Poems on several subjects

To let you know my birth and station,
My vulgar life and education,
Take this swatch in a short narration.
A poor mechanic was my father;
(My mother had no riches either);
He was an artist of his trade,
And honest deem'd ay where he staid.
But shortly after I was born,
He dy'd, left me almost forlorn.
I was at school 'bout half a year;
That letter'd me first in the lear.
About the age of six or seven,
Cast wholly on the care of Heav'n,
I shifted time, toss'd by hard fortune,
Till I was near the age of fourteen;

Still poor, and destitute of friends,
With struggle scrambled through my teens.
I made a sham of turning packman,
Though my stock was not worth a plack, Ma'am;
Thus through the country I went vaguing,
Liv'd by a gentle way of begging:
The reason is, I was not able
To work for any fixed table;
For, when a child, I had a nurse,
That ev'ry day deserves my curse;
She, in her frolics, let me fall,
And brack my back, and bruis'd me all:
Unknown to father or to mother,
The vile trull did me almost smother.
None knew the pain that I did find,
Until it made me stark stane-blind.
So that I, for a whole year's space,
Saw neither light nor human face;
And to this day I am short-fighted,
But that's a wrong cannot be righted.
I rather mark it for a wonder,
That this distress I dy'd not under;
But Heav'n, by which all things are guided,
A longer life for me provided.
Then, when I was near aged twenty,
I dealt in sangs and ballads plenty;
Until my fancy pregnant grew,
But how to vent it I not knew:
Oh then, thought I, if I could write,
I'd have my wishes all complete.

Then I got paper, pen and ink,
But how to write I could not think;
I gain'd good people where I past,
To teach me letters first to cast.
So I improv'd it to this pitch,
By which I reckon myself rich;
Ay since, ev'n to this very time,
I had delight in writing rhyme.

As for opinions, I confess,
I never upon them laid stress;
Sometimes a Whig, sometimes a Tory,
But seldom steadfast in one story.
The reason is, I'm not yet fix'd,
So my religion is but mix'd;
Yet, most of all, I do incline
The old Episcopalian line;
Yet not so fixed on this head,
But I can turn my coat for bread.
Yet don't mistake my meaning, as
If from the truth I meant to pass;
Th'essential parts of my opinion,
Is not in any sect's dominion;
Nor will I e'er be tied to think,
That in one spring I ought to drink.

In Christendom we all affect
The Christian name, in some respect;
Yet, to our shame, and our derision,
We're full of schisms and division.
Some are Papists, some are Prelates;
Some are Quakers, and some Zealots;
Some Anabaptists, some Aquarians;
Some Antinomians, and some Arians;
Some are Free-willers, and some Ranters;
Some Presbyterian covenanters;
Some Erskinites, to gain probation;
Some Glasites, some for Presentation.
Though these all aim at heav'n at last,
Their diff'rence puts me in a gast;
To follow which I cannot tell,
Therefore I bid them all farewell;
Because I know, that faith and love
The sphere is wherein I should move;
For sure, without true charity
None can enjoy felicity.
But charity, now at this day,
She is oblig'd to fly away;

Instead of which, envy and hate,
Contempt, resentment and debate,
Is most in each society.
This makes me all these sects deny.
'Tis not in word, as I do read,
But Christians must be so indeed;
So, Madam, this is all my creed.

As for my stature, 'tis but little,
My body weak and very brittle;
Not eloquent; of simple carriage;
Plung'd in the careful state of marriage;
Rich in children, poor in wealth,
Bless'd with a competence of health;
A wanton mind, an heart that's cheery;
But seldom dull, and often merry;
Contented with my rural dishes,
Writing and thinking's all my wishes;
Though my encouragement's not meikle.
I'm Madam, yours, while ------

Sandie Nicol.

An Introduction to a Wedding SONG. To the Right Honourable the Lord ------.

Wake Powers of Love, disclose your blooming charms,
May Cupid clasp me in his glowing arms.
Thy shining conquests merit lofty lays,
And fire the meanest thought to sing thy praise,
Hence sullen cares, expire in Lethe's strand,
And fix your dungeon cells in Pluto's land.
Haste, Sylvan choirs, your tribute Graces move,
And lead your glories to the fields of love;
While from the eastern folds the morning ray,
With heav'nly pomp, breaks up great Morton's day.
Morton, that noble celebrated name,
The seventh in peerage, as the first in fame.
See! see! the fair with easy trips obey,
And add new lustre to the gleams of day.

Serenest joy, fair Virtue's paragon,
And soft majestic notes employ the throng.
Some well-lung'd herald then did thrice proclaim,
And stretch'd his open throat on ev'ry name,
Or lord, or knight, professing arts or arms,
Who stray'd on title to Agatha's charms,
Streight to spring up, and there declare his right;
Justice soon knew her own, and scan'd their might.
All, but my lord, sunk down, and hid their face,
Commenc'd that instant mute, and slaves to Peace.
Her olive wand display'd, almighty Jove
Applauds his daughter for her sense of love.
The list'ning sun o'er-heard the welcome voice,
And with superior blaze attests his joys.
Burgundy starts, and pours the grateful juice,
An off'ring to the god for's pleasing news.
Even Cyprus, groaning with her liquid store,
Flows unconstrain'd, and will be shut no more.
Old Hymen, shatter'd with his length of toil,
Relents to youth, and courts a laughing while.
The Dreams, sepulcher'd Dons, in Morpheus' reign,
Are bless'd to breathe, and see the solemn train;
They think it favour, when allow'd to see
A bride, whose guardians Jove and Phœbus be.
The feather'd audience of the middle sky,
Are public heralds of their deity,
They heave in music, as they soar on high.
Heav'n's senate smiles upon their early care,
To see the great united with the fair.
Fame is a goddess, and surveys her own,
And loves all minions faithful to her throne.
This Empress calls, I must her charge obey,
Tho' courting honour, I do lose my way,
And like stun'd Phaeton, exalted stray;
While breathing instruments hung on your praise,
And vocal benches echo back the lays.

The ODE.

Taught to command, frail human laws
May plead their proud dictator's cause,
And muster sanction as a name
To lash obedience into fame.

But love, that still subsisting phrase,
Commanded in the golden days,
Even brought a Jove's red thund'ring arms
To stoop beneath its conquering charms.

Pluto, that dull infernal king,
Exulted rapt'rous in his reign;
The black and immemorial stream,
Could ne'er ingulf Proserpine's name.

Sol, the bright regent of the day,
Sunk at Leucothoe's brighter ray;
Pent up in clouds, revolv'd to night,
And bade his love dispense the light.

Wedlock, kind Cyprus' early claim,
Will softly lengthen out its flame,
While flashing lights wheel round their way,
And nymphs shine brighter here than they.

Hail, welcome tie! stretch on thy chain,
Still add a conquest with thy pain;
When eye-ball lightning wounds the heart,
With nuptial balm bind up the smart.

Douglas, who swells the lifts of fame,
And echo founders on his name,
Hath felt the power of Venus' son,
And 'tach'd his honours to his own.

From Agatha's imperial eyes
Delicious death so frequent flies,
The prostrate beau invokes the care
Of Cupid to insure the fair.

The sigh'd request soon reach'd the throne,
The melting eyes became his own;
The fond well-natur'd gods up stood,
To join the noble with the good.

The Graces gamboll'd in array,
Which far outblaz'd the glare of day;
Yet, inly groan so soon's they see
The fourth outshine the former three.

Illustrious fair! your consort prove
In's acts as happy as his love;
Enjoy the triumph of your eyes,
Nobility's the fairest prize.

Hail, happy Pair, distinguish'd shine,
The parents of a race divine;
Dissolve in smiles, and Virtue's store
Be yours, till Heaven can give no more.

A POEM, inscribed to the Right Honourable the Earl of Morton, on his accepting the former Ode, &c.

Tho' great Apollo, with the tuneful nine,
Should make old Homer strut in ev'ry line,
In juster accents I could ne'er express
The votive debt of my low thankfulness.
My fond ambition had no higher slight,
Than be a prostrate in your Lordship's sight:
But your acceptance of my homely lays,
Begot new fancy, and provok'd to praise.
Thus Horace his bold and immortal pen,
Did lasting friendship from Mæcenas gain.
His elevated thought and copious style
Did founder critics, and refound their toil.

Propitious Fortune! if a pow'r thou art,
Thou still retain'st thy old indulgent heart;
Else shining coin had ne'er compens'd my tone,
Or made Lord Aberdour my great Patron.

Since gratitude that pious quest may claim,
Such lengths of duty, and so great a name,
Her Ladyship shall still inspire my frame.
If e'er my grov'ling reesty rills of sense
Shall fail to glide in easy eloquence,
The lov'd ideas in my breast shall grow,
And in a constant tenor ever flow.
But oh! forbid that high illustrious name
Be less in fancy than it is in fame.
Pardon, my Lord, my mean abortive praise,
While it unguarded o'er your glory strays.
Silence, with all her mighty sinking fund,
Cannot depress or level with the ground
Your glories, num'rous as light atoms, fly
In no low sphere, but path the liquid sky.
Thy bold ancestors stood the dire alarms,
When foes and death did both descend in arms:
Uncommon brav'ry was their lov'd renown,
They courted their country's glory as their own.
Douglas and Bruce will be continued names,
Fresh in the lists of all poetic themes;
Guardians of freedom, to the cause still true,
They brought about what princes could not do.
No Caledonian nymph, how much refin'd,
Can share the virtues of thy consort's mind;
The easy current of her seraph sense,
Her lively flow of winning eloquence;
Besides the wonders of her charming face,
Her softning smiles, and pure majestic grace;
The keener lightnings quickning in her eyes,
Justly detain your love, and tell your prize.
Like thee, those ancient peers, both Maul and Hay,
Whose title stands on banks of oozy Tay,
Did fondly wed the Halyburton line,
And were the parents of a race divine.
Hail, happy pair, whose conjunct life but one,
Makes one life double, and the single none.

The DREAM.

Aenight as I lay sleeping unka sound,
And all my cares in Lethe's river drown'd,
Lo, e'er I wist, old Morpheus, with his train,
Came sliding in, and buzz'd about my brain.

Ten thousand tricks with juggling art they play'd,
Made me believe what ne'er was thought or said.

At last, methought, they carried me away,
Unto a field more beautiful than May,
And left me there alone, where, for a while,
I pleas'd myself to see dame Nature smile:
All things appear'd so beautiful and fair,
That I forgat now, or who brought me there.

At last I wearied, being all alone,
Because the place to me was still unknown.

While I was musing how I had come there,
Methought I heard sweet music in the air.
At last a maid, the fairest e'er was seen,
Appear'd before me clad in richest green,
Methought it was that Goddess call'd Love's Queen.
She had no 'tendants at the time, that I
Could see or hear; but, as she passed by,
I spy'd a harp, like silver, shining clear,
And on it writ, THALIA CHASTE AND FAIR.

I call'd to mind, how this name did belong
To her that was the Muse of past'ral song.
Then suddenly this thought came in my mind,
This field is surely sacred to the nine;
And that Parnassus certainly was nigh,
Where Poets say the Muses use to stay.
I swiftly ran, fond! fond! to view the fair;
Fain, but afraid my mind for to declare;
Yet impudence good manners threw aside,
And to the lady rashly thus I said:
Be pleas'd, O Madam, to my suit to yield;
Tell me to whom belongs this beauteous field?

She smiling said, Dear lad, whence camest thou,
Or whether bound, and I'll conduct thee through
This spacious plain, to where you have a mind?
Take courage, say to what you are inclin'd?
(For trembling seiz'd me when the lady spake,
Yet manners said, some answer I should make).
Madam, said I, 'Tis kindness unlook'd for;
My inclination leads me to much more
Than I expect I ever can attain,
Therefore t'attempt it, I'd better refrain.
No, said the lady, say what you desire,
Or what great height to which you would aspire.

Now humbly, Madam, at your great command,
I'll my ambition let you understand:
I long to see Parnassus' sacred mountain;
I long to taste the Heliconian fountain;
Those places where the Muses do frequent,
To correspond with them I'd be content:
But oh! I know that is reserv'd for those
Of riper wits, who more of learning knows,
And not for me, poor dull illit'rate creature;
The Muses friends are more sublime by nature;
Their nature too's refin'd by education,
Ere they attain the Muses conversation.

Then said the lady, Pity it were, poor lad,
That you not learning and acquirements had:
Since you affect our company so much,
I'll fire thy genius with one single touch,
That ne'er shall cease, but cause you still aspire
In poetry, beyond the vulgar sphere.

Dear lady, pray but mind my low estate;
I want respect, since I'm illiterate;
I cannot write to please the great, and those
That poetry and other science knows:
I cannot touch the vulgar in my rhyme,
Their ignorance holds every verse a crime.

Thalia said, You quite mistake the case;
The great, the learn'd, will give your writings place,

Though you're unlearn'd, men will admire you more,
For your performance in a state so poor,
Than you the learning of the best had gain'd;
For though a verse with nonsense should be stain'd,
They will excuse it, pleased with the rest,
While critics banter faults that's in the best.
Improve your genius, read old authors over,
Perhaps you may the spring and mount discover.
Walk but aside with me a little way,
And taste the streams that from the fountain stray.

Just as I tasted, Morpheus he appear'd
In direful shapes; I was so much affear'd,
That, at first sight, I started up awake,
And had no time of her my leave to take.

This I thought real, yet nought but visionary;
It prov'd a dream, an empty allegory.
Yet often since, both fancy, rhyme and numbers,
Prevented have my leisure-hours and slumbers.
Ambitiously I grasp still at the moon,
Ends like a dream, when all my labour's done;
Yet still I'm hopeful, as Thalia said,
Some gen'rous men will my poor genius aid,
That I may have some thing whereof to boast,
'Cause I want wherewith to defray the cost.

On the Death of the Honourable Henry Crawfoord of Monorgan, who died March 1731.

With sad reflection bygone times I view;
The world seems wild with changes that are now.
O strange! to see the most delightful place
So much refin'd, now turned to disgrace;
Where once of late, my dear Mæcenas reign'd,
My Muse's softer, and my choicest friend,
Heartsome and kind; how often have I seen
Him pleas'd, and smile at Christ's Kirk on the Green.
The whole of Ramsay's blyth diverting numbers
He much admir'd; they oft beguil'd his slumbers.

