn,
For that thou made us drink a larger cup
Than giddy Bacchus when he went to sup,
Amidst his drunken orgies could contain,
Uncracked his belly, or uncrazed his brain.
Tell me, brave Sir, what glory may this be
To any man of mark or majesty,
When that thou thinks with welcome friend to crown me,
Instead of welcome, with a drink to drown me.
I grant it's but a light and venial sin,
When any friend or stranger shall come in,
To drink a cup or two in measure to him,
Which being drank in love, will ne'er undo him:
But if thou make thy friend at every potion,
Exhaust a cup that's deeper than the ocean,
I do not think but either he will tire,
Or quickly he will set his nose on fire;
Prevent, therefore, the hazard of this ill,
And keep not with thee such a rebel still,
Whose main design and chiefest aim's to felter
Thy best friends' feet, by drinking helter skelter.
I send thee here a sloop of which I'll boast,
That if the wind prove fair will scour the coast
Of Holland, Zealand, Dunkirk, France and Spain,
And send thee sure and sooner word again
Than any Dunkirk pirate sent to sea
Can travel to the wind, or luff to lee.
For though her bullet be not Dunkirk size,
Her frequent charge will make her free her prize.

POSTSCRIPT.

Thus hath my weak and babbling pen been bold,
To play the wanton to thee as I could,
O'er whose defects and blemishes if thou
Will draw the curtain of thy cheerful brow,
I care not for the idle critic strain
Of any cracked or capricious brain:
No, no, it's to and for thee that those lines,
Th'abortive infant and the poor propines.
Oft weak my wit and naked skill do come,
They have more merit if you lend them room.
Nil temere uxori, de servis crede quærenti,
Sæpe et enim mulier quem conjunx diligit, odit.
Believe not rashly when thy wife complains
Of servants whom thy bounty entertains;
For often times the wife hates and reproves
That servant whom her husband chiefly loves.

A TRIUMPH AFTER ENJOYMENT.

Laurels, the prize unto a hero due,
In this blest hour come deck a lover's brow;
Though hitherto I fate could perverse call,
This kind return doth make amends for all.
I've gain'd that beauty which I held so dear,
The conquest cost me only some few tears:
I have her in my arms, her kindness now does more
Than pay the pains she gave me heretofore.
It was less task Argus to lull asleep,
Than to elude the care with which she's kept,
Yea such a troop of lovers blocked my way,
I rag'd and storm'd impatient of delay.
She gave the means, which I strove to improve,
And in the end she crown'd my constant love.
To force a standard from a yielding foe,
As the reward is great the glory's so;
Yet I do hold that triumphs greater far
Are due to love than to the scarlet war:
Love only art, war force does often guide,
And fickle chance puts victory on the side.
I have not beleagred towns, which being gain'd,
The conquests with the blood of thousands stain'd;
I bound my wishes, labour with all art
To foil and gain the ravisher of my heart.
When Agamemnon had ransacked Troy,
Of the exploit he had no fruit nor joy;
So many heroes in it had a share,
While he the name of chief did only bear.
I gain alone, in it does none partake,
Nor crave a half of such a glorious stake.
Love had cashier'd me, had I begg'd for aid,
To seem to ask it, I had been afraid;
I general am, who leads my army on,
I captain am, and soldier, both in one,
I ensign bearer, who with all my might,
Under the ensigns which I bear, do fight.
It's not to fortune that I owe my lot,
I had been happy had she pleas'd or not;
For such a noble ardour fires my blood,
In vain my just designs fate had withstood.
This way of talking seems perhaps too brisk,
But what will not one for a mistress risk?
Love maketh cowards dare to enterprize
Things which seem miracles to vulgar eyes.
Never the world had heard such loud alarms,
If Paris had not known fair Helen's charms;
The Trojans ne'er had gain'd proud Italy,
If Turnus had not been content to see,
Rather his empire than his passion die;
The Sabines ne'er had dared to oppose
Themselves to Rome, and prov'd its greatest foes,
If losing what of life they held most dear,
To lose what still remain'd they did not fear.
Love's a great sire, inspired with his heat,
I saw two bulls with equal fury meet,
They push'd at other with such eager strife,
As when two rivals fight for death and life.
Sure he's a fool, who coming to possess
What's truly lovely, thinks't no happiness.
I have attracted, gain'd, and have enjoy'd,
Till both my eyes and appetite are cloy'd;
Of some few sighs I grant I had the pain,
A sober loss for such a mighty gain.

IN IMITATION OF ANACREON.

I was soft laid upon my bed,
And deep in sleep entranc'd,
When at my port there was one knockt,
So hard it did me wake.
Open, said he, and let me in,
With cold I'm chill'd to death,
For it doth thunder, hail, and rain,
Light flasheth from the sky,
And I am naked, oh! let me in,
Or quickly I must die.
These words with pity mov'd my soul,
And rais'd me from my rest,
In charity I thought me bound,
To help one so opprest.
When I did open, straight I saw
A boy come shivering in,
Stark naked; in his hand a bow,
A quiver on his thigh;
I ask'd his name, but straight he said,
I must myself first dry;
When I am warm, and can well speak,
I'll tell you by and by.
When I did light a faggot up,
He look'd if all was right,
If that his shafts were fit, and clear,
If that his bow was tight.
His hands, benumb'd with cold, I strok'd
And thaw'd before the fire.
Though he seem'd beardless, raw and young,
Yet fear did me possess,
When I thought on his bow, and shaft,
And quiver by his side.
What idle thought, said I, is this,
To fear one that's so young,
Him I can bind whene'er I please,
And whip him when I've done.
What should I say if Polipheme
Were lodged beneath my roof.
The boy then with a lively air
Doth take his bow in hand,
And down lets fall his yellow hair,
And shaft fits to the string,
He straight lets fly the arrow keen,
Which pierced me to the heart,
Thou'st got it now, said he, and mind
Its Cupid makes thee smart,
For that's my name, remember't well,
On Sylvia think the fair,
Take this for all thy toil and pains,
And say you have your hire.
Ingrate, says I, does thou thus treat
One that's so kind to thee,
What baser treatment couldst thou give
To thy worst enemy.
Then Cupid hopt about and skipt,
Said, Comrade, thou dost know
Full well what I am now, and what
My arrow is and bow.