O kindly smiling, still he took delight
Me to instruct, and set my verses right.
He gave me books from his own liberary,
And borrow'd for me a Scots dictionary.
E'en to be short, what sense of verse I have,
I owe to him; but O! I now perceive
A drowsiness o'er all my soul to flow;
My fetter'd Muse faggs sore with grief and woe.
O grief! to see the pleasant fruits and flowers;
The shades and arbours, and the lightsome bow'rs;
Sweet gowany greens, and trees aft flourishing;
Melodious birds on boughs ay carolling;
Their artless music taught them by dame Nature,
The second parent of each living creature;
Gentle Zeph'rus whistling thro' the trees,
The ancient offspring of mount Hybla's bees;
From flower to flower, still gathering to increase
Their winter stock against a stormy stress.
All these are stain'd with the imperfect kind,
Which late delighted spirits more refin'd.
Once more, my Muse, reflect on these fine days
Wherein Monorgan merited thy praise.
Not only thine, alas! what canst thou do,
Poor giddy thing, dull, and illit'rate too?
Had I engine, as ancient Homer had,
His fame should then more amply be display'd.
Frail fading flesh uncertain is to trust,
For cruel death reduceth it to dust.
Stone monuments, or fame-recording verse
Can best old friendship afterwards rehearse.
How dull looks all the Sylvan train to see
The walks untrode, trode formerly by thee?
Where once, of late, the mavis us'd to sing,
The doleful owl makes all the groves to ring;
Where once, of late, the nurse's lull-a-ba,
And charming maids under Eliza's awe,
Made all the place delightful to the eyes,
Now all's dispers'd, all waste, all des'late lies.

Gone then, dear friend! and shall your memory
Die with your body? O! forbid that I
Should more survive, when once your fame is dead;
But why should I think it can ever fade?
Your fame shall live in your sweet progenie,
Your Consort's comfort in her grief for thee,
Who shall yet banish from the pleasant place
The baser sort, and all their ill bred race.
I hope to see his hopeful Son to stand
In's father's stead, and all his own command.
I hope to see the Mother, in old age,
Rejoice to see each of her sons a sage.
I hope to see the Daughters plant the plains
With pleasant prospects of heroic swains.
I hope to see the tenants put in mind
How once the father was to them so kind:
When as the Son improves what he began,
And proves the wisest and the bravest man.

Hail, gentle youth, may all the stars conspire
To raise in thee a noble gen'rous fire;
Far to outstrip thy honest ancient Sire.

The young Man's Litany.

I'm now arriv'd at perfect age, and can
Discern myself a reasonable man.
Since 'tis decreed man should not live alone,
An equal match my mind is set upon.
But seeing daily the bad consequence
Of rash amours, because of ignorance,
Most part of men in marriage go astray,
Why? Bastard Cupid blindly leads their way.
Ambitious pride still prompts men to be great;
They aim at nought but grandeur, wealth and state.
Some base born strumpet, or ill natur'd wretch,
With ill-got pelf, must be the lordly match;
And when possess'd of this vain glorious wife,
It lands, at last, in hurry, pain and strife.

Some servants grudging, when fatigu'd with toil,
Do rashly marry, and their peace beguile:
Such like reflections makes me to beware,
And claim kind Heaven's aid by earnest prayer,
That I may be directed in my choice,
And taste the sweets of matrimonial joys.
Indulgent Heaven, the guardian of man's race,
Grant my request, as pledges of thy grace;
Then shall I sing with grateful voice to thee,
And oft with joy repeat thy care for me.
O then, from all leud strumpets, who are led,
By vile desires, to stain the marriage bed;
From dull, indocile, clumsy, sleepy queans;
From one that's careless, and no virtue minds;
From one that's proud, or basely insolent;
From frantic fools, or wilful ignorant;
From gaudy dressers, and malignant wretches;
O, Heavens! deliver me from all such matches.

From one too old, or one that is too young;
From one that is of vitious parents sprung;
From one that's thriftless, nasty, unperfeit;
From one in whom I can have no delight;
From one that wants an ear, or well-tun'd voice;
O Heavens! I thee beseech to hear my cries.

From wanton widows, flush'd with youth and ease;
From one that won't be curb'd from what her please;
From one too rich, or one that is too poor;
From discontented, one whose looks are sow'r;
From mamm's one daughter, brought up in her house;
O Heavens! deliver me from such a spouse.

From gamesters, tiplers, idle ugly sluts;
From self-conceited, crasy, crack-brain'd wits;
From peevish mutterers, charmers, omen-tenters;
From liars and thieves, and lonely residenters;
Deform'd, immodest, vitious, all in fine;
Sweet Heaven! forbid I match with such a kind.

From busy meddlers in matters not their own;
From one whose passions soon to blaze are blown;

From one puff'd up with vain and prideful thought;
A secret feeder, careless, good for nought;
From one regardless of Heav'n's laws and me;
From one contentious, Heaven keep me free.

And send me one, both honest, neat and clean;
A perfect beauty, with a graceful mein;
A virtuous, fortunate and comely creature;
A blithe and cheery maid, with handsome feature;
A learned wit, with eloquence and mirth;
A prudent lass of no contemned birth;
One mild and temperate, easy reconcil'd;
One who can keep my secrets unreveal'd;
One pious, modest, chaste, discreet and wise;
One that's upright, without a vain disguise;
One who, at times, upon a small estate,
Can, with her neighbours, seem to be more great:
Let it be said, that she excels them all
That Sol'mon mentions, or the good St Paul.
May that old motto truly be applied
To happy she that Heaven ordains my bride,
Full many daughters have done virtuously,
Yet there is none but what's excell'd by thee.

The young Woman's Litany in Choice of an Husband.

O heavenly powers, celestial and divine,
All things sublunar are entirely thine;
Young men and maids are under thy inspection,
And in my choice I come for thy direction.
May some kind genius from on high descend,
And guide the arrows which blind Cupid send.
If e'er my hap be that he shoot for me,
Grant I may find thy care to that degree,
So that I may have everlasting cause
To honour thee, and reverence thy laws.

From gray and bald heads, and decrepit joints;
From all whose noses to the ale-house points;

From gustless gabs that cannot taste of love;
From those that daily in their fancies rove;
Prom pimps and rakes, and all such misery;
From fornicators, Heavens deliver me.

From beaus of pleasure, those adapt'd to pride;
From idle knaves, that no way can provide
For house nor wife, but spend away their time;
From epicures, that pamper much their wime;
From railers, liars, those stain'd with perjury;
And from all thieves, Heavens deliver me.

From cursers, swearers, all profanely proud;
From clam'rous fools, that speak their folly loud;
From irreligious discontented sots;
From all oppressors who retain the spots
Of avarice; or cow'rdly seem to be;
From all dissemblers, Heavens deliver me.

From thriftless spenders, careless of their home;
From sluggards save, lest in their hands I come;
From nasty blockheads, all dull clumsy sots;
From superstitious useless idiots;
From self-conceited peevish silly creatures;
Oh, Heav'ns! deliver me from all bad natures.

And send me one, both sturdy, tight and tall,
With an estate to suit the man withal.
One with a love-taste to admire a woman;
One who is stout, and yields his right to no man;
One who can daut me, and at night ly near me;
I thee beseech, kind Heaven, soon to hear me.

One who is bless'd with lib'ral education,
Sprung from an honest ancient generation;
One whose religion is sound orthodox;
One lightsome, and who innocently jokes;
One true and faithful, minding his affairs;
O Heav'ns! I thee beseech to hear my prayers.

One of repute, good manners and good sense;
One with an air of purest eloquence;
One humbly kind, and with his state content;
One profitable to church and government:

O Cupid, hasten such comforts to my life,
For, troth, I long to be a married wife.
One in whose nature all perfections meet
To make an husband and a man complete;
And can with patience sometimes hear my bawling;
One diligent, who loves to use his calling;
In fine, let him exceed what I can say:
O Heavens! hear me, I thee humbly pray.

While I'm a maid, I'm useless to the nation,
And do not build a future generation.
If all my sex would virgins always stay,
The world would run to ruin and decay;
But we have much more gen'rous thoughts about us,
Than to think men can well subsist without us.

To the Right Honourable, the Lord Gray, upon his sending me Mr Ramsay's Poems.

Fair fa' your Lordship's canny hand,
That ga' Monorgan, on demand,
Bright Allan's first collections,
Whilk serv'd me as a wing to fly
Unto Apollo's clemency,
For his divine directions.
I'll thank your Lordship heartily,
In my ain Scottish cant,
For that bra' help it made to me;
I wish you never want
A plenty of dainty
Provisions ev'ry day;
I'll bless you, and wish you
What here I winna' say.
Of your bra' dwelling 'gainst the sun,
Near where the gentle Tay doth run,
May your posterity
Be heirs, till time shall be no more;
And as they die, convey'd to glore,
To reign eternally.

As for Yoursel, Wife, and ilk Child,
And a' your kith and kin,
May ne'er your virtue be defil'd;
But still more honour win.
Incline then, to shine then
Aboon the rambling crew,
That haste ay, to waste ay
Their 'states. My Lord, adieu.

To two GENTLEWOMEN.

Upon whose cheeks sits blooming youth,
Like roses yet unblown,
Some happy swain will pree each mouth,
Tho' to them yet unknown.

But yet, perhaps, I guess a' wrang;
The match is thought already:
I care not tho' I see, ere lang,
Each of the two a lady.

An ACROSTIC.

Immortal, sure! some fair of Cyprus grove,
Emergent from the softest seats of love;
Awful to sight, thy beauties kindle more,
Noose all the soul, and shoot through ev'ry pore.

Charms kind, as morning pearls and melting eyes,
Rob Florio's heart, and kill by just surprise.
A gentle stream, of pure superior sense,
With depths of judgment, form thy eloquence.
Fame, thro' her waste of reign, displays thy worth;
O pleasing view! and calls thy merit forth.
On wit and learning, all fresh incense lay,
Refined virtue vies the tide of day;
Divine Arete, these are all thy prey.

Another ACROSTIC.

Engine I want, thy name to beautify;
Less, less I know its great antiquity.
In annals represented it doth ly,
Zealous for fame, renown and loyalty.
And you adorn with fresh and brighter fame,
Bless'd Nymph, the glory of thy ancient name;
Embellish'd features, glister over all
Thy beauteous form, all is majestical;
Has all that's winning, or we valued call.

Heaven smil'd on Nature, in her secret cell,
Annex'd what could exalt, or yet excel;
Lo, all the Sylvan fair implore your love,
Lost in those pleasing charms your beauties move.
Young Damon scarce dare let his eye-balls roll,
But when thy charms blow up his inmost soul.
Under yon beach he all in vows doth sit,
Reviews thy graces, and adores thy wit.
The sighing swain o'ercharg'd, at length doth cry,
O Gods, relieve my smart, or else I die;
New victims then shall on your altars ly.

LOVE's CURE.

Dool fell the swain that's mang'd wi' love!
He goves for comfort frae above;
But Cupid, and hard-hearted Jove,
Blink na' relief:
And a' his gaunts and gapes but prove
Milk to his grief.

If some auld swinger snap to speak
Of pink-ey'd queans, he gives a squeek;
My heart fu' sair, needs that blyth eek,
To mend my dool:
If Cyprus dame had up her cleek,
I'll be her tool.

The meikle trake come o'er their snouts
That laugh at winsome kissing pouts,
Wha look like sheep at merry bouts,
And steal a smile:
Lang syne they had their carlish doubts,
And sighing while.

When Jeany geakes, and scorns my tale,
And winna yield for prins or ale,
That day my tripes will had na kail;
Oh! storm-sick then:
But if she gaufes, I think her leal,
And wow I'm fain.

The snapsy karles grane in ease;
They sleep and eat whene'er they please;
And hae their lucky to keep their clease
Baith tight and clean:
But we, like waff fok, speal the braes,
Love daft and keen.

Ilk merry look and wally taste,
Gi'es health unto the gamesome jest;
And still wi' something they are blest,
I winna say,
For fear some humour bang my breast,
That winna lay.

Heal be their gab that Jeanie praise,
And tell her o' my bonny plays:
Perhaps she'll briss to sic fine days
Wi' Venus' leave:
Then I'll be vex'd wi' na mae nays,
Nor restless live.

O Sanny syne will heartsome be,
And for lang groans gouf up, Ti hi;
E'en not a Jove so fond as he
Wi's Juno's charms;
When I shall fidge so devoutlie
Busk'd in her arms.

My heart will midge-like dance and reel,
And nouther fear a cow nor deel,
But wallop, as Meg i' the Skeel,
In jolly nature;
And look as brisk as fil'd-up steel,
Upo' the matter.

But if a' mercy, things misgae,
I'll ramble like a Lybean rae,
That flees the wood, scorns hay and strae;
My planets wyte,
The last redress, Lucadea's brae,
Oh! hard respite.

A Collection of Scots Songs, being new Words adapted to old Tunes.

SONG I.

[What's all this vain world? or what boots it me]

To the Memory of the Right Honourable Charles, late Earl of Strathmore,

[_]

To the tune of, The yellow-hair'd Laddie.

What's all this vain world? or what boots it me,
Though I swim in plenty until that I die?
Since Heav'n hath robb'd me of my heart's content;
While life remains in me, I'll mourn and lament.

My sweet lovely Strephon, the pride of the plain,
Defending Amyntor, was suddenly slain.
My comforts and pleasures, they all disappear,
Since no more my Strephon is; Strephon, my dear!

When with sad reflection our pleasures I view,
Which formerly, Strephon, past 'twixt me and you,
My passion, with anguish, makes me cry and roar,
Since, my lovely Strephon! I see you no more.

Alas! for my Strephon what need I complain?
My sighs and my tears, they are all in vain:
But still to my fancy ideas appear
Of the wonted pleasures 'twixt me and my dear.

His smiles and his carriage made all men him prize,
The flower of the shepherds, and eke the most wise:
His youthful appearance was ay sweet to me;
And both our affections were loving and free.

'Mong shepherds my Strephon always led the van;
He was noble hearted and loyal to Pan:
He judged their causes with great equity;
For which now they miss him, and do mourn with me.

On that fatal day, when he went from home,
I little suspect'd him so soon in his tomb!
How dismal and heavy the news was to me,
None knows it, none feels it with such misery!

But since my dear Strephon no more can return,
I'll pay him a tribute of tears every morn;
Still wishing that Juno fair Iris would send,
With her fatal knife my sorrows to end.

SONG II.

[Bless'd with my dear Eliza's charms]

[_]

To the tune of, The bonniest Lass in a' the Warld.

Bless'd with my dear Eliza's charms,
I have a store of treasure;
When I'm busk'd in her slender arms,
I can bear no more pleasure.
O! since my lucky stars have had
An influence so kind then,
As to make me t'enjoy a maid
According to my mind then;

I'll strive to pleasure my sweet lass
With kisses and caresses:
Let all the dull unthinking class
Be banish'd all such blisses.