ANOTHER IMITATION OF ANACREON.

Painter, thou who dost excel
All others in the Cyprian Isle,
Or Paphos, for thy dextrous skill,
Paint me absent Iris now.
Thou hast not seen her, thou wilt say,
What then, the better its for thee;
I'll in few words instruct thee what to do,
First mix the lilies and the rose,
Love's wanton looks and smiles;
But why each thing, for thou canst well
Of Venus Iris make,
And thou can make the traits so like
None shall know the mistake;
And of that Iris thou again
Can make the lovely Paphian queen.

EX GRÆCO.

THUS TRANSLATED.

Chaste Bilia's husband, at a friendly feast,
Did unawares meet with a scornful jest,
They told him to his teeth, O man, thou hath,
A comely wife, but yet a stinking breath.
Then, all in tears, to Bilia home he goes,
And chides her thus, Fy, should you not disclose,
And warn me of that foul infirmity,
Which strangers, to my shame, cast up to me.
Dear heart, quoth she, that fault I no ways know,
Because I never kiss'd a man but you:
So, if thy breath was foul I could not tell,
Thinking that all men's breath had such a smell.

TRUTH's TRAVELS,

IN SCOTS METRE, AND MUCH IN REPUTE IN OUR OLD KING JAMES'S TIME, BY PETER MANY.