My arms encircling her small waist,
Her lips and mine together,
How to unty that lovely twist,
It is a grudge to either.

O she seems loath to bid me quit,
And I as loath to do it:
We yield to other such delight,
No tongue nor pen can shew it.
Now farewell, all the times I rov'd,
And smil'd on diff'rent beauties;
Since one I happily have lov'd,
I'll stand to all love's duties.

SONG III. TIMBER STAIRS.

O Peggy dinna say me na;
But grant to me the treasure
Of love's return; 'tis unka bra',
When ilka thing yields pleasure.
Nae pleasure is like love's return;
Dear Peggy grant it to me:
Nae mair wi' coy slighting spurn,
When I my love do show thee.

The forest birds example show,
My handsome bonny lassy,
That lovers should not single go;
Therefore be nae mair saucy;
But yield unto my fond desire,
My dearest charming jewel,
And quench the flame of Cupid's fire,
That burns me up like fuel.

Thy face so beautiful and gay,
Engageth me to love thee;
Thou'rt sweeter than the flow'rs in May;
There's none I'll prize above thee:

Thy wit shin'd so into my eyes,
Above all human creatures,
That Cupid caught me, as a prize,
Beholding thy fine features.

The ways of virtue, Peggy, trust,
I will observe fu' bralie;
I'll shun the steps of Venus' lust,
When others wi' them dallie.
Up stairs, down stairs, down stairs,
Timber stairs fear me;
I pray you, drap your foolish fears,
Dear Peggy, and come near me.

SONG IV. The poor Prentice.

“I am a poor prentice, bound frae all pleasure;
“Fain wad I see my love, if I had leisure.”
Sleeping and waking her image presents me;
O she is my pleasure, and yet she torments me.

Blind Cupid did challenge me in battle to th'field;
I thought nothing of it, and yet I must yield.
And now, as a captive, his bondage I'm under;
Of all my resistance he did me quite plunder.
But, if my dear jewel wad cast away scorn,
And not leave me comfortless, like one forlorn,
The bondage I'm under wad be a full pleasure,
For that my dear Jenny has charms out of measure.

O Phoebe, assist me, by shining most clearly,
When I go to the lass I love so dearly.
By day, as a captive, my master I'm serving;
And sometimes, wanting food, I'm almost starving.

Yet all is a pleasure; I count it a fine life
To gain that fine creature to be my ain wife.
Her beauty and wit, her lips sweet as honey;
When dreaming, I cry out, My love she is bonny!

I'll rifle her charms yet, when I'm at freedom;
And be to her constant, or fates strike me dumb.
The happiest of creatures I will be surely,
In her arms when I ly snug and securely.

SONG V. Few good Fellows when Jamie's awa'.

Hard fate to be absent from him that I love!
A lot that is surely determin'd above.
Yet Heaven's indulgent; and therefore I may
Be blest with my Jamie, although he delay.
The seas may be calmer, the winds blow more fair;
The clouds may dispel, and the elements clear;
My Jamie return, and come safe to the shore,
With firm resolution to leave me no more.

Hard fortune has call'd my dear Jamie away;
In far-away parts he's obliged to stay:
His own affairs here to ruin will come,
If Providence send not my dear Jamie home.
His foes they maliciously seek for my wrong;
They jest me, and jeer me, and make me their song;
They guilefully flatter my servants; and they
As eithly believe them, since Jamie's away.

He left me a gun, and an old rusty sword,
As pledges he faithfully would keep his word:
They bribed my servants, and took them awa';
And now, at his coming, I want them to shaw;
For which he may brag me, and ca' me unjust,
And tell me, I am not well worthy of trust:
And what if the spirit they call Jealousy,
Should make him to doubt too of my chastity?

And if misreports, as many there be,
Should come to his ears, then he'd lightly me,
And think that I'm scarcely worth seeing again:
Sic sad thoughts as these they ga' me wi' pain.

But if that kind Providence on us would smile,
And cause my dear Jamie to visit this isle,
Our former endearments would come to his view;
His love and affections perhaps might renew.

SONG VI. The Pease Straw.

The country swain that haunts the plain,
Driving the lightsome plow,
At night, tho' tir'd, with love all fir'd,
He views the lassie's brow.
When morning comes, instead of drums,
The flails flap merrilie,
To raise the maids out of their beds,
To shake the pease strae.

Fair Jeany raise, put on her claise;
Syne tun'd her voice to sing:
She sang sae sweet, with notes complete,
Gar'd a' the echoes ring;
And a' the males lay by their flails,
And dance most merrilie,
And bless the hour that she had pow'r
To shake the pease strae.

The musing swain, disturb'd in brain,
Fast to her arms he flew,
And strave a while; then, wi' a smile,
Sweet Jeany, red in hue,
She said right aft, I think you're daft,
That tempts a lassy sae;
Ye'll do me wrang; pray let me gang
And shake the pease strae,

My heart, said he, sair wounded be,
For thee, my Jeany fair;
Without a jest, I get nae rest;
By bed it proves a snare.

Thy image fine presents me syne,
And takes a' rest me frae;
And whiles I dream, in your esteem,
You reckon me your fae:

Which is a sign you will be mine;
Dear Jeany, say nae na:
But soon comply, or else I dy,
Sae tell me, but a flaw,
If you can love, for none above
Thee I can fancy sae;
I would be blest, if I but wist
That you would shake my strae.

Then Jeany smil'd; said, You're beguil'd,
I canna' fancy thee:
My minny bauld, she would me scauld;
Sae dinna' die for me.
But yet, I own, I am near grown
A woman: since its sae,
I'll marry thee, syne you'll get me
To shake your pease strae.

SONG VII. My Love she is the Ring-leader

[_]

To the tune of, The Gallant Shoemaker.

You Muses nine, inspire my brain;
Likewise I'll invocate Apollo,
To furnish me poetick strain,
That I may make soft numbers follow;
I mean to praise my charming fair,
Because that I love none beside her;
Her virtue, wit, and prudence rare,
Declare that she's the ring-leader.

Suppose the fairest nymph alive,
Deck'd with the finest robes in fashion,
Would use her wits how to contrive
In me for her to raise a passion,

I'd quickly fly th'enchanting dame,
And run to her of whom I'm glader;
Because in me she rais'd a flame,
She seems to me the ring-leader.

Should I compare my dearest Love
To goddesses of wit and beauty,
Inferior like, they all might move,
At her appearance, as their duty.
Likewise, the gods might her admire,
And watch her, lest some ill betide her;
And then pronounce to my desire,
That my dear love's the ring-leader.

Were great Apollo, with his harp,
Set down to sound her praises many,
The rural notes, both shrill and sharp,
Would all declare they know not any
That can compare with my dear Lass;
Fine wit and modesty o'erspread her:
This character on her I'll pass,
My love she is the ring-leader.

Great lofty Pope, and Ramsay bright
Could ne'er describe her in their verses,
Tho' they should rise at every flight,
Above all those that love rehearses.
She far surmounts the praise of man;
No tongue nor pen can right describe her:
So take my word, or there's my hand,
My love she is the ring-leader.

The rural nymphs that tread the green,
Due homage they to her surrender;
When they at nuptials do convene,
Admire her beauty, wit and splendor.
All things that make perfection shine,
Each one that views her may consider;
Their votes may all agree with mine,
And say she is the ring-leader.

She needs no paranymphs to dress;
She's comely as the bright Aurora:
She sweetly sings with chearfulness;
She's pleasant as the goddess Flora.
She's matchless for her constancy;
With features base none can deride her:
No tongue nor pen, except they ly,
Can say but she's the ring-leader.

Soft! soft! my Muse, her smiles I see!
They put my senses out of order;
I'm rapt with wond'ring ecstasy,
So that I can't write any further.
All I can say seems but to spoil
Her praise. Dame Nature has decreed her,
The fairest of the fair; and while
She lives, to be their ring-leader.

SONG VIII. The Summer Evening.

[_]

To the Tune of, The bonny Bush aboon Traquair.

Witness, ye Powers! that do attend
My sighs, and stand amazing,
And tell if falsehood I pretend,
When on her charms I'm gazing.
No, no; I scorn so base a crime;
Such thoughts need never move her:
Eternity shall waste her time,
Before I cease to love her.

Her smiles, like powerful spells, intraps
My wand'ring heart, and binds it;
Kind Cupid may wound her; perhaps
She'll yield, when as she finds it.
O then! my joys will be complete;
My wishes at my pleasure:
With great delight, whene'er we meet,
I'll hug my lovely treasure.

But oh! alas! those empty forms,
Make me with pain to languish;
As sea swains, under furious storms,
Are fill'd with grief and anguish;
So these ideas that present
My fancy, still do move me,
Until she yield, with free consent,
And say, I dearly love thee.

Which sentence, if I once but heard,
I'd be more blithe to hear her,
Than one from drowning were restor'd;
With fondness I'd admire her;
And then fly to her bosom fair,
And kindly treat my jewel;
To every swain I would declare,
That she is no more cruel.

SONG IX.

[On a sweet summer evening, a-walking I went]

[_]

To the tune of, Thro' the Wood, Laddie.

On a sweet summer evening, a-walking I went,
At my canny leisure,
To view ilka pleasure,
To languishing spirits 'twould afforded content;
Where flow'rs above measure send forth a sweet scent.

Thinks I, what a pleasure dwells in this sweet field,
Where Flora dispenses,
To pleasure the senses,
So sweet and fine odours, contentment to yield,
To all whose pretences love a rural field.

Then looking around me, I suddenly was
Surpris'd by a creature,
Whose beauty was greater
Than any before I e'er saw in a lass;
She had comely features, as she stood on the grass.

Then modestly smiling, unto me she said,
Swain, Where are you walking,
So lazily stalking,
In this secret grove? To which I replied,
I'm taking my pastime in this pleasant shade.

With that, a sharp arrow from Love's fatal bow,
It deeply me wounded,
There I lay confounded;
Senseless with pain, and scarcely could know
What was my condition; but my breast it did glow.

When, after a little, I recover'd again,
Then knew I the matter,
How that charming creature
Had been all the cause of my former pain;
And frankly my passion I 'gan to explain.

Dear lassie, said I, by thy lovely charms,
I'm robb'd of my senses,
As here evidences
My fainting, that caused by Cupid's sharp arms;
T'enjoy thee, sweet creature, my heart he alarms.

Since in this sweet grove I'm wounded by thee,
Pray do not disdain me,
For that will sore pain me;
But rather comply, or let me go free;
But it seems thou'rt the lass that's allotted for me.

This made the sweet lassie to sigh, and to say,
How has Fortune brought me,
(When none would have thought me)
To walk in the evening, and not in the day?
Or how am I happen'd this night in thy way?

Said I, with a sigh, but she could not hear,
You are the sweet creature,
And that is the matter,
That in this green shade, on this evening clear;
That must be my love, as now doth appear.

SONG X. O'er the Muir to Meggy.

And I'll o'er the muir to Meggy;
Her smiles stir up my passion;
All other maids, though ne'er so fine,
I'll court but for the fashion.
When I'm o'ercome wi' care or grief,
Or when a cross torments me,
Her smiling face yields me relief,
And presently contents me.

Her lovely looks chear up my heart,
And gars me look ay canty;
My vital life will soon depart,
Dear Meggy, gin I want thee.
Sae dinna break my tender heart,
By your unconstant dealing;
Your absence proves a grieving smart,
And hads my heart ay failing.

My heart lyes in her bosom fair;
I have it not in keeping;
Ilk night I have for her a care,
And dream of her when sleeping.
Among the croud of nymphs I gaze,
With fondness, till I spy her;
All my affections turn a blaze,
The instant that I eye her.

The pleasant tune delights my ear,
Call'd, O'er the Muir to Meggie;
Her very name gars me forbear
To let my thoughts a-vaguing.
Let ilka lad aft change his love,
For me I'll still be loyal:
I never shall my mind remove,
Without her flat denial.

SONG XI. The Leacher's Lament.

[_]

To the tune of, John Anderson my Jo.

Ilk wanton wench and merry swain,
That likes to lilt and sing,
And walk about the pleasant plain
In time of heartsome spring,
If unto Venus ye're inclin'd,
Chuse places that's remote;
To none but one reveal thy mind,
Or else you are a sot.

When I was in my youth, my lads,
I had nae cross nor care;
I laugh'd at feckless careless blades,
And courted ay the fair.
My love and I did often ly
Where pleasant flow'rs did grow;
We stood na' on't the game to try,
When it came in our row.

At last I tauld my mind to twa,
Whilk bred me meikle strife;
When they at variance did fa',
It griev'd me to the life.
Ilk ane coost up another's wrang,
That scandaliz'd me so,
That gar'd me soon forget to gang
Where pleasant flow'rs did grow.

But now my vitals are decay'd,
And runkled is my brow;
Small frights they make me soon afraid;
My reins are stiff, I trow.
The rashness of my youth, I find,
Adds twenty to my age:
The pleasant hours of Venus kind
Kills more than Mars in rage.

SONG XII. The amorous Shepherd.

[_]

Tune, Wat ye wha I met yestreen.

Na, Katie winna look sae low,
As notice me upo' the green;
Haith I am doild, because 'tis so,
That she is high and I am mean.
But, if the fates wad favour me,
And turn her to a lower guise,
Or make me rich, that I might be
An equal match to my dear prize;

With confidence I then wad fly,
And court my bonny Katie syne;
No mortal monarch's state wad I
Think half so bless'd as that of mine.
Though I had a' the world wide
At my ain government to stand,
Nane but my Katie should be bride,
Or join with me in Hymen's band.

SONG XIII. The ADMIRATION.

[_]

Tune, Will you go to Fife, Laddie?

How did you lear to sing, laddie?
Your words do pleasure bring, laddie,
Unto my ear, because I hear
You're master of the spring, laddie.

Sure 'tis a pleasant life, laddie,
To be a shepherd's wife, laddie;
When void of care, with country fare,
They drown all brawls and strife, laddie.

I'd be a wife to thee, laddie,
From crosses to be free, laddie,

Before a lord that could afford
Me gold at libertie, laddie.

Then we will oft repair, laddie,
To take the cauller air, laddie,
Upon the braes, free from our faes,
Or any subtle snare, laddie.

The fat of ky and sheep, laddie,
The brooks that softly creep, laddie,
Unto the sea, these you and me
Shall feed on and syne sleep, laddie.

None shall make us afraid, laddie.
Kind Fortune, she will spread, laddie,
Her favours free on you and me,
From evil we'll be freed, laddie.

The pleasant flow'rs are fine, laddie,
Where you and me shall dine, laddie;
The rural boughs shall shade our brows;
I'm your's, and you are mine, laddie.

SONG XIV. The COMMENDATION.

[_]

Tune, Have at the Widow, my Laddie.

My Johny's a laddie that's lightsome and fair;
Few gallants, I think, can wi' him compare;
Kind fortune has given him to me for my share.
Sae, well's me of my bonny laddie.

His face is so lovely, so pleasant he smiles,
That many young lassy I'm sure he beguiles;
There is none more happy in broad Europe's isles,
Than me and my bonny gay laddie.

My mother she frown'd, but now she is glad,
And loves my sweet Johny; her fury is laid,
She gave him her blessing, and all that she had,
In a jointure to my bonny laddie.

My Johny he's active, couragious and bold;
He values not riches, nor silver, nor gold;
He's virtuous and constant in love; so I'll hold,
Few imitate my bonny laddie.

He reads, and he speaks, and he sings with an air,
That outstrips the warblers that fly in the air:
His sweet charming notes they fully declare
The worthiness of my gay laddie.

He's heartsome and cheary, and always content;
In wisdom and learning, and in merriment,
His quiet sober life hereto he hath spent;
That fits him to be my sweet laddie.

Let ladies of honour chuse gallants that's brave,
But should I live single none such I would have;
In such a preferment I would be a slave,
If robb'd of my bonny sweet laddie.

The flocks that he tended may bleat and be wae;
The lav'rocks and lintwhites, they a' may be sae,
Since he from their company must come away
To be my dear love and my laddie.

The deserts were homely when he was in them;
His music it would make a wild savage tame:
For in me it raised a tormenting flame,
Till I once enjoy'd my sweet laddie.

SONG XV.

[In former ages, when]

[_]

Tune, The Lass of Patie's Mill.

In former ages, when
Dame Nature bore the sway,
All thought 't a pleasure then
Her precepts to obey.
Love wantonly did play
In pure simplicity;
His wounding darts made way
'Mong high and low degree.

Wit, beauty, virtue, where
Young Cupid found these three,
He aim'd his arrows there,
Through all difficulty:
In wealth no merit he,
Nor Hymen, ere did place;
Unstain'd felicity
Shin'd then in every face.

A maid upon the plain
Could then affection move;
Princes would not disdain
To chuse such for their love:
By int'rest none was drove
Gainst Nature's laws to wed;
An instinct given by Jove;
All by nought else were led.

But age and toil, we see,
These gods have stupify'd;
So that no honesty
In all their deeds are spy'd:
Old Hymen's knots are ty'd
Unequal, now a-days;
Wealth beautifies the bride,
Though worthy of no praise.

SONG XVI. The COMPLAINT.

[_]

Tune, The East Noo of Fife.

Draw near, young men, and hear my plaint,
Ye who with laughing merriment
Beguile the hurling minutes so,
That scarce one year ye think of two.

When I was young as well as you,
My heart was light and merry too;

I courted every charming fair,
And slighted every carking care.

All day I sang with heartsome glee,
And with sweet labour earnestly
I purchas'd coin, that I might have
A furnish'd fortune to my grave.

And all the night I slept full sound,
Till little Cupid did me wound;
Then all my art I did employ
To hasten to the promis'd joy.

At markets where I met with lasses,
We wantonly carrous'd our glasses:
I frankly dealt my fairing too,
But ah! these days are past me now.

Confin'd at home, wi' churlish want,
The sooty Kakers do me daunt;
And poverty so curbs my will,
I cannot have a pint and jill.

But yet my want is not so great,
But I might have it at some rate;
And heartsomely my penny free
Spend frankly with good company.

But my wife limits all my time;
If I break loose, she banns my wime:
And vow she makes an unco fraise;
And carps and grumbles two three days.

Syne supperless I go to bed;
The morn I wake with a fair head;
Yet dare not tell, for fear my dame
Would put me to a public shame.

But since 'tis so that I'm involv'd
In such a fate, I am resolv'd
To pluck up courage, heart and hand,
And make her to her orders stand.

Come, let's be jolly, fill again;
I'll sit a while, I'm not mistane:
And while we blithly slack our drought,
Fancy (at least) we're in our youth.

I'll reign as king in my empire;
That is to say, around my fire;
And let the housewife ken I'm free
To live, while life is lent to me.

Come, here's well may the lads all be,
And all the charming lassies too;
There's still among the fair as free
As any of our sex can be.

But let the dull and clumsy queans,
Who at true harmony repines,
Live in continual frets and groans,
With hearts as cold and dead as stones.

SONG XVII. The Auld Goodman.

One morning of May, by light of the day,
As I was walking over the lee,
A little near by, I heard a man cry,
Alas! alas! what will I do?
My wife she is proud, and clamours ay loud;
I canna' content her, do what I can:
She lends me a gouf, and tells me I'm douf,
I'll ne'er be like her last goodman.

Oh! had I liv'd single, although with a pingle,
I had preserv'd my chastity;
I would have liv'd quiet, although sober diet
Had been my lot continually:
But now, as a slave, my noddle to save,
I lout and lour as well's I can;
While I'm confus'd, and thus abus'd,
Cause I'm no like her last goodman.

Oh! had she been young, I might her vile tongue
In process of time perhaps have reclaim'd,
And made her grow better; but of her ill nature,
When we were marry'd, I never dream'd.

But great Jove himsel, knows now, as in hell,
I belsh out oaths, and curse and ban,
When to it I'm furdert, and almost murder'd,
'Cause I'm no like her last goodman.

May never poor lad meet wi' sik a bad
And crossful wife as I have done;
My life is a burden while I'm wi' the lurden;
Come death, and haste, and fly, and run,
And cut my life's thread, in my extreme need,
And carry me safely to the plain,
That Jove has assign'd for comfort of mind,
Where folk like me forget their pain.

Her REPLY.

You blame your wife for your poor life;
Shame light upon your calf-like face,
That plaints on me, when I from thee,
Scarce in three months obtain a kiss.
You gaunt and groan, in slumber you moan;
No active spirit remains in thee;
Whilk gars me cry out, and lend thee a rout,
You, silly John Snool, a plague to me.

You rant and sport 'mong your consort,
And make a jest of me your wife;
And meikle good gear, whilk, both late and air,
My husband wan during his life,
You spend; 'tis seen, then late at e'en,
You homeward stagger as you can,
And tumble to bed, where ony young maid
May ly unknown, you calf-like man.

You pray that death would cut your breath;
Death scarcely thinks you worth his pains,
To ware his dart on your dull heart;
But if he would, he'd loose my chains.
Then would I be quit of you a dead sot,
That yields me no pleasure, do what I can:
His saul be at rest; I think I was bless'd
When living was my auld goodman.

SONG XVIII. The FIDELITY.

[_]

Tune, The bonny Boatman.

My pleasant Nymph, thy smiling face
Yields to me far more pleasure
Than any lass; thy kind embrace
Surmounts the greatest treasure.
Wert thou my ain,
Then I'd disdain
All other maids but thee, lass:
Pray give consent,
Do not torment
Me with unconstancy, lass.

And if you fancy me, my love,
I'll promise thee for ever,
Nothing except the Pow'rs above.
Our company shall sever:
You shall be mine,
I will be thine,
By Hymen's laws we'll marry:
Syne I will kiss
Thy bonny face,
Dear lass, and winna' spare thee.

Euphina, if I were so blest,
As have thee for my marrow,
Then blithly would I cock my crest
Free from all care and sorrow.
In rural shades,
We'll make our beds,
In pleasure and content, love;
No care nor toil
Shall ever spoil
Our rest, if you'll consent, love,

To marry me; for in my life
On earth I'll have no pleasure,
If you deny to be my wife;
I'll mourn far out of measure;
But if you love,
I'll constant prove,
None shall make me to alter:
Until I die
I will deny
To change my mind, or faulter.

SONG XIX. The forlorn MAID.

[_]

Tune, Kind ROBIN lo'es me.

Upon a morning clear and fair,
As I went forth to take the air,
I spy'd a lass in great despair,
Lamenting most severely.

Alas! said she, I am forlorn;
To all the town I'm now a scorn;
I wish that I had ne'er been born,
Since I have lost my lover.

He courted me both air and late,
And call'd me ay his bonny Kate;
But, oh! alas! my wretched fate;
I'm ruin'd quite for ever.

Alas! woes me! I am wi' bairn;
And he is gone, left me forlorn;
Now he for me has no concern,
Altho' he promis'd fairly.

His twinkling eyes, and his sweet breath,
Made me forget to dread sik skaith;
To wrang me I thought he'd be laith,
Yet my thoughts did deceive me.

He vow'd and swore, by heavens high,
By all the winged fowls that fly,
That he would marry me; and I
As eithly did believe him.

He trysted me one evening fair,
Among the groves to take the air;
But soon he brought me in a snare;
Woes me that e'er I loo'd him.

Now I maun beg with this young thing;
To pleasure it, with grief I sing;
I tear my hair, my hands I wring,
For waeness that I loo'd him.

My fortune now is cleanly broke,
By leaning to that feeble rock;
False man that gae me sik a stroke;
Sare mayst thou rue thy doings.

You virgins, keep your chastitie;
To such as him no freedom gi',
Lest that you sing along with me,
Alas! that e'er I loo'd him,

SONG XX. The BANKS of TAY.

[_]

Tune, Ettrick Banks.

The banks of Air, and Ettrick banks,
Are sweetly sung among the fair;
The former sure deserves no thanks,
For Ettrick banks first gave the air.
Yet he who sings the banks of Air,
Brags proudly of his ancient braes,
As nothing with them could compare;
But Tay's sweet banks deserve the praise.

The rapid river swiftly slides,
With pleasant murmurs, thro' the groves,
With famous woods on both its sides,
Where swains and nymphs disclose their loves;
With fertile fields and forests fair,
Adorn'd with gow'ny glens and braes,
That far surpass the banks of Air,
And more, by far, deserve the praise.

Both Dukes and Earls our banks do grace;
Lords ancient, famous of renown:
Here Royal CHARLES, of ancient race,
Receiv'd the sceptre, sword and crown.
Upon our banks there lives a Lord,
Whose title bears Broadalbion;
And Murrays, noble by renown,
A pillar of the British throne.

The Hays, an ancient warlike race,
Whose feats of arms have often been
With valour shewn in many a place,
In many bloody action seen.
When bold and proud insulting Danes,
Thought all our nation was their prey,
One made them leave the Scotian plains;
So valiant was that matchless Hay.

The Drummonds too, of noble fame,
So honourable, great and brave,
Alliance to the crown they claim,
Upon our banks a lodging have,
Enclos'd with woods and gardens fair,
That ev'ry month smiles as 'twere May:
Blyth Mary walks with pleasure here,
And beautifies the banks of Tay.

That ancient royal palace, Scoon,
Stands on the pleasant banks of Tay;
St Johnston, where you'll see the moon
On clock-work increase and decay.

Here trade and manners flourish fair;
Laws and religion equal sway;
Nor Irving's holms, nor banks of Air,
Can vie with our brave banks of Tay.

The Ogilvies, of high descent,
Sprung partly from Montgomery's race,
Whose valour Fame still represents
In that old song of Chevy-chase.
Kinnairds, true Scotsmen, much esteem'd
Among the brave, the great and gay;
They and the Ogilvies are deem'd
To beautify the banks of Tay.

The Lyons, an heroic race,
Whose castle bears their famous name,
A beautiful and lovely place,
Of regular and comely frame.
Their wide extent of fame and state,
Takes in that spacious plain Strathmore;
Here on our banks, among the great,
They share of noble fame and pow'r.

The Grays upon our banks do shine,
With splendid glories, worthy fame;
But oh! my Muse, I want engine
To scance upon the ancient name.
Let Fame in annals represent
The actions of the noble Gray;
And Heav'n guard those that resident
Here on the pleasant banks of Tay.

The Douglases, whose ancestors brave,
Shine brightly in records of fame,
Upon our banks a title have,
That adds a glory to the fame.
Here stands the city of Dundee,
Where navigation flourish fair,
Religion, trade and fishery,
Surpassing far the town of Air.

Here Macer, Lindsay, Wedderburn,
Et cætera, knights of high renown,
The banks of Tay they much adorn
With many famous tow'r and town.
The Fyfes and Crawfoords, worthy Grahams,
Brave Scotsmen, all deserving praise,
Tay's banks can boast of nobler themes
Than Ettrick, Air, or Irving's lays.

What brisker lads, more lovely swains,
Than on the banks of Tay abide?
The fairest nymphs sure here remain
That's in the universe so wide.
All sorts of grain our banks produce,
With store of fruits and gardens fair,
What's necessary for man's use,
Excelling far the banks of Air.

An Epitaph on that puissant Duke of Berwick, Great Marshal of France, who, at the siege of Phillipsburgh, viewing the trenches, had his head shot off by a cannon ball, in the year 1734.

Here lies his grace, the duke of Berwick, who,
With braving courage, scorn'd the raging foe.
His warlike arms undauntedly pursu'd
His Prince's glory, and his country's good:
Till at the siege of Phillipsburgh, sad fate!
The fatal moment did him there await!
From the artill'ry of the subtile foe,
Death flew, and struck his head off at one blow.
Had Death but stood so candidly as fac'd him,
His valour from the Gaulian coasts had chas'd him.
But terror seiz'd the king of terrors so,
That, like a coward, behind he struck the blow.

CHRIST's KIRK on the GREEN.

CANTO IV.

[_]

To the Reader, After reading the three Cantos of that POEM, the First whereof was composed by no less an Author than a Scottish Monarch; the other Two by-the famous Mr Allan Ramsay; I, out of conceit, attempted to finish, or rather ape that POEM. And considering that Canto First contains the Revels of the Bridal-day, and the Second the Bridal-night, together with the Bedding of the Bride, and the Third what past on the Morrow, or Infare-day, I have endeavoured to Kirk them, and so put away the costly names of Bridegroom and Bride, though not so beautiful as the former. The POEM but falls in a gradual digression, according to the Authors of it, as foresaid. If the World be pleased to reckon me a Third, I shall have my highest wish. A. N.

When Phœbus, wi' his gauden beams,
Bang'd in the light of day,
And glittering on the silder streams
That thro' the valleys stray,
The couthy carles, frae their dreams,
Began to rax, and say,
Up drousy herds; herds Phœbus blames
That made so short a stay
Away that day.