Some say, within these hundred years,
That Truth did travel on the earth,
But was ill treat, as well appears,
Albeit he was of noble birth.
Few men or nane would give him girth,
Then noble Truth was troubled sae,
That he was forc'd to turn with mirth,
To that country where he came frae.
For wealthy men would naeways ken him,
And his own servants were but poor,
They neither had to give nor lend him,
And taverns held him at the door.
In time of preaching he was sure,
To be with pastors in the kirk,
Except sic men as they took cure,
All others they began to irk.
When kirk was skael'd and preaching done,
And men and women baith went hame,
Nae man call'd Truth to his disjeun,
Albeit he was of noble fame,
Their was not one that kept a craim,
But they had bacon, beef, and ale,
Yet no acquaintance Truth could claim,
To wish him worth a dish of kail:
Except pastors or judges sought him
I trow his dinner was but cauld,
For advocates much skaith they wrought him,
He makes their gowns sae bare and auld.
And merchant men that bought and sauld
For sundry things could not abide him;
And poor craftsmen albeit they wald
They had no portion to provide him.
Truth could not get a dish of fish,
For cooks and kailwives baith refus'd him,
Because he plainted of their dish,
And poultry men plainly misus'd him;
The baxters boys came and abus'd him.
So Truth got wrang of ev'ry one,
Yea not a carline but accus'd him,
That sell'd the tripes about the tron.
A tapster took Truth in her cellar,
She gave him drink and other cheer,
But all the lave were like to fell her,
Because she let him come so near.
Quoth they, “Thief, if he shelter here,
Baith thou and we are clean undone,
We shall not win the hail lang year
So meikle as will mend our shoon.”
Then Truth he travelled owr the street,
For lack of godly company,
Till with three blades he chanc'd to meet,
Who were not of his quality.
Falset came first, then Vanity,
Who brings great hurt to all estate;
As they forgathered there all three,
Then afterward comes in Deceit.
They speir at Truth “Where will ye dine?”
Quoth he, “Where I may have good cheer.”
Says Falset, “I ken ale and wine
Within a house that is right near.”
Quoth Truth, “I wad we were not dear,
Because that we must spend to-morrow.”
“Sir,” quoth Deceit, “take ye no fear,
We shall get siller for to borrow.”
Vanity says, “I will gae look
If I can get a chamber clair,
I am acquainted with the cook,
I trow we shall get honest fare.”
Then Vanity soon enters there,
And speirs if they had ready meat,
“Make haste, see for no cost ye spare,
Get us some delicates to eat.”
With that the other three came thither,
And saw the meat was ready drest,
They merrily sat down together,
And Vanity he served the rest.
Of wine and ale they had the best,
And other cheer for honest men,
They ate and drank even what they list,
Till that a quart was com'd and gane.
Vanity bade the lave be merry,
“Fetch yet a quart, whate'er it cost.”
Falset says, “I am like to worry;”
With that Deceit he gave a host.
Vanity says, “Bring up the roast,
And take away these broos and soup,
And gar somebody bring a toast,
With clowes and cannel in the cup.”
Deceit says, “Let the wife come drink,
For she is burnt up bane and lyre,
She makes no service here I think.”
Quoth she, “I think your tongue should tire,
I cannot win ben frae the fire,
The roast will burn, the eggs will loup,
Take any thing that ye desire,
Let Falset gang and fill the stoup.”
With that the buird was near the drawing,
And Falset brewing was a cheat;
Truth says, “Wife come and count the lawing;”
With that Falset fell in a sweat,
He spitted first, and then spew'd,
He took a swarf and fell in swoon;
Deceit and Vanity baith knew,
The cunning of that crafty loun,
They presently take the alarm,
And cry, Alas! our brother's dead,
Deceit soon caught him in his arm,
And Vanity held up his head.
Unto the door they run with speed,
To get him comfort in the wind,
But Truth sat still in meikle dread,
They left him as a pawn behind.
Falset ourcame when they came out,
And ilk ane ran a sundry gait,
But Truth sat still in meikle doubt,
He saw that he must pay the debt.
The browster wife wist well I wait,
The cunning of these crafty knaves,
For they were with her air and late,
She was ay servant to their slaves.
When they were gane, she enters in,
And cries, “Where is your company?”
Quoth Truth, “False wife, will thou begin
To ask sic questions at me;
They are thy guests continually,
And eat and drink within thy house.”
Quoth she to Truth, “Good faith ye lie,
I will not trust them with a sous;
Nae man but you has brought them hither,
Therefore in conscience ye shall pay,
And count when that ye meet together,
Sic things lie not into my way.
Assure yourself that ye shall stay,
Till that ye pay this lawing hail,
Albeit your clothes were ne'er so gay,
For I must pay for bread and ale.
Ye came before I send about you,
Whether they call you Truth or Jock,
I have liv'd all my days without you,
I have no need of sic a block;
Sir, pay or ye shall leave your cloak,
Before that ye gang to the door.”
Quoth Truth, “In case I get that mock,
I never think to file thy floor.”
“Nae fault,” quoth she, “ye are precise,
And brings our craft to meikle wrack;
Yea, hurts even men of all degree,
That we dare not miscount a plack.
The narrow reckoning that ye take,
Gars all the tapsters clean abhor you.
I will not gang behind your back,
Come ne'er again till we send for you.”
Then Truth extremely was offended,
Because that he must pay the debt,
He wist not well what ways to mend it,
But went out to the browster's gate,
With Falset hastily he met,
Was standing like a crafty loun;
Then Truth did loup to him, but lett,
He claught him, and he keust him down,
And said, “Sir Falset was ye sick,
Ye and your graceless company.”
With that Truth took him on the cheek,
And lent him lusty lounders three.
Then Falset he began to flee,
And cry'd, “Oh! sorrow, shame, and wrack;”
And in a house soon entered he,
Where linning claith they use to mak.
He cry'd as if he had been daft,
And says, “Now are our brethren clair,
I am a neighbour of your craft,
And Truth has troubled me right sair.”
The webster says, “Take thou nae care,
But lie down underneath my loom,
For Truth will ne'er come seek thee there,
Though thou bide till the day of doom.”
For mirth the webster made a beacon,
And there the craft was all conven'd;
A boy ran out to fetch the deacon,
And Falset there he has complain'd.
His sad affront was sairly mean'd,
As ane of their society;
He was right richly entertain'd,
And made with all their brethren free.
The deacon says, “Can thou make claith.”
Quoth Falset, “In this country spinning,
Linning and woollen, if I had graith,
And live right well upon my winning;
For webster craft was my beginning,
And be that art I still abide,
I ken your warping and your winding.
To hail a hundred by the side.”
“Then thou may live in case thou please,”
The deacon says, “Though thou be scant,
To win thy meat, and steal thy claiths;