By that time bells for mass did clink
O'er a' the nation round;
Wives had tane out their Sunday's wink
That morning, lang and sound;
Wi' grains and raxing 'gan to blink
And vizzy a' things round,
Gat up, and gard the kettles chink;
For breakfast busy bound
Wi' speed that day.

Naething was seen twa days afore
At Christ's Kirk on the Green,
But revellings and battles sore,
And dancing hard and keen;

The carles did baith rant and roar,
And delt some knoits between-
Hands; lads their lasses did implore,
Greeting wi' baith their een
For love that day.

The bride was mild as ony lamb
Upo' that morning-tide;
And love the bridegroom did inflame;
His passions wadna' hide,
Then Steen, a man of courage, came
To kirk bridegroom and bride;
Lawrie, Andrew, Dick and Tam,
Came banging in at's side
Bedeen that day.

Then lads and lasses, mony ane,
Be that time was come in;
The eldren men sat down their lane
To wet their throats within:
They gat a cheese that weigh'd twa stane,
I wat it was na' thin;
The lads' bra' knives, hafted wi' bane,
Could hardly pierce the skin
Of it that day.

Quoth Dick, Gin I had here my axe,
(For I trow it would take it)
I would indent, at three good strakes,
My bladder I should break it.
Said Hutchon, If your knives inlakes,
My durk, let no man lack it,
Will soon supply; and, for your sakes,
Assunder I shall hack it
In sheeds this day.

Then all began to chew the cheese,
And drink about wi' speed;
Wi' mony grievous girn and squeese,
The auld folk shook their head,
And ban'd their teeth that wadna' bruise,
That they might faster feed.

Some bit their tongues, until their eyes
Sent out their springs, for greed,
Or haste that day.

Syne pauky Steen drank to the bride,
Come, lass, your hanson kelder;
For Roger fair confession made
Your ma't was i' the melder.
At last, her blushes wadna' hide;
The lasses speer'd what ail'd her;
She in a swarff fell cheek-aside;
Auld Mause she ran and held her
Upright that day.

Ha, quo' the wives, my liken, ken,
Or forty ouks be past,
'Twill kyth you ha' been ne'er the men,
And Venus' laws embrac'd.
I'll warrant we were a' right fain,
And ween'd ourselves fu' bless'd,
When we got houses of our ain;
The pleasures we possess'd
Were fine that day.

The bells a triple warning gae;
Fo'k to the kirk fast flocked;
The dowser sort began to say,
I trow we've o'er lang joked.
Come, drink and eat, and let's away;
Some were, thro' haste, ha'f choked;
Some clap'd their backs, cry'd well-a-day,
While unchew'd bites they bocked
Far aff that day.

Ilk man and wife, ilk lad and lass,
Well buckled i' their claes;
A jolly company there was,
When to their feet they raise:
Fu' handsomely to kirk they pass,
Well rank'd in their degrees;
To flee the fair nane was sae fa'se,
Sae fond were they to please
The bride that day.

The auld men, at their civil crack,
Went on afore the rest;
The bridegroom he came at their back;
The bride she followed fast;
The lads their lasses hands did ta'k,
Love's passion sae them press'd;
A bonny sight to see them wa'k
In gray and tartan dress'd,
All gay that day.

By dinner-time the mass was done;
They hameward high'd wi' speed;
Dick, scarce well set, cry'd for a spoon;
It was his end to feed.
Then on a board they set fu' soon,
Some barley-broth and bread;
And syne brought in, for their disjoon,
Auld Brucky's feet and head,
Well sung that day.

Though some wi' nevels had sare snouts,
A' byganes were neglected;
Fell fresh to birle, and drink like trouts,
Nae poortoth they suspected;
Ilk ane forga' their former routs,
New 'greements they erected;
Good ale and usque ga'd about,
In healths, as they respected
Their friends that day.

The sutor said, Here's to the health
Of thir new-married couple;
I wish them meikle joy and wealth,
Lang clever, strong, and souple.
Their pleasure now is without stealth;
The bridegroom winna' scruple
To tell his bosom-friend what ail'th
Him, though he tak' the ripple
On her some day.

Wives wi' the drink began to tattle
About the bridal-day,

How dancing turned to a battle,
How Jack began the fray;
How arrows flew, and clubs did rattle,
And some ha'f-fell'd there lay;
How Bessie bald came wi' a brattle,
Wi' her knife to geld or slay
Them fast that day.

Some said, Tam Taylor lay stane still
Till a' the fray was done;
To rin and redd he had na' will,
He thought it was o'er soon.
The minstrel fairly tint his skill,
For he fell through ilk tune;
Ran in atween twa wains, and full
He pish'd his ain twa shoon,
For fear that day.

The cow'rdly carles burnt for shame
To hear how they had acted;
The miller's wife ga' them the blame
Her husband was sae hacked.
Then spake up Dick, I fear, good dames,
Wi' drink your harns are cracked;
Men's characters, and they frae hame,
Some mare should be respected
By you this day.

Tam Luter said, Dick had the wyte,
By any in the town,
For fighting was na' his delight,
Till a' the lave were done.
Then Dick, wi' anger and despite,
Cry'd, Let me to the lown;
You piper dog, I say be quiet,
Or I shall tak' you down
Belyve this day.

Whisht, quoth the miller, what's a' this?
Are cowards begun to flyte?
A bonny story, troth, it is,
To see your girning spite:

To blast and brawl ye canna' miss,
And kens not wha's 'o wyte;
But, gin ye winna' be at peace,
Ye's get a bane to bite
Upon some day.

Come, quo' the smith, Let's drink about,
The bride's health maun gae round;
The bridegroom's niest, there is na' doubt,
Maun u'most ay be found.
Quoth a', the smith is unko stout,
And his purse hingers bound;
But, ere we part, we's ripe it out,
And gar him pay fu' sound
For's cracks this day.

Bridegroom and bride are costly names;
When married fo'k's ance kirked,
They need na' mare be fash'd wi' them;
The smith wants to be jirked.
Come, let us here a court proclaim,
And fine him as he's worked;
With that he thought black burning shame,
And down his head he lurked
Fu' low that day.

Had up your head, auld Hutchon cry'd,
You silly simple sot;
What? like a coward, your manhood hide
Sae for a poor gray groat.
Your wife sae bald, and fu' of pride,
She wears the breeks, I wot;
She'll soundly buff you back and side;
I wish she spare your throat
Uncut this day.

When a' was done, young Roger he
Cry'd, Fill me up a gill;
To my frank neighbours heartsomelie
I'll drink wi' hail good will:
The smith and his thrawn wife maun 'gree,
Tho' they scald ne'er sae ill;

Bairns unborn 'bout them and me
Will crack when at the ale,
And laugh some day.

An Epistle to Mr P---, one of his Majesty's Officers of Excise, on his ridiculing my Verses.

Sir,

Suppose grammarians, such as you, write fine,
Immortalizing heroes in each line;
Yet who's to thank you? Sure it's ne'er be me;
Your education natural wants supplie.

Homer and Horace, when the world was young,
They then invented several sorts of song,
As Nature taught them, in their mother-tongue.

Like to a shepherd on the rural plain,
Who tunes his sang amidst the rustic train;
His fellows praise him for his soft sweet voice;
The flocks they listen, seeming to rejoice.
The milking maids lay down their pails and dance,
When to the fold he whistling doth advance:
His charming voice sounds in their ears, till they
Acquire the tune, and lilt it o'er next day.

Though you who have poetic art survey'd,
The Latin tongue, and many authors read,
Compose fine numbers in heroic style;
'Tis but mere imitation all the while.

But new invention, such as Homer had,
And in their mother-tongue, as Horace did:
Purely they wrote, each as dame Nature taught;
Their works new wit, new fancy, and new thought.

But we must have supplies from other parts,
Or shamefully we will mismanage arts:
We learn the modes, and languages, and rules,
Or else we look like stupid brutish fools.

Some brutes they are so docile, that they will
Incline, and ape men's actions to the full.

But few of men, though they can read and write
Their native language, are in one art complete,
Especially in poetry, who can,
In homely lays, both style and numbers scan?
I ne'er admire the learned, though they scance
On style and numbers, and fine verse advance;
For though the genius should decline, they might,
E'en force their way, in making verses right.

The warbling quire that ushers in the spring,
All know they by a natural instinct sing;
And so do I, though never, all my days,
Was ever master of one Latin phrase.
Though I may nibble at the lowest sprays,
I cannot climb to touch the lofty bays.

A Letter to J--- B--- an old Batchelor, persuading him to marry.

In frosty weather sheets are cauld,
That gars folk closs together fauld.
In spite of ilka northern blast,
The heat of man and wife shall last.

But single lads, like you and me,
Maun slide our sarks down o'er our knee;
And heat the tae foot wi' the other:
What can we do in winter weather?

But when the spring and summer comes,
When midges dance, and ev'-cloke bums,
The man and wife in bed grows warm;
The sweat and heat it does them harm.

So troth, my friend, I'm at a vary,
Whether to keep free, or marry.

But yet I have devis'd a wile,
The heat of summer to beguile;
That is, to keep claes aff the bed,
Until the summer heat be fled:
And when the' autumnal cald comes in,
To hap the bed we'll then begin.

Sae gin I had as many years
As on your forehead now appears,
Some comely fair-one, wi' 'er enticements,
Would cause me cast off all advisements,
And fairly venture on the tie
Of marriage; purposely that I
Frae all reproaches should go free,
And wanton women's calumny.

For they will taunt, and jeer, and joke,
And ca' you capon, not a cock;
An auld young man that canna' love;
A silly fool, as chaste's a dove;
Row'd in the brottlet when first seen,
And chiefly lo'es his cog sinsyne.
With many such reproaches more,
Lasses gi' lads that they abhor.

Sae take a heart, and learn to woo',
That lasses may speak well of you.
Brush up your beard, goose out each lirk,
And gi' some change to K---'s kirk.
Do as your father did, and strive
To keep the name of B---ce alive.

Sure there is great delight in wooing,
'Tis sic an ancient way of doing:
For since auld Adam first was made,
His bairns, till now, have us'd the trade.

Therefore, my friend, I'd have you try
What pleasure's in't, and sae shall I.
Wedlock's a divine institution;
Sae let us, with one resolution,
Obey that sacred old comman',
That God in Paradise gave man.
Leave parents, friends, and a' your kin,
Some bonnie lassie's love to win;
And cleave to her for life to live;
That will your sunken sp'rits revive.

Farewell, my friend; gin ye be wise,
You winna' slight my young advice.

I own indeed, it is but bruckle,
Yet gi'en in love. Your's, Sandy Nicol.

Written by a Gentleman upon seeing some of my Verses.

Alexander,

Thou little bard, of Adam's brood,
Had thy education been as good
As natural genius leads thee,
Thy station now had been much better
Than nolt-herd, or a shepherd either;
And as well vers'd in natural matter,
A poet they had made thee.

My ANSWER.

Sir,

I'm one of ancient Adam's race,
Though in the lowest rank and place
Dame Nature she has set me;
Yet Heav'n gae me a spacious mind,
Beyond a hantle o' my kind;
The rural muses too, I find,
Do fondly daut and pet me.
For, mony time, when I thought lang,
Thalia brought a past'ral sang,
And bade me chear my heart,
And let the warld ken that we
Regard not learning's high degree;
But unto poets naturallie
Our secret we impart.
My station, though 'tis poor and mean,
Yet for no higher pitch I green
Than Providence allows;
But only, Sir, that I'm inclin'd,
(If fortune she would be so kind),
To see my verse in print; my mind
Ambitiously pursues.

An Epistle to Mr Allan Ramsay.

SIR,

Your name and fame has spread sae far off,
I doubt 'tis mare than I'm aware of;
For troth, Sir, I maun tell ye,
Your head's sae fu' of canty tales,
That scoups o'er many muirs and dales,
Likewise in ilka valley,
That I'm amaist made to sing dumb,
And break my quill asunder;
And naething say, but maunt and mum,
When you begin to thunder
Out mony things, and bonny things,
That's ilka ane's delight,
That ae man, nor nae man,
Your canty tales can slight;

But praise them ay for wally droll;
He's but a fool that will control
Your witty wanton verse;
For a' the poets o' the nation
May come unto your coronation,
And ay your praise rehearse.
Some with laurel, some with bays,
To crown your Laureat,
And say, Haith Allan has bright rays
That shine aboon our pat.
Our quills a', and wills a',
Can never reach so far;
He thinks ay, and blinks ay,
Bright as the clearest star.

When I came hame, ilk ane came speering,
I scarcely cou'd gi' them an hearing,
They were sae unca busie.
Said they, O Sandy, saw you Allan,
And was you in within his dwelling?
Pray tell us what like is he?

Said I, my memory is nae meikle,
To tell you a' his marks;
Read's epistle to's friend Arbruckle,
Set down amang his warks:
He shaws a' his laws a',
And principles ilk ane;
His stature and nature,
He tells it till Amen.

I would be unca well content,
To see my writings put in prent,
And syne hae them to read.
I pray you, send me word about it;
For ilk ane says, they deadly doubt if,
That ever they will be it.
Yet I do bid them thole a while,
Till ance the spring come in;
They'll gar ye a' baith laugh and smile,
Till water your eyes blin.
When linking and clinking,
You see them thro' ilk shire;
Syne sma' folk, and a folk,
Will buy them wi' desire.

A. Nicol.

Said on WRITING.

There's nothing for writing, this world's so hard,
Excepting it be the d---l ha'ed for reward.
I dare not write satire, tho' in it there's wit,
And in this our age no subject's so fit.

If I write on a country-man, anger breaks out;
He threatens to give me my bones in a clout.
Be it satire or praise, he foolishly swears,
That he will have none of my doggrel verse.

And if on an Earl, a Lord, or a Knight,
They all turn critics, to judge if 'tis right.

Its faults soon appear, its beauty's conceal'd;
No more's for the author, except he's revil'd.

And if on a groom that has manners and sense,
He gives me a bottle, my pen to compense.
So this is the fate of a poet that's bad;
Tho' more is expected, there is no more had.

To write for diversion, no time I can spare;
So therefore such writing I had best forbear.
Yet sometimes, when fancy provokes me, I must
Write something, altho' my labour be lost.

An Epistle to a Friend newly married, against the will of his Wife's Friends.

Kind Friend,

Dear, kind, and loving comerade,
I'm sure, as e'er a body had;
And gin the warld shou'd a, gae mad,
I'll ay say that
Thou art a well-deserving lad,
Fu' well I wat.

But, honest auld acquaintance, now
There is a change on me and you;
And clashes pass'd, and that nae few,
Upon us baith:
But Heaven will gi' them their due
That wish our skaith.

The rising hills, and valleys wide,
Our company they now divide;
Besides a' that, you've gotten a bride
To kiss and clap:
I wish naething but good betide,
Or be your hap.

Your match is nane aboon your thumb,
Though a'her kin shou'd glour and gloum,
And swell wi' ire, until their bum
Like thunder roar;
She's your equal now in time to come,
As well's before.

Sae live contentedly together,
In mutual love to one another;
And value neither friend nor brother
But do your best:
Kind Providence, which brought you hither,
Makes out the rest.

Let ilka tattling ill bred block,
Frae house to house still keep a troak
Daily, of lies to loose the pock;
Sae poor's their post,
They'll rin the risk Heav'n to provoke,
And damn their ghost.

Sae never mind that graceless crew,
That speaks nae good but of a few;
For what they say is seldom true,
Or for good ends:
Of a' our wrangs we may na' now
Hope for a mends.

Take up a heart, and fear nae loss;
Be blithe, and laugh at ilka cross;
Fate will your enemies oppose;
You need na' dread
The least affront frae a' your foes;
Peace will succeed.

May a' the charms of love and youth,
And a' the fruits of peace and truth,
With heavenly blessings in a fouth,
Show'r on your pate;
May you a Boaz, and she a Ruth,
Still imitate.

Farewell.

To the Laird of ABERCAIRNIE.

Honoured Sir,

I've frankly drunk your Honour's heal,
Of Andrew Grimmand's laughing ale;
And, for your kindness, I'll be bail,
I'se gratefu' be:
And then you winna' think it ill
Bestow'd on me.

Bless'd with a long and hearty life;
Free of ill humour, care, or strife;
A blithe and charming canty wife
To be your mate;
Of health and riches always rife,
Still be your fate.

Could my dull muse but clink the rhyme,
Free of offences, or a crime,
I wad nae grudge how meikle time
I took to raise
The beauteous stanza of your fame,
Or yet your praise.

Upon our jolly Change-Keeper leaving the place.

Now we may greet when Bacchus frowns:
Douf Dulness all our meetings crowns;
Our hearty, blithe, and chearful host
Has left us all in drouth to toast.
He was the jest of all our plays,
And swagger'd wide on bridal days.
When buckled nymphs met on the green,
He soon drew to him a' their een;
He bobb'd, wheel'd round, skipt here and there,
In sportive doubles, fleet as air.
Then wisely cry'd, lest he should fail,
To fetch a swinging pot of ale.

Sweet son of Mirth! for, on the spot,
He'd fling the swats plump down his throat:
And wisely reckon'd they were bless'd
That pay'd and drank, and danc'd and kiss'd.

A narrow-hearted logger-head,
He pray'd that drouth might be his dead.
When sauls of larger size he met,
He bless'd his stars, and thank'd their fate.
But this same man, however good,
Has left, ah! left this neighbourhood.

A Tale of two Brothers, and their Posterity.

Doubtless the pleasure is as great
In being cheated, as to cheat.
Hudibras.

Two ancient brothers, famous of renown,
Admir'd by all in country and in town;
These two increas'd to such a multitude,
That one another they at last withstood,
Ambitious both to have the sole command,
Each striving still to have the upper hand.
Cardinia, the bravest brother, seem'd,
O'er all the world he was best esteem'd:
His valiant sons, where-e'er they came, were known;
Such warlike actions by their hands were shown.
Free, independent, 'bove two thousand years
Successively, our Hero's royal peers
Reign'd uncontroll'd, in spite of en'mies power:
A foreigner was ne'er his governor.
The chiefest son wore an imperial crown;
The rest were subjects, loyal to the throne.
A lion fierce his royal 'Scutcheon fill'd,
Whose rampant paws a blooming thistle held.
In fair Edina was the royal seat,
And finest Tartan was the coat of State.
They scorn'd the Romans, and the Saxon race,
And warlike Danes they often put to chace:

The Picts extirped freely from the land,
Enjoy'd their freedom with victorious hand.
What-e'er attempts their freedom to invade,
By foreign pow'rs, or en'mies, e'er was made,
They firmly stood, unmoveable as rocks;
Their force gigantic, none durst bide their strokes.
Their privileges, liberties and laws,
Their nation's int'rest, and the royal cause;
These were the motives push'd our Heroes on:
All sought the glory of the ancient Throne.
Conquer, victorious, was their word and cry;
With loud huzza's o'erpower'd the enemy,

Druina was the other brother's name;
Not much oblig'd to victory or fame.
The Romans, Saxons, Normans, and the Danes,
All clapt on him (poor man) their conquering chains.
A mixed race, sprung partly from them all,
Holds now the pow'r, whose 'scutcheon is the Mole.
By gift, or for embellishment, they chose,
To grace their banners, a bright spreading rose.
Lud is the palace, place and residence
Of all their kings, each law and ordinance.
Their royal race, at last extinct, they laid
Their diadem upon a maiden's head
That was ally'd unto Cardinia near:
She dying, left one of his sons her heir.
They were so subtile, when they saw their strength
Upon Cardinia ne'er prevail'd, at length
They used flatt'ry to attain their end,
And promis'd fair to be his lasting friend.
Not only friendship, but rewards of gold,
A bait they knew the covetous would hold.
We are thy brethren, the Druinians cry'd,
More near ally'd since our queen Maiden dy'd.
Your prince is ours, by free accession crown'd,
And we allow you are the most renown'd.
Unite the Thistle and the Rose together,
Since we are both under one nursing father.

You shall be free to trafic in our land;
All that we have shall be at your command.
Let prince and parliament stay here in Lud,
Then ye'll have access to our chiefest good.
In your Edina, for the civil law,
Place deputies to keep the land in awe:
And for each shire, elect, to represent
The same, fit persons in the parliament.
Your manufactories, and your cattle trade,
Shall, by our help, be far more richer made.

Then the Cardinians bravely made reply,
We know your flatt'ry, and your treachery.
Do you intend, as false designing knaves,
To make us free-men your depending slaves?
No. We disdain it; and our aweful swords
Shall, by our actions, verify our words.
Our parliaments, and civil laws, they shall
Have their old place within Edina's wall.
Let our great Prince the royal scepter sway
O'er you and us, and both the courts survey.
Yet, notwithstanding, if you seem content,
A correspondence, in each parliament,
Betwixt us, we will willingly allow;
But not to quit our ancient rights to you.
Our Prince is now your rightful sovereign;
Submit to us, if ye would friendship gain.
When the Druinians heard this, they forbore
Such treating terms with the Cardinians more.

At last, ambassadors from heav'n were sent.
Bidding the King to quit the government.
Then shortly he exchang'd his diadem
With heavenly glory and immortal fame,
His royal heir with pomp and splendor crown'd,
Chiefs of both tribes the ancient throne surround.

Yet the Druinians cunningly began
A stratagem against the royal clan.
They bred up factions, headed by old Noll;
The priests and people royal pow'r control.

Their king they murder'd, banished the prince;
Which bred confusions 'mong the tribes e'er since.
At last, the males of royal seed fell short;
A female sway'd the base promiscuous court.
Then the Druinians, false as hellish fiends,
Thought fittest now to gain their selfish ends:
Like the old serpent, cunning to ensnare,
Thought best, at first, t'assault the royal Fair.

Madam, say they, our all is in thine hand;
Our lives and fortunes are at thy command.
We want your judgment in one simple case,
Namely, twixt us and the Cardinian race.
We all are brethren, also neighbours near,
And o'er us both, you the great scepter bear.
What need we keep so diff'rent from each other,
Since we are both under one nursing mother?
May we not join us both in unity,
Under the conduct of your majesty?
Their manufactories, and their cattle trade,
Surely by this would richer far be made.
We seek not int'rest, honour, or renown,
Nor to suppress, or keep Cardinia down.
But is't not strange, that we thus tempt the gods,
That, being brethren, live so long at odds?
Your majesty, if this proposal please you,
As well it may, for 'twill more highly raise you
In foreign fame, and subjects loyalty,
The only hinge of pow'r and royalty;
May not (we say) your majesty rehearse
This treaty, to the bold Cardinian race?
You see advantage by it would accrue,
If this were settled, both to them and you.
We know they are a stout heroic clan,
And scorn to be beholden unto man.
But, in this case, we'd stand each others friend,
And rest unconquer'd to the world's end.

As the fair sex, since mother Eve, sustain'd
A yielding temper, and is easy gain'd

By fraudulent and false delusive speech;
So those the Fair, the royal Fair did reach.
So soon as Eve forbidden fruit did taste,
She invites her husband to the fatal feast,
Involves themselves, and their posterity,
In temp'ral loss, and endless misery.
The Queen o'ercome, she call'd a parliament,
Where she declares how well she was content
To have the brothers join'd in unity;
Have both one manners, both one laws obey.

With secret bribes of pure and stamped gold,
In handfulls, hatfulls, numberless, untold,
Crafty Druinians laid, as baits, to gain
Simple Cardinians to their servile chain.
Some, whose estates with equipage were wasted,
And purses with extravagancies blasted,
Grew covetous to have the shining mould;
Their liberties, themselves and nation sold.
They snatch'd the bait, because the hook was hid;
Thus the Cardinians shamefully deny'd
Their wonted freedom, willingly betray'd.
When they had sign'd and seal'd the fatal band,
Involv'd themselves, and all their native land,
Fast in the snare, their wretched heirs espy'd
The baneful hook that in the bait lay hid.
It firmly sticks in their dejected jaws:
The rampant Lyon fears the ugly claws
Of the foul Mole, as some infernal fiend.
Altho' divines say hellish fiends are chain'd,
Yet, when licens'd to wander on the earth,
They frighten mortals almost unto death;
So now the Mole from under ground gets eyes,
And ghostly glares; the Lyon fears, and flies.
The very breath of that foul nauseous beast,
Poisons the strength of the proud Lyon's crest.
His paws are firmly into fetters ty'd;
His wonted pow'r all stented and deny'd.

What-e'er the Mole bids, the poor Lyon must,
Spite of his teeth, perform the same in haste.
The Thistle now is pricked with the Rose;
The hook is now in the Cardinian's nose.
By force compell'd to tax and tribute, who,
In former ages, did no taxing know.
Commodities must now to Lud be borne,
And cheaply sold, or home again return.
What the Druinians pleases to impose
On the Cardinians, they dare not oppose.

The AUTHOR's Wish.

A healthy body, and a conscience clear;
A moderate draught of small untainted beer
When I am dry. When hungry, swoons and pottage;
A little garden, and an able cottage.
In summer-time a good milk-mother-cow;
My choice of books, and nought but read to do.

In winter-time a piece fat beef to tottle;
And now and then with friends a hearty bottle.
A cleanly house; a warm clear canty fire;
Clean linens, and my garments all entire.
A warm soft bed; a virtuous spouse, and kind;
Some pocket-money; these can please my mind.

When death approaches, not to dwine, but die;
And, after death, bless'd with felicitie.
These are my wishes; and I crave no more:
If Heaven grant them, Goodness I'll adore.

On FORTUNE.

O cruel Fortune! and unkind!
Unconstant is thy wheel;
Thou yield'st to few content of mind;
B' experience I feel.

Sometimes thy favours they pervert
The judgments of the wise;
Till oft, too late, they feel the smart
From thy false gifts arise.
He's only wise that can improve
Thy smiles or frowns for good;
Such wisdom cometh from above,
Thy juggles to exclude.

Upon the fair Sex.

Hail, gen'rous Fair, who have reviv'd a thought
I have retain'd since Nature first me taught.
The fair inspire; ambitiously I long
To write on them a panegyric song.
Were my dull muse but able to indite,
My artless fingers would be swift to write
The numberless endowments of the sex,
Whose beauty none save idiots neglects.
I am surpris'd to see unthinking men,
Against the Fair, in satire, lift a pen,
Who are the hinge of love and generation,
The master-piece of Nature and Creation.

Man first of dust, or of red earth was made;
The woman built of that dust purify'd;
Of rarer form, more beautiful and kind;
More like to Jove; for Jove's all love, we find.
They are more colder in their constitutions
Than hated man; and so their dispositions
More temp'rate are; in them all virtues dwell;
In modesty and softness they excel.
Man made without, but she in Paradise;
In many things she has pre-eminence.

Sure man is of a bold and rugged nature,
Whereas the Fair's a soft and tender creature.
The seeds of love, of pity, and compassion,
Lodge in their breasts, while men are fill'd with passion.

Sure Heaven foresaw an inconveniencie
Would happen in the human progenie.
This world had been an ill-governed theatre,
If both the sexes had retain'd one nature.

The fair-ones' eyes speak winning eloquence;
Their charming smiles an easy access gains
To all the corners of their husband's mind,
And calms them when they rashly are inclin'd.
Though vice, ill-nature, luxury, and toil,
The gen'ral mass of human creatures spoil;
Yet, 'mongst the best, sprung from a race refin'd,
Whose noble blood sure elevates the mind
To virtuous ends; and, by their prudence, sway
O'er common mortals taught how to obey,
Ten thousand beauties with perfections meet
To make their charms and innocence complete.
Nay, all the virtues shine forth in their charms,
While their soft breast their husband's bosom warms.
Their outward form adorn'd by art, they seem
Each as an angel, or bright seraphim,
Whose dazzling glories darken vulgar sight,
Like Sol's bright rays in his meridian height.
Their ev'ry part most obviously declare
Beauty and charms united in the Fair.

The comely feet that nimbly do advance,
And swiftly swim while Cloe treads the dance;
Thence to the waist a modest vail suppresses,
And hides from sight those dear forbidden places.
As when at noon, in a warm summer day,
The glorious sun his splendid beams display,
So that no eye, tho' ne'er so strong, can gaze,
Unless turn'd blind, on his meridian rays;
So these vail'd places cannot see the day;
They'd outshine the sun, and chace the light away.
Up from the waist, to where two mounts arise,
A vail betwixt where wanton Cupid lies,
These mounts contain two fountains on their tops,
Whose water's sweeter than the nectar drops.

Yet these two founts are closely seal'd, till she
Be made a mother of a progenie.