It is a woeful thing to want.”
“Deacon,” quoth he, “indeed I grant,
But ye must give me leave to steal,
Whether it be from kin or aunt,
We cannot live if we be leal.”
The deacon says, “I think thee good,
In case thou could make merry news,
Of Wallace or of Robin Hood.”
“Nay, Sir,” quoth he, “I can take clews,
Of any sort, or any hues,
Of fifteen I can take an ell,
Whether it be of blacks or blues,
And hide them ay in little hell.”
With that the craft and deacon took him,
And made him as their brother sworn;
They send out for a clerk to book him,
And would not bide until the morn;
For Truth they held him at the horn.
Frae time he saw Falset was hir'd,
He thought his travel was forlorn,
For he had stood till he was tir'd;
Then Truth he got away right fast,
And made his travel to the tron,
Where he saw Vanity at last,
Was standing in a part alone.
He says, “Now is thy brother gone,”
With that Truth took him by the neck,
And gave him there, as some suppone,
Three bevels till he gard him beck.
Vanity took him to his feet,
Because he durst not tarry there,
In haste he gat out owr the street,
And lightly he lap up the stair.
Of taylor's booths there was a pair,
And Vanity got in among them,
To give them comfort for their care,
For fear that Truth should clean o'ergang them.
“I am a brother of your calling,
Your noble art for to advance;
I brought the bodies hame with balling,
As was the present mode of France;
Even vardingales, when ladies dance,
Begarry'd tails, with borders three,
And skiprigs now come up by chance;
My natural name is Vanity.”
But all his head was full of clours,
Truth did so handle him when he had him,
He laid upon him full twa hours,
Were not help came, he had outred him.
Truth followed Vanity, and bled him,
When he was in the taylor's shap,
Then all the taylors raise and red him,
And wrapped Truth out o'er the trap.
They took the other by the hand,
And said, “Now welcome, Vanity,
We are all hail at thy command,
Let's see gif Truth dare follow thee;
And yet right welcome he should be,
If he would keep himself but quiet,
But nothing he may hear or see,
But still he prattles owre like a pyet.
Thou shall be foreman to our lads,
Of any wark take thou the chose.”
Quoth he, “I must take clouts and blads,
For pickindails, for caps and hose.
So, to be short, and make a close,
I'll steal from petticoat or gown,
From scarlet shanks, and shoon with rose,
That gars poor husbands leave the town.”
“Nae man,” quoth they, “shall needle draw,
For pleasure nor for poverty;
By all that's good we make this law,
Except they first be free with thee,
In brugh or land, where'er he be.”
So taylors took him by the hand,
And Vanity said, “Sirs, we shall gree,
Fetch in a clerk and make the band.”
Then Truth durst tarry there nae langer,
Because he was so oft disgrac'd,
But went away in meikle anger,
Till he came till the cross almaist;
Where soon he saw Deceit in haste,
Within the body of the town,
Into a part where he was plac'd,
Well girded in a gallant gown.
I trow Truth gave him there his straiks,
For he could not abide his force;
Some say, indeed, he gave him straiks,
But doubt that would have slain a horse.
The craimers all came frae the cross,
Baith men and wives they were conven'd,
And cry, “Truth has thou no remorse,
To be so cruel to our friend.”
Mealmakers came to Truth to hald him,
Till time their friend was out of strait;
Fishers and fleshers they miscall'd him,
The stablers start out to the gait,
The candlemakers came and flait,
The potingers were very crouse;
Wha gat away then but Deceit,
And brake into a broker's house.
“Fy! help,” quoth he, “I am Deceit,
With Truth right sair I am pursued,
I am a friend to thy estate,
And helps thee daily gif thou knew'd.
I wad our kindness were renew'd,
And I shall serve thee faithfully.”
The broker says, “Faith Truth shall rue't.
That e'er he had to do with thee;
We are ay troubled with that Truth,
He flees Deceit where'er he finds him,
He neither uses sleep nor sloth,
Nor buds and bribes can no ways blind him;
There is no mortal means can bind him,
He tries our deeds that are most deep;
And leaves good Conscience behind him,
That gars us sigh when we should sleep.”
“Brother,” quoth he, “I am a broker,
By that I win my living chief;
I borrow silver dear for ocker,
To them that are in debt and grief;
And so I live, for to be brief,
I win great wealth, and wait ye how,
Baith he that buys and sells the beef,
Must give me collops of the cow;
Sic like I can go o'er the fells
Of merchandize, to make abuse;
I have baith weights that buys and sells,
With common folks when I conduce.
When that I buy, this is my use,
What I would have I loath and lack,
And when I sell, I will make ruiss,
Of that whilk is not worth a plack.”
The broker says, “Will thou be fee'd,
And I shall keep thee in thy right.”
“Faith,” quoth Deceit, “it is agreed,
I shall bide with thee day and night;
What subtilty, or any slight,
Or Falset yet that e'er was us'd,
I shall supply thee to my might,
At all times when thou art accus'd.”
Quoth he, “Kens thou the merchant booth,
To fetch me paper, wax, or thread?”
“Yes,” quoth Deceit, “even Sir, forsooth,
I can run through them all with speed.”
Quoth he, “Friend, can thou write and read?”
“Yes,” quoth Deceit, “with sundry hands,
And counterfeit a band for need,
To cut true men from gear and lands.”
Quoth he, “Can thou gang to the bar,
In case I had an action there?”
Quoth he, “I dare not gang so far,
But I shall gae mid house and mair.”
The broker says, “Why will thou spare,
That thou dare gang no furder ben?”
“Faith,” quoth Deceit, “I would not care,
Gif Truth were put out frae these men.”
The broker says, “Since it is so,
That thou has taen thy girth herein,
Care not for Truth, that is thy foe,
For Conscience, nor all her kin.”
Deceit says, “Friend, we must begin
To win some wealth or warldly gear.”
The broker says, “Sir, make no din,
Ye shall have service for a year.”
Frae Truth perceiv'd them all reliev'd,
And he so fairly circumven'd,
Indeed he angry was, and griev'd,
He ran to judges and complain'd.
The judges and council all conven'd,
Truth and his plaint were baith receiv'd;
At the first view men would have deem'd,
He got the justice which he crav'd.
He tald “How that they had deceiv'd him,
Ev'n Falset and his crafty band,
And how the browster wife had crav'd him,
And how they did escape his hand;
What harm they did unto the land,
And what like men that bad reset them.”
With that the Justice gave command,
That all the guard should search and get them.
The Justice choos'd himself assessors,
To make him strong in that pretence,
To punish them and sic oppressors,
Prudence first and Experience;
Attentive Ear and Diligence,
Authority to stand before him;
To gar him get obedience,
That Fainting Fear should not devour him.
After the time that they were met,
Immediately in little space,
Be policy they were all set,
Who had great knowledge of the case.
The Judge was first put in his place,