The ivory neck, as Atlas, up it bears
A heaven of beauty in its various spheres.
The comely chin more sweets and beauty yields,
Than all the fragrance of the verdant fields,
Above it stands an oracle of worth,
That soon the longing lover's fate speaks forth;
Surpassing that of Delphos, which, of old,
In rustic rhymes its dark responses told:
'Tis guarded with a ruddy two-leav'd gate;
Within it stands twice sixteen knights of state,
Invulnerable, harness'd with ivory plate.
O pleasant accent! sweet melodious voice!
That charms all nature, makes all men rejoice;
Proceeding forth from this sweet hollow cave,
Such powerful sounds that can both kill and save.
The nose, the brow, the blushing cheeks, and eyes,
With beauty strike all mortals with surprize.
Their ev'ry part with nat'ral magic charms,
With secret virtue draws men to their arms.
Yet their fair forms are nothing, when compar'd
With those perfections wherewith they are stor'd.
The fairer virtues beautifie the mind,
And darken those externally that shine.

The fair-one's virtues, innocence, and worth,
Inspir'd a monarch's pen to set them forth.

PROVERBS, Chap. xxxi. Verse 10.

Illustrious Fair, to virtue all inclin'd,
Thrice happy he that such an one doth find.
The gold of Ophir, and the coral fine;
The topaz, and the silver from the mine;
Onix, rich rubies, were they ne'er so rise,
Are all inferior to a virtuous wife.
In her the husband placeth all his trust,
Because he knows she cannot be unjust.

He needs not spoil, for she procures him all;
Whate'er he wants is at his nod or call.
She does him good; when he surveys her charms,
The sparks of love that's in his bosom warms.
Where virtue lives, true constant love attend,
And holds for certain to the latter end.
She seeketh wool; she seeketh flax; of both
She makes all sorts of necessary cloth.
Nay, unconstrain'd, her hands she doth apply
To constant labour, working chearfully.
Like to the ships where merchants traders are,
She brings her food and living from afar.
She riseth early, ere the day come in,
And calleth up her serving-maids to spin.
At mail-time she is careful still to give
To each a portion whereupon to live.
Well knew she what incessant labour yield;
She sums her product; then she buys a field.
Behold the genial vines upright do stand,
In order rang'd by her successful hand,
Indulgent Heaven such durence deigns to crown;
Each virtuous step computes her high renown.
She girds her loins, hard labour to endure,
And states her progress by her growing store.
She tastes the sweets of this laborious run,
And fingers profit at a borrow'd sun.
Distaff and spindle she alternate moves;
They speak her actions, and she still improves.
With pitying eyes she views the starving race;
Like Heav'n she's free, impartial in her grace.
With open hands unfolds her gen'rous care;
Exactly knows both when to give, and where.
From northern coasts the chilling colds may blow,
And crust the fields with glazing ice and snow.
She scorns the storm's tumultuous parade;
With finest scarlet all her house are clad.
Of tapestry rich coverings she makes;
Pure silk and purple for her clothes she takes

Her husband's known among the elders, when
He's in the gates, or walks the street with men.
She makes fine linen, clean and purely drest,
To foreign merchants, from the East and West,
She selleth it, gives girdles of the same;
They through their land spread her deserving fame.
Incompass'd round with servants, valiantly
They keep and guard her from all injury.
Cloath'd as it were with strength and honour, she
Shall still rejoice in her felicitie.
And when she speaks, her wisdom is display'd
With more applause than the Tritonian maid.
She acts and speaks with such a modest grace,
A law of kindness from her mouth doth pass.
Affairs at home she carefully inspects;
Her serving-maids she cautions and directs,
Wool how to order, how the flax to dress.
She eateth not the bread of idleness.
Her children's 'tentive; when she calls they fly;
All her commands run swiftly to obey.
Her children rise, and her they blessed call;
Her husband also, and they praise her all.
She's virtuous unto whom all standers by
This ancient Motto truly can apply,
Full many daughters have done virtuouslie;
Yet there is none but what's excell'd by thee.
Favour's deceitful; Beauty is but vain;
But she alone that fears the Lord shall gain
Peace, riches, honour, joy and friendship all,
As fruits that from her blessed hands do fall.
Give her thereof, and these shall make her great;
Yea, her own works shall praise her in the gate.

The honest Country-man's Meditation, as he was humming it over alone in Words at Resting-time.

Fortune, that with malicious joy,
Does man her slave oppress,
Proud of her office to destroy,
Is seldom pleas'd to bless.
Dryden.

Faith flies, and piety in exile mourns;
And justice, here oppress'd, to heav'n returns.
Dryden.

If fate's a goddess, as some think she is,
I'm made to wonder; and my wonder's this,
Why she unequal deals her gifts, and why,
What she once gave, she takes from some away?
Why she bestows her wealth and pow'r to some,
That, by extraction, from the dunghill come;
While some that are of noble birth and breeding,
Are turned poor, nay slaves their wants deriding?
But some men say, this goddess she is blind,
And deals at rovers to all human kind.
Howe'er it is, I know not; yet I know
Some are advanc'd, while others are brought low.
Some men have pow'r, yet want the skill to guide it;
And some have wit, and yet oblig'd to hide it.
Some men are rich, and others wretched poor;
And some are chaste, while others play the whore.
Some are religious, others are profane;
And some have loss, while other some have gain.
Some men are patient under th'greatest cross;
And some are grieved at the smallest loss.
Some men are false, some love to keep their words;
And some are valiant, other some are cowards.
Some men are born to ease and much content;
And some to sorrow, grief and discontent.
Some men oppress, while others are oppress'd;
Some have hard labour, other some have rest.
Some men have sickness, other some have health;
Some penury, and some abound in wealth.

Some bountiful, and others churlish are;
And some are catch'd, while some escape the snare.
Some merry make, while other some are sad;
And some are good, while other some are bad.
Some are shamefac'd, and others impudent;
And some are harden'd, other some repent.
Some loyal subjects, others rebels prove;
And some men hate what others greatly love.
Some are ambitious, some their honour flies;
And some accept, while others gifts despise.
Some men are virtuous, others drown'd in vice;
And some are sluttish, other some are nice.
So many men, so many dispositions;
So many stations, so is their conditions.
The covetous, when pow'r is on their side,
Are great oppressors, tyrants full of pride;
And mainly those that are of mean extraction,
When they get wealth, it fills them with distraction.

There's farmer Hob from small beginnings rose;
But some alledge the fellow found a pose;
Or stoll'n or robb'd, or murder'd some for gold;
And twenty stories 'bout his wealth are told.
Yet there's no man dares to attest the crime;
And few, or none, know how it is in time.
As he grows rich, he covets still the more;
And to his utmost persecutes the poor.
Around him, he with covetous design,
His thriving neighbours strives to undermine.
He views their seats, runs to the landlord syne;
Invites him frankly to a treat of wine,
Some bottles empty, he proposeth next,
Before his sermon, to give out his text.
Sir, I'm inform'd some of your tenants are
Behind the hand, and in your books too far;
And if they fail in payment, Sir, to you,
They cannot have sufficient beasts to plow.
This dyvers both your honour's land, and them,
And you have none, Sir, but yourself to blame.

Let me but have, Sir, such and such possessions,
I'll try my hand to make some more progressions:
With stronger oxen plow up their reversions.
Here's gold at will, Sir, for your present use,
For I can spare it till the ground produce
Her yearly payments by the bullock's toil,
Which fails not, when well plow'd in fatted soil.
Some golden pieces gratis he lets fly,
And then the landlord makes a kind reply;
Since you are wealthy, frank, and so discreet,
Come, let's strike hands, the bargain is complete.
The good old tenants are kick'd out of doors,
And turn'd to begg'ry by such sons of whores.

Next, there's Alexis, an expectant heir,
With pockets scrimpt, yet brisk and debonair;
His daily prayer is, That's obstructers may
By death be soon and shortly swept away.
Indulgent Heav'n his earnest wishes grants,
He swears, and swaggers, drinks, and whores and rants;
Exhausts his substance, domineering still
O'er his poor tenants, subject to his will;
By Fortune flatter'd, basely turns uncivil;
His subjects dread, he's an incarnate devil.
With harrage, carriage, them he still molests;
And with extravagance his 'state he wastes.
Light come, thinks he, then lightly let it go;
If I be serv'd, I value't not a straw.
When all's near spent, his pocket empty grown,
'Tis ready cash and credit almost flown,
'Tis cruel mind with tyranny and pride,
Runs on oppression, penury to hide;
Sends for his tenants, man by man, and swears,
Their tenements too great a product bears;
You must pay entries ev'ry one, or flit;
And more by year; now chuse what ye think fit.
Then, in this strait, the simple tenants try;
Thus they are both reduc'd to poverty.

This breaks all those his tenants that succeed,
And his poor heirs must labour for their bread.

There's upstart burghers, pedlars-once, now grown
Admir'd in country, have the vogue in town;
They look a-squint upon the auld goodman,
That once were fain to lick his pottage-pan.
These cunning callands they corrupt the rest,
With crafty counsel, bent for interest.
Commodities that's from the country brought,
They, with one bod, buy up almost for nought:
And what they sell, their tongues are one again;
Thus they make rich, beguiling countrymen,
Tho' on their souls they bring a guilty stain.

There's Mr John probationer devout,
With his black sleeves, and military coat;
Well-vers'd in logic and philosophy,
Fraught with harangues, and blads of orat'ry,
But most a stranger to divinity;
Yet seeming grave, before the clergy stoops;
But, when alone, he sings and takes his cups:
Yet he can pray, and tell long scrifts of Greek,
And broken smatters of the Hebrew speak;
And in the Latin he is nicely read;
Can scrape and jouk; then is not he well bred?
Having profess'd community and faith,
By deed of synod, he a licence hath
To preach and pray in public auditory;
Tho' ostentation, heart-pride, and vain-glory,
Should be his motives, next to gaining bread,
He turns Boanerges, shaking hands and head.
Some benefice falls vacant; he essays
Oft in that place to spread his gospel-rays.
Fain would he be the pastor if he might;
The stipend fainer by a legal right.
The people not unanimous to chuse him,
The greatest part enirely do refuse him.
He gains the patron; gets a presentation;
And this fills some with greater indignation;

Yet this installs him pastor of the parish;
A great deal more the fleece than flock to cherish.
He thus ordain'd, and settled in's possession,
His mind runs on another alteration,
A finer house, a well-dung'd glebe and garden;
But on his studies he is not so arden:
With long harangues, tautologies and nonsense,
He lulls asleep his silly hearers' conscience.
A fine rich wife, and gallant horse to ride;
A lazy chair near by his chimney-side:
Hath various dishes on his table set;
Drink and tobacco heaves him up with fat,
More like a swine well-fatted for the knife,
Than watchful pastor in a Christian life.
I leave their end and fate to him that knows;
But this prognostic no good ending shows.

These are but swatches of the great oppression,
And impositions that o'erspread the nation.
Oppression is a god, that's, at this day,
Ador'd by all, whose nod all ranks obey.
The golden age and silver age are gone;
And brass and iron; now is the age of stone.
Among the great, where noble blood inspires,
To imitate the virtues of their sires,
They dare not out them for a perverse crew;
That's most in vogue, experience can shew.
If priests or poets should their thoughts unfold,
They are corrupted with rewards of gold,
Or charg'd and persecute their place to hold.
But flatt'ry, gains, or praise, altho' misplac'd,
True honesty, and truth are both defac'd.
But if a scribler, as they call them, say,
The stoney age is extant at this day,
He's persecuted, scorn'd, reproach'd by all;
Such poor rewards to tell-truths now befall.

Thirty Riddles, with their Expositions.

I.

I'm brighter than the radiant beams
That from the sun do fly;
From mis'ry nothing man exeems,
Save my society.

[_]

Exp. Spiritual virtue.

II.

I'm one of four that well agree
Men to accommodate;
Yet, if my bounds exceeded be,
Men I would ruinate.

[_]

Exp. Fire.

III.

God he once bade a thing be done,
And yet he did forbid it;
It was not done; yet there was none
More lov'd than he that did it.

[_]

Exp. Abraham offering his Son.

IV.

A family of five, I hear,
Dwelt in a house together,
And two of them, as doth appear,
Had each of them a mother,
Grand-father, father, uncle, aunt,
A brother, and a sister;
All this is true; and Truth, all grant,
No mortals can resist her.

[_]

Exp. Lot's family in the cave.

V.

In days of yore I was but one,
But now in number more;
Though one cannot increase alone,
Yet I exceed threescore.

[_]

Exp. Language in the ark.

VI.

I am beyond all human reach,
Yet man I do direct;
I knowledge to the wise men teach,
Salvation to inspect.

[_]

Exp. A star.

VII.

I am ambitious to obtain
A certain pitch of glory;

I fail so soon's my end I gain,
And yet I am not sorry.

[_]

Exp. The moon.

VIII.

I wear a robe of colours true,
Yet dy'd by no man's hand;
When I appear, I favour shew
Both unto sea and land.

[_]

Exp. The rainbow.

IX.

Though I be aged but one night,
My rev'rend head is hoary;
But soon as I see Phoebus bright,
I'm robb'd of all my glory.

[_]

Exp. Hoarfrost.

X.

I make the cowards fly for fear,
Yet I'm a friend in need;
I make the dubious causes clear;
Ill doers all me dread.

[_]

Exp. The sword, or magistrate.

XI.

A gloomy aspect I do wear,
Yet all men welcome me;
They need not sow, nor could they ear,
If I should absent be.

[_]

Exp. Rain and dew.

XII.

I do both feed and clothe mankind,
Secure and bound their lands;
And in my owner's cause, though blind,
What I fay firmly stands.

[_]

Exp. A sheep, whose shin is parchment.

XIII.

I'm absolute beyond man's pow'r,
Yet man did me command;
Bent on my journey from my bow'r,
He made me stop and stand.

[_]

Exp. The sun commanded by Joshua .

XIV.

What I was once I am not now,
And yet the same I am;
I labour for myself and you,
Yet know not of the same.

[_]

Exp. An Ox.

XV.

I'm solitary, without the sun,
And yet a friend to love;
Respect of beauty is not shown,
Until that I remove:
Nor man nor beast could long subsist
Without my helping hand;
My stay oft in twelve hours consist,
And yet I never stand.

[_]

Exp. The night, or sleep.

XVI.

I am descended from above,
By an immortal line;
I freely teach the art of love,
Help prophets to divine.
My art is what cannot be taught
To any mortal man;
Yet freely I impart my thought
To any that me scan.
I'm neither seen, nor can be felt,
Yet obvious to see;
With men I am but harshly dealt,
Yet their delight's in me.

[_]

Exp. Music, or poetry.

XVII.

I have twelve sons, and ev'ry son
Had thirty daughters fair;
And these their daughters, ev'ry one,
Had children twenty-four:
Yet none of these fair daughters saw
Another in the face;
Their age exceeds not, I can shaw,
'Bove twenty-four hours space.