And Warldly Gain crap in behind him,
Who durst not come before his face,
For fear her golden glance should blind him.
They that sought Falset, then had found him,
And said, “Sir, ye and ane must meet.”
After they gat him, then they bound him,
And brought him headlong up the street.
Falset began to fleir and greet;
But e'er the judges were aware,
They haltered him baith head and feet,
And harld him hard into the bar.
Then Justice says, “Where was thou born?”
Quoth Falset, “Sir, into the Isles,
And I have been lang time in Lorn,
And came into the country whiles;
Yea, to the south right many miles,
And sometimes I dwelt in the Border,
With outlaws, and these stubborn stiles,
Before your Lordships took good order.”
Quoth he, “Art thou the webster's man,
Or one of that society?”
Quoth Falset, “Sir, but now and than,
Though I be with their brethren free;
For others will not let me be,
Albeit the webster have the glamer,
There are even richer men nor he,
That keep me in their chiefest chamber.
The webster sent me to the mill,
Of corn I trow to grind a peck,
And there the miller held me still,
Till time we censured every sack.
Then shepherds took me by the neck,
That I might help to feed their flocks,
And some forestawers in effect,
Carried me north to make their blocks.
When I came hame a maltman met me,
Who keeped me a month haill,
When he was gaen browsters reset me,
That I might help to brew their ale.
And some men send me to sail,
To France, to Portugal, or Spain,
Though websters get the slander hail,
Yet other men has greater gain.”
After the judges had exam'd him,
For he had granted kow and yow,
For to be scourg'd soon they condemn'd him,
The hangman claught him in a tow,
And drave him to the Nether-bow,
He durst ne'er come again for awe,
But lodges in some house or how,
In Pleasants or the Patterraw.
Then they cried, ‘Vanity compear,
Why should ye had the judge so lang?”
The taylors answered, “We are here,
He is so sick he cannot gang;
For Truth has done him meikle wrang,
He dang Deceit and him like dogs,
I trow we shall not have him lang,
Except some doctor give him drugs.”
“Taylors,” quoth Truth, “ye were owr ready,
To fling me headlong owr your stair.”
The taylors answered, “Be our lady,
Come ye again ye shall have mair;
For why ye had no errand there,
To ding our friend and gar him blood;
Vanity serves us late and air,
Truth does our craft but little good.
My Lords, we will give in defences,
According to our common law,
And charge this Truth for great expences,
Our friend has gotten sic ourthraw:
We know Truth has no writ to shaw,
Therefore his action must be ill,
For he will get no clerks I knaw,
Masters nor men to make his bill,
Therefore let Truth come pay the cost,
For Vanity's expence is dear;
Since he lay sick he's fed on roast,
Chickens, broth, and other cheer,
Sack, claret, white-wine, and black beer,
Or else but doubt he had been dead.
In case your Lordship please to speir,
Here is the man that haills his head.”
A barber says, “He is misus'd,
My Lord, as every man may see,
Baith back and breast are sairly bruis'd,
And likely for to lose an eye.
I gave him plaisters twa or three,
I wait not how their plea began.”
Deceit says, “Surgeon, well said ye,
Ye speak now like an honest man.”
The Judge says, “Taylors, now find caution,
That Vanity shall do no ill,
But keep him with your occupation.”
The taylors say, “It is our will,
To bind ourselves within a bill,
In case your Lordship make it sure,
If we had strength to hold him still
He should not gang out owr our door;
But Vanity he is employ'd,
In all this country as ye ken,
When gentlewomen are convoy'd
He soon loups out to bear their train;
Young courtiers, and gentlemen,
And merchants sons, whiles for him strive,
And then we see him not till ten,
Whilk time he busks your burgess wives.”
The Justice says, “Ye cannot purge him
For any wiles ye will invent;”
Quoth they, “My Lord, in case ye scourge him
Your ladies will not be content.”
Quoth he, “He shall have banishment
Out of the country for a while,
Till time that he grow penitent,
Either to Orkney or Argyle.”
The taylors then took Vanity,
Out of the Judge's hand and thrall,
They hecht him their fidelity,
To place him highest in their hall;
And promised he should never fall,
So long as taylors are alive;
For all our sons and servants shall
Be sworn thy subjects, and subscrive.
The taylors made a merry banquet
To Vanity and his convoys,
They fetched a quart of wine and drank it,
With bagpipe, trump, and other joys.
Kinnings, capons, and sic toys,
Baith fish and flesh was at that feast,
Yea not one of the taylors' boys
But either had a burd or beast.
So Falset he was finely scourg'd,
Out of the bounds where he had been,
And Vanity was noways purg'd,
But for the taylors sake owrseen.
Yet Conscience cries, “Sure there is ane,
The only author of all wrang,
There is no size can make him clean,
If we get right Deceit will hang.”
A Clerk then cried, “Deceit come in,
Enter before the Judge, let's see.”
The Broker says, “What needs this dinn,
Deceit came in as soon as ye:
I counsel you agree with me,
Press not to put Deceit away,
For if Deceit be forc'd to flee,
Faith baith our callings will decay.
For why Deceit makes all discords
In every country, realm, and race,
Deceit makes noblemen and lords
Oppress the poorer sort, alace!
If Truth were planted in all place,
Wherefore would men seek justice here?”
Frae time the Clerk once knew the case,
He was not thence so doons severe.
But now Deceit sits in a neuck,
With store of his false friends about,
Devising there some doleful jeuck,
To trouble Truth and put him out.
The procutors bad him be stout,
Care not for Conscience a leek,
“Faint not, my friend, nor flee for doubt,
Ye shall get men enough to speak:
Though Conscience cause the Judge to taunt you.
Fear not, but flee out of his gait.
Assure yourself we cannot want you,
Ye have sic moyen since we met,
In case the Judge will not permit
That you come ben, bide still the butt;
Truth cannot trap you in a net,
You have sic wiles, and warldly wit.
Although the Judge give out decreet,
For Conscience sake, take ye nae care,
His action shall have little feet,
For we can make it soon unclair:
When Truth even trows there is nae mair,
But that his action is all ended,
Yet we can find some secret snare,
In subtle sort for to suspend it.”
Deceit perceiv'd them then so frank,
To keep him both from grief and smart,
Quoth he, “We will bind up contract,
Because you love me with your heart,
That I shall make you well expert,
Yea gar your conqueis buy and big,
And gain great riches afterward,
When Truth shall scarcely keep a rig.
And to assure you this in plain,
I shall for well of your estate,
Acquaint you with my sister, Gain,
I am her brother, well I wait.
I wish the Judges now of late
Once knew the sweetness of my sister,
Truth could not put me in this strait,
In case the Judge and Clerks had kist her;
She is so pleasant to behold,
With garland gilt, and silver lace,
Her ornaments are only gold,
With warldly wisdom in her face.”
Poor procutors then cried, “Alace,
We should be sworn your subjects haill,
If ye would grant us but grace,
That we might come and bear her tail.”
Deceit says, “For your poisoned packs,
Ye shall get something every day,
But hunt about like hungry hawks,
Who seek long for silly prey.
What poor men give be taking ay,
A quart of ale or a couple of groats,
With tricks first train them on the way,
Syne leave them lying be the throats.”
Be that a macer cried thrice,
“Deceit compear in judgement place.”
At last Deceit was forc'd to rise
Up, partly with a painted face.
There he had fifty of his race,
And on his haunch there hang a bag,
False buds and bribes for to embrace,
As full of wealth as it might wag.
Deceit stood like a feigned fox,
The Judge beheld him constantly,
And said, “Sirrah, a pair of stocks,
They're fittest for sic guests as thee.
How durst thou, dog, presume so high,
With thy consorts, these rascals rude,
For to abuse the company
Of noble Truth, that is so good?
I ken by thee that draught was drawn,
That honest Truth was so abus'd,
For many a man thou has owr thrawn,
Wherefore thou shall be now accused;
The saints of God thou has misus'd,
With cruelty and great envy.”
Deceit says, “Sir, hold me excus'd,
Trust not so far till once ye try.
The thing is small that we have done,
To Truth, in case your Lordship knew,
It is but for a poor disjeun,
That he has action to pursue.
As for my part, right sair I rue,
In any sort that I was there.”
Then Conscience cries, “That is not true,
There are five hundred matters mair:
Thou art a traitor from thy youth,
In every point, as I shall prove,
Thou entered in the serpent's mouth,
And first deceived our grand-dame Eve,
Persuading her her God to grieve,
Which brought her person to great pine,
In sicklike sort she does mischieve,
Her simple seed always sinsyne.
Thou cruel crosser of all reason,
Mover of murders and debates,
Thou only actor of all treason,
Thou alterer of all estates;
Thou bringer up of new conceits,
Only to murder modesty,
Thou brought'st tobacco through the Straits,
That shameful superfluity.”
A procutor then raise and spake,
And said, “We hear his groundless grieves,
At least, my Lord, give us extract
Of all his noisome narratives;
For there are neither whores nor thieves,
Before trial should be condemn'd,
Therefore let Truth give in his grieves,
To be insert and then exam'd.”
Another answer'd, “With correction,
In case your Lordship rightly spy,
His bill belongs not to this action
If we his libel look and try.
Matters five thousand years past by
Should not be wakened now of late,
Ergo, it is but auld envy,
That Conscience has at Deceit.
For why tobacco makes no trouble,
In any part, as may appear,
Except it gar men bleir and bubble,
And merchants whiles win meikle gear.
Yea, sometimes it will make a steer,
Gar swaggerers swear and fill the stoup.”
Quoth Conscience, “Since it came here
It has gard sindry lairdships loup.
But sure it is if Truth were heard
Deceit would be put in a jail.”
The Clerk says, “Truth is not debarr'd,
Ye see Deceit stands at denial;
This cause must bide a longer trial,
Till time the judges be more quiet.”
With that Deceit cast in a riot,
Which saved him till the second diet.
Then Conscience cries, “Here we appeal,
This action clean out of thy sight,
To him that knows both false and leal,
Who shall destroy thee and thy might,
I shall torment thee day and night,
And make thy sinful corpse to quake,
When Truth shall bring thy works to light,
Like Belshazzar thy banes shall shake.”
Frae time he heard that appellation,
He thought the summonds were so odd,
He found a privie perturbation,
Even fainting for the awes of God.
His soul was prest with such a load,
That all his senses clean were smoored;
His wand'ring wits so rang'd abroad,
Like Dinah when she was deflower'd.
The Justice stood so stupified,
So pierc'd he was with double pain,
Whiles he resolves for Truth indeed,
Then looking back to Wardly Gain.
Quoth Truth, “There is but ane in plain,
Doubtless there is but ane of two,
Come forward or turn back again,
Follow thou her or let us go.”
With that the Judge was so amaz'd,
That he concluded in his thought,
However the world rul'd or gaz'd,
To bring that rogue Deceit to nought;
So gave command he should be brought,
Be officers and men of force,
For wicked works that he had wrought,
And hanged high up at the cross.
Then Warldly Gain cast off her masking,
Falling before the Judge's knees,
And cried, “My Lord, grant me an asking.”
The Judge beheld her golden eyes,
And said, “Madam, ask what you please.”
Quoth she, “My brother is in strait.”
Then all the agents swarm'd like bees,
And gat remission for Deceit.
And yet the Judge was so offendit,
Because of promise he had made,
He said, “What ways ye will defend it,
I will not break the word I said,
For fear the slander spread abraid,
That I as Pilot take such shame,
Deceit shall hang now by the head,
Or else be forc'd to change his name;
See that ye call him Warldly-Wit,
And let him noways enter ben,
But bide with procutors the butt,
And so he shall be spared then:
Wer't not request of Warldly Gain
He should have died without delay.”
Quoth she, “Though I bring help to men,
He is the hawk that hunts the prey.”
Then Conscience comes in again,
And says, “My Lord, how gangs the cause.”
A clerk replied, “Ye speak in vain,
Not but according to the laws;
Deceit and Warldly Gain baith shaws
They have the right end of the string.”
Quoth Conscience, “Jehovah knows,
Thou speaks a leasing in that thing.”
Ambition, Captain of the guard,
With consent of the Judges haill,
Soon clapped Conscience into ward.
Then noble Truth could not prevail,
Deceit did guide the Tobuith haill,
Both poor and rich at his command,
Frae Conscience was in that baill.
Then noble Truth soon left the land,
But Conscience wearied not to cry,
Within the lodge where that she lay.
Some of the clergy then came by,
And thought she was so noisome ay,
“Who art thou, that cries there?” quoth they.
Quoth she, “I am good Conscience.”
“If it be thou, sure we will stay,
To be thy fathers and defence,”
Quoth they; “Who is thy contra-part?”
Quoth Conscience, “Even foes enough.”
A kirk-man said, “Tell me, my heart,
Who is the greatest foe to you?”
“Deceit and Vanity pursue
Me as their mortal enemy;
And now Deceit, by moyen now,
Hath cast me in captivity.”
“Conscience,” quoth they, “have ye nae mair,
That does procure your present pain?”
Quoth she, “Deceit, with fashions fair,
And his dear sister, Warldly Gain.”
Quoth they, “We tell you this in plain,
We ken that Truth is in exile,
Be ye at feid with Warldly Gain,
We let you lie in ward a while;
At deep Deceit we have despite,
Were not sweet Gain his sister dear,
Indeed your party is too great,
Which gars you lie in prison here;
We wave this matter, and retire,
For help of our posterity,
And pass forth from this process clear,
Except that ye and Gain agree.”

ON THE DEATH OF THAT PIOUS AND POWERFUL PASTOR, MR GEORGE MELDRUM,

One of the Ministers of Edinburgh, and Professor of Theology in the University there.

Bless'd Meldrum's gone, the church's radiant light
On earth he shined, shines now in heav'n more bright;
He's by that God whom he so dearly lov'd,
To endless bliss and heav'nly joys remov'd.
A gloomy cloud o'er Scotland's church is spread,
Now her good guide, the holy Meldrum, 's dead.
Great man of God, thou'rt gone, and we lament
That now the church's radiant taper's spent.
No more shall sinners listen to thy tongue,
Our harps are now upon the willows hung;
O how his lips with charming words did move,
While opening up the mysteries of love:
His heart was seen, and heav'n shone in his face,
When lecturing on the covenant of grace.
Too good for earth, he's fled to saints above,
And there drinks in eternal draughts of love.

A GENTLEMAN'S ANSWER TO HIS RIVAL'S CHALLENGE.

Rival,

INSCRIPTION FOR MY BEE-HOUSE.

O blush, ye lazy mortals, when ye see
The care and conduct of th'industrious bee;
In summers heat it treasures up great store
To feast with plenty till cold winter's o'er.
Laden with honey, suck'd from July's flowers,
Hoards up provision in its waxen bowers,
And there in frugal government doth dwell,
For idle drones dare not approach the cell.
When the returning spring invites to fields,
To crop the sweets that mother Nature yields,
The careful insect through the fields does scour,
To scrape together for a needy hour.
Then toil, O man! in youth, age will come on,
Decrepid age will ask what youth has done.
Or if old age thou never live to see,
Provide for death and long eternity.

A PARAPHRASE UPON THE LAST SIX VERSES OF THE FOURTH CHAPTER OF THE CANTICLES, OR SONG OF SONGS.

Verse 11.—

My Spouse,

INSCRIPTION FOR MY CLOSET.

Are not the ravens fed, great God, by thee,
And wilt thou clothe the lilies and not me.
I'll ne'er distrust my God for clothes nor bread,
Whilst lilies flourish and the ravens are fed.

ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM DOUGLAS, ESQ. OF DORNOCK, July 1715.

Pan and Pastora to the Shepherds asleep.
Ah! shepherds, break your pipes, rise and give ear,
The doleful cry of Dornock's death comes here;
Awake and weep; turn careless of your flocks,
And yell till, echoing, you do rend the rocks.
Annan, Milk, Moffat, no more gently glide,
But in hoarse, rapid floods, your streams divide.
The music of our birds is at a close,
And every murmuring brook weeps forth its woes;
Our comfort's gone, and we must feel the cross,
And still bewail this universal loss.
Even Lachesis herself her eyes did shut,
When cruel Atropos the thread did cut,
With trembling hand, and almost dropt the knife
Wherewith she cut that worthy thread of life,
Which put a period to his earthly race,
And sent his pious soul into its place.
Noble he was by birth, brave like his name,
Douglas of Dornock, of still living fame,
Now silent lies, and in his tomb doth sleep,
Where all the country round their sorrows weep.
The poor, the rich, the young, the old and all,
Were ready still at generous Dornock's call,
To do him service both by day and night,
He was so much their darling and delight.
His presence goodly was, of comely feature,
Adorn'd with all the charms of art and nature.
Ceres and Bacchus were at his command,
And still poor Lazarus found his liberal hand.
The country pleas he understood full well,
And all their pleas did wisely reconcile.
The just Lycurgus of his native shire,
Feared not death, nor did he death desire.
A conscience pure was his continual feast,
Justice and honour both lodg'd in his breast;
Grace and good manners to a high degree
Did always flourish in his family;
And all confess who generous Dornock knew,
The praise I give noways exceeds his due;
O! if the heavenly powers had thought it fit,
To give him Nestor's years to match his wit.
Pallida mors æquo pede pulsat,
Pauperum tabernas, regumque turres.
Pale Death, alike to her subjection brings
The poor man's cottage and the courts of kings.

THE LINTOUN CABAL;

OR THE JOVIAL SMITH OF LINTOUN'S INVITATION OF HIS CLUE TO THEIR MORNING'S DRAUGHT, WHOM HE HAD MADE DRUNK THE NIGHT BEFORE, AFTER A GREAT STORM.

A LADY'S CHARACTER OF HER LOVER,

IN ANSWER TO HER MOTHER'S QUESTION WHAT WAS HER OPINION OF HIM.

A thing below contempt, whom all despise,
With crooked nose, splay feet, and goggle eyes;
There's not a maid when that he doth appear
But turns her back, and straight grows chaste for fear.
Half witty, and half dull, and scarce half brave,
Half honest, which is very much a knave:
Made up of all these halfs he cannot pass
For any thing entirely but an ass.

A GENTLEMAN'S ANSWER TO HIS FRIEND,

WHO ASKED HIM IF HE STILL LOVED HIS MISTRESS, WHO WAS TURNED DEBAUCHED.

Sure nought's so false, so faithless I can name,
As popular applause, and common fame;
It calls the courteous knave, the plain man rude,
Haughty the grave, and the familiar lewd.
Poor helpless woman is not favour'd more,
A hypocrite she is, or else a whore.
Such is the fate of my adored she,
Fall'n under the reproach of infamy:
Yet still I'll love her, at her feet I'll bow,
Though all that's spoke infallibly be true;
For ah! she hath a most prevailing art,
And doth with such resistless charms impart,
Even pleasant wishes to the chastest heart.
Raises such tempests, kindleth such a fire,
Betwixt resolved virtue and desire,
That the cold hermit might in these expire.

TO MY FRIEND, INVITING HIM TO THE COUNTRY.

Sir, fly the smoke and clamour of the town,
Breathe country air, and see the farms cut down;
Revel our Nature's sweets, and dine upon the chief,
Praising the granter of the plenteous sheaf.
Free from all care, we'll range through various fields,
Study those plants which mother Nature yields;
On Lyne's meand'ring brooks sometimes we'll fish,
The trout's a brave but no expensive dish.
When limbs are wearied, and our sport is done,
We'll trudge to Cantswalls by the setting sun;
And then some hours we'll quaff a cup of ale,
And smoke our pipe, backed with a wanton tale.
We'll read no Courant, which the news home brings,
For what have we to do with wars or kings?
We'll ne'er disturb our heads with state affairs,
But talk of ploughs, and sheep, and country fairs.
Churchmen's contentions we abhor to hear,
They're not for conscience but for worldly gear.
We'll fear our God, wish well to king and nation,
Worship on Sabbath with the congregation,
Thus live in peace, and die in reputation.

DEDICATIO GEORGII BUCHANANI. .

THUS TRANSLATED

Fair Nymph of Scotland, happily who reigns,
And sways the sceptre of our numerous kings,
Whose rare endowments to the world shine forth
Beyond thy sex, thy years, and princely birth;
In Latin verse a Paraphrase I bring
Of David's Psalms, the sweet prophetic king:
Which were not hatched at learn'd Parnassus well,
But near the pole, where nipping frosts do dwell.
Nor durst I thus expose th'abortive birth,
Not pleasing me, your pleasure sets it forth;
And what it wants of ornamental flowers
Shall owe to that great genius of yours.

A SPARK'S PERSUASIVE LETTER TO HIS MISTRESS, DENYING HIM TO LIE WITH HER.

Hate me, dear soul, and say no more you love,
If I must only know what is above;
To kiss your lips and hands these be but toys
And torments to a lover, and not joys.
I hate the wanton folly of a kiss
If not a prologue to a further bliss:
Men do seek mines in women, and if so
You must give leave to them to dig below
The barren face of earth, since Nature's arts
Hath hid such treasures in the lower parts.
Why you so coy? You'd fain be married
Before that ye would lose your maidenhead.
Then may I claim it as my right and due,
The law doth give it me, it is not you.
If you would have your kindness to me shown,
Bestow it freely while it is your own.

AGAINST PASSIONATE LOVE.

No man love's fiery passion can approve
As either yielding profit or promotion,
I like a calm and lukewarm zeal in love,
Although I do not like it in devotion.
Besides, man needs not love unless he please;
No destiny can force his disposition.
How then can any die of that disease
Whereof himself may turn his own physician?
Some one, perhaps, in long consumption dried,
And after falling into love, may die;
But I dare pawn my life he ne'er had died
Had been healthy at the heart as I.
Some others, rather than incur the slander
Of false apostates, will true martyrs prove;
But I am neither Iphis nor Leander,
I'll neither hang nor drown myself for love.
Yet I have been a lover by report,
And I have died for love as others do,
But, praised be Jove, it was in such a sort
That I revived within an hour or two.
Thus have I loved, thus have I lived till now,
And know no reason to repent me yet;
And he that any otherwise would do
His courage is no better than his wit.

ANE LETTER BY WAY OF CHALLENGE,

TO A KNIGHT WHO SHOT AT THE AUTHOR'S DOVES, AND KILLED THEM UPON THE DOVECOT HEAD, BEING NEW PLENISHED.

Sir John, thou scandal to the name of knight,
Here I appeal thee, if thou darest to fight;
And do but either draw thy sword or pen,
I'll do my best to let your worship ken
Thou did'st a base, absurd, and scurvy deed
To shoot my doves upon my dovecot head;
And call to mind, for all thy power and pelf,
Thou meddled with a man as good's thyself;
Sir John, whatever character thou bears,
Had I been there thou durst not for thy ears.
Let every villain on our just laws trample
When Sheriff Deputes prove so bad example.
Fy, man, change trades, turn herd among the geese,
And no more Sheriff John, Just Ass of Peace.

THE AUTHOR'S PRAYER IN HIS SICKNESS,

AND UNDER THE APPREHENSIONS OF DEATH.

Lord Jesus Christ, pass by my youthful errors,
And arm my soul to meet the king of terrors.
Take but away the sting, and I shall have
No fears of death, no horrors of the grave.
Lord, I appeal, as thy most humble child,
From thy strict justice to thy mercy mild.
O! thou that wilt not break the bruised reed,
Grant help and comfort now, in time of need.
Glory to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
I'll still sing here and with the heav'nly host.