[_]

Exp. The year having 12 months, every month 30 days, every day 24 hours; days signify the daughters not aged above twenty-four hours.

XVIII.

I am man's chief and only friend,
And yet his greatest foe;
I love him dearly to the end;
To death with him I go.

[_]

Exp. Conscience.

XIX.

I cruel was, yet well esteem'd
Among both great and small;
But now I am almost asham'd;
Another fills my stall.
I us'd to wound, but now I doat,
Yet I am thrust away;
Whate'er I do, it matters not,
My rival gains the day.

[_]

Exp. Love out-rivall'd by money.

XX.

I am a mystery so dark
That no man can unfold it;
Yet those that search may gain the mark,
As clear as they can hold it.

[_]

Exp. The Holy Scriptures,

XXI.

I conquer'd am, yet conquer all;
I'm both a foe and friend:
A thousand arrows I let fall,
At once, among mankind.

[_]

Exp. Death conquer'd by Christ .

XXII.

But once with human voice I spake,
Yet was I not regarded;
Whom I reprov'd, though he me strack,
With muteness I referr'd it.

[_]

Exp. Balaam's Ass.

XXIII.

I never spake, yet so reprov'd,
Which true repentance wrought;
But I knew not, nor was I mov'd;
For why? I have no thought.

[_]

Exp. The cock, when Peter denied Christ .

XXIV.

I swiftly run, yet have no feet,
Where no man ran before;
My clothing's but a simple sheet,
Yet I have riches store.

[_]

Exp. A ship.

XXV.

I'm on the earth, yet reach to heav'n,
Although of human birth;
Whate'er I ask, to me is giv'n,
Yet I abhor this earth.

[_]

Exp. True prayer.

XXVI.

I'm no man's friend, and yet I have
In many's bosom place;
By many I am made a slave,
And yet I them disgrace.

[_]

Exp. Slander.

XXVII.

I have a precious thing within,
Yet I'm not fit for ought;
I fear not God, yea, sure I sin,
And thereof take no thought.

[_]

Exp. A man mortally drunk.

XXVIII.

I'm but a novice, yet I set
A trumpet to my mouth;
Though lies I tell at any rate,
It passeth all for truth.

[_]

Exp. False fame.

XXIX.

I am but one, but many made;
I'm public, yet unknown;
Although the streets with peace I tread,
Yet few me rightly own.

[_]

Exp. True religion.

XXX.

Men bury me beneath the ground,
And yet their life I am;
And when I rise again, I'm bound,
Bruis'd, sent the way I came.

[_]

Exp. Corn made bread.

A POEM, shewing the Original, Antiquity, Beauty, and Glory of Masonry; also its Progress, Improvements, and Usefulness; with a Description of the Mason's Lodge. All which is concluded with an Ode, sung to the tune of, The free and accepted Mason. To which is prefixed, instead of a Preface, a Poem on the printed Pamphlet.

'Tis not, indeed, my talent to engage
In lofty trifles; or to swell my page
With wind and noise; but freely to impart,
As to a friend, the secrets of my heart;
And, in familiar speech, to let thee know
How much I love thee, and how much I owe.
Knock on my heart; for thou hast skill to find
If it be solid, or be fill'd with wind;
And, thro' the veil of words, thou view'st the naked mind.
Dryden.

Although my numbers be but faint and lame,
I've ventur'd fairly to subscribe my name.
Alex. Nicol, a free Brother.

To all free and accepted Masons.

Worshipful Brethren,

Accept, kind Brothers, of my weak essay
On that grand ancient art of Masonry:
A secret kept since first the world began,
And still unknown to the most searching man:
Obtain'd by none save in a legal way;
Nor will, while lasts alternate night and day.
Pretending fools will find themselves mistaken,
And all their confidence will soon be shaken:
Their vain pretensions better far they'd smother
Than be examin'd by a lawful Brother;
Yet, uncontroul'd, they'll boast of mighty things,
And seem as proud as emperors and kings.

The Mason word, (says one), I know as plain
As any Brother in the Mason's train;
For I have seen the whole in open print,
About which they so great a bustle vent.

O, says the other, can the thing be true?
For I of it had once a single view.

True, says the first, ay 'tis the Mason-word,
As sure and plain as any can afford.
A certain Brother whom they disoblig'd,
And treated badly, as it is alledg'd,
He, in revenge, their secret open made,
And to the world the same he published.

As fools are wise still in their own conceit,
So these pretenders think themselves complete.

If I should say, That printed pamphlet's nought,
It would not change their vain and foolish thought:
But let them answer points of entrance, then
I'll call them Brothers, and the best of men:
But they may pore on pamphlets till they're blind,
E'er they ought like true Masonry can find.

My poem will prove a riddle to all those
Pretenders, who nought of the secret knows:
To them, if told, yea, e'en the lightest word,
Would shrink their hearts, and turn their blood to curd.

But all free Brothers, known in masonry,
Will in the poem secret beauty see.
Read and approve, or disapprove; all's one;
We know what's What: pretenders, pick your bone.

A POEM on Masonry.

Ambition prompts my grov'ling muse t'aspire
To touch the highest string in Nature's lyre;
Tho' like Apollo's heedless son, I may,
Grow giddy in my flight, and lose my way.

May rural Muses poise my flutt'ring wing,
While these few lines on Masonry I sing!
If ought by me sam'd Masonry could raise,
My pen would fondly celebrate its praise:

I'd sing its glory in each age and place,
And from its rise its ancient beauties trace;
Since monuments, and bright records of fame,
Illustrate to the world a Mason's Name.

What matchless patrons honour Masonry,
As sacred writ and hist'ry testify?
To set aside the Builder of this All,
Who is the first and great Original;
Who gives all wisdom, and instructs mankind
All useful arts and science out to find:
Yet notwithstanding, and with reverence, we
May say that he did honour Masonry
More than all arts found by the human race,
And long before invention first took place:
Yea, the most High, the God of heaven and earth,
Who spake, and all from nothing's womb came forth,
Himself assum'd, and justly too may claim,
The title of a Master Builder's name.
He laid the earth's foundations on the sea,
So firm and sure that mov'd it cannot be.
He built the lofty rocks and mountains high,
Under whose shades the beasts might shelter'd ly
From scorching heat of Phœbus sultry beams,
The only storehouse of fresh water streams:
He rais'd the arches of ætherial sky,
Under whose vaults the winged fowls might fly.
Nine spacious spheres, wherein the planets move,
The footstool of his glorious seat above,
Which (as by sacred writ we're plainly told)
He built of jasper and of purest gold.
Thus Masonry's original took place,
When all this world was nought but empty space.

Next man was made lieutenant-lord of all,
Productive of this great terrestrial ball;
Endu'd with reason, and each faculty
Resembling the most sacred Deity;
Inspir'd with wisdom, able to invent
Accommodations for his own content:

He'd first endeavour, doubtless, to procure
A shelter for's repose, to rest secure;
A natural instinct, whereby brutes purchase
(To cherish nature) a quiet resting place.

But man more wise, especially that man
Who gave his sons of every art the plan,
Beyond all dispute he did houses build,
Before the earth was either sown or til'd.

But Adam's son, first-born of all mankind,
Improv'd the art of Masonry, we find,
A city built for trade and government,
Wild anarchy and factions to prevent;
Trade, government and civil laws, we see,
Owe their beginning unto Masonry.

The seventh from Adam, fam'd in Masonry,
Secur'd the art to all posterity,
By building pillars, which yet extant stand,
As monuments wrought by his artful hand;
One of prov'd brick, the other stone secure,
That one might flames, the other floods endure;
Whereon he wrote a certain prophecy:
Thus writing is deriv'd from Masonry.

When all the world corrupted was with sin,
There was one faithful Mason found therein;
Yea, when all flesh was by a flood destroy'd,
He did find grace, and was by God employ'd
To build an ark, to preach, and warning give,
That so his brethren might repent and live.
As sacred records plainly do express,
He was a preacher of pure righteousness:
Preaching, as well as other arts, we see,
Took its first rise from ancient Masonry,

All artists, with their various craft and cunning,
Could not prevent or save themselves from drowning,
Save him, and his own family; no moe,
Exempted was from that dire overthrow:
Thus Masonry, true Masonry, was found
Still to exist, when all things else were drown'd.

To satisfy the critic's curious eye,
The sacred writ will plainly testify,
That he a Mason's character and name
Might fairly own, and as his honour claim:
Not by the ark he built; for carpenters
Might challenge that, that patronage was theirs;
But soon as he set foot upon dry land,
On Mason's art he first essays his hand,
And built an altar, whereon, as a priest,
He offer'd sacrifice of each clean beast;
Whereat Jehovah smelt so sweet a savour,
That made him promise to the world a Saviour;
And as a sign he would no more destroy,
Nor with a flood his creatures more annoy,
He set his bow upon the clouds, to shew
His gracious purpose stands for ever true.

Thus miter'd heads that wear the sacred gown,
Are not asham'd fam'd Masonry to own;
Even Moses, meekest of the human race,
This honourable art he did embrace;
He hew'd and squar'd two tables fair of stone,
And the decalogue God did write thereon.

Mechanic arts, and lib'ral science, all
From Masonry had their original;
Tho' some, whose judgment groundless fancy sway,
Say, it was founded first on geometry.
The rule and square, chiefly the compass show,
From Masonry all other arts must flow.
The compass sure belongs to Masonry,
And comprehends all in the world that be:
It seems by compass all things first were made,
And nature still is by a compass sway'd:
So that, without all dispute, Masonry
Of other arts has the pre-em'nency.

After the deluge men began to spread,
And study commerce, science, arts and trade;

They, to secure that one of Masonry
To after ages in its purity,
They made a word, and nam'd it Secrecy.

Thence handed down it was by a Memphian swain,
By whom its derivations were made plain;
He, as a faithful and accepted Mason,
Taught a Tyrenian's son the sacred lesson;
Who was the most accomplish'd in his art,
And acted still a faithful Mason's part.
To his companion of renowned fame,
Worthy to bear a faithful Mason's name,
He freely did communicate the same:
Who, in his progress, on a time, by chance,
Found one, who after wore the crown of France,
And taught him all the myst'ry of that art,
Which he acquir'd in every point and part:
By him this art and myst'ry did revive,
And with new glory in that kingdom live:

From whence it was to England introduc'd,
And made to flourish at the king's request;
Who, by a royal charter and decree,
Fix'd an assembly every year to be
At York, where all accepted Brothers met,
The rules of Masonry to regulate;
By whose example and authority,
Lodges were form'd and manag'd conjunctly.

Hail, mighty art! whose wondrous glory shines,
Outfacing time and proudest monarchs reigns:
In every nation, structures of great fame
The Mason's art and glory do proclaim:
Witness the Memphian pyramids, which stand
The world's wonders, pride of Egypt land:
Diana's temple, the Ephesians trust,
Fame's residence, all Asia's great boast.
That richer building of Mausolus' tomb,
And many structures both in Greece and Rome;
And Babylon's prodigious walls may seem
T'illustrate to the world a Mason's name.

Besides, the temple at Jerusalem,
The Jewish glory, and the pride of fame:
Walls, bulwarks, forts and tow'rs of sure defence,
Shew forth the Mason's great experience.
What lofty arches over rivers stand,
Securely fix'd by Mason's artful hand,
Where all may walk safe as upon dry-land?
Sailors in midst of Mason's art safe rides
From hurricanes, and the tempestuous tides.
All cities, castles, forts and churches stand,
As monuments wrought by the Mason's hand.
The mighty works, by Masons fram'd of old,
In golden letters ever stand inroll'd.
Kings, emperors, and princes have been proud,
In every age to have themselves allow'd
The name of Mason; and rejoiced more
To wear that badge, than all they had before.

The Masons Lodge.

In yonder valley stands the mighty dome,
Where Nature shines in all her gaudy bloom:
Where riches, beauty, art and pow'r unite
To make the structure of the lodge complete.
Here golden steps preliminaries join'd
With precious stones, the richest of each kind;
The lofty gate, expanded high, decor'd
With all the beauties Nature can afford.
Here spacious lights let in the gleams of day
Thro' azure vaults, that back rebound the ray:
The floor rich pav'd from every costly mine;
And round the walls carbuncles brightly shine.
The painted roof in highest orbits rise,
Bedeck'd with all the beauties of the skies,
In various colours, arch'd of red and green,
And fiery amber shine in trails between;

And opposite is Phœbus pourtray'd fair,
With constellations round him as in air,
The ground-work azure with indented clouds,
Above the reach of deluges and floods.

When time tires out, and can no longer run,
Forth from the centre, brighter than the sun,
Shall come the Master, who will justly judge
All members of this great and spacious lodge.

The ODE.

I

Here's a health to each one,
From the king on the throne,
To him that is meanest of station;
If they can contend,
To have lawfully gain'd
The name of an accepted Mason.

II

Fame trumpets aloud,
And seems to be proud
Of such a grand occupation;
To shew unto all,
That there is none shall
E'er vie with an accepted Mason.

III

The glory of kings
Are poor empty things,
Though empires they have in possession,
If void of the fame,
Of that noble name,
Of a free and an accepted Mason.

IV

It is ancienter far
Than other arts are,
Surpassing each other profession:
There's none can pretend
To discover a friend
Like a free and an accepted Mason.

V

The world is amaz'd,
Their wonder is rais'd
To see such concurring relation
Among us: they cry,
The devil is nigh,
When one is accepted a Mason.

VI

But let them say on;
To us 'tis well known
What's true or false in the relation:
Let's drink his health round,
That is secret and sound,
And a faithful accepted Mason.

On receiving a Compliment from the Right Honourable the Lord Kinnaird.

While sullen cares my sinking mind o'erflow,
Yet in my breast warm emulations glow,
Still pregnant with what I can ne'er express,
To wit, the tribute of my thankfulness,
Your Lordship's due: your bounty merits more
Of grateful wishes than I have in store.
My words, my wishes, and my earnest pray'r,
Is what your Lordship evermore shall share.
Could these ought add to your true happiness,
The good of heav'n and earth you would possess;
And, as a blessing, Heaven your life would lend
A longer date, to be a poor man's friend:
And when death call'd, your soul would mount above
The starry orbs, to reign in bliss with Jove
May these be yours; and you a patron shine
In ev'ry thing that's noble and divine!
May all the blessings of the poor await
To introduce you at the heav'nly gate!
There, in return of all your gen'rous deeds,
Find happiness that human thought exceeds!

And here your famous name around the plain,
While time remains, still sweet and fresh remain!
The poor shall weep when you're 'mong saints preferr'd:
And say, oh, for another Charles Lord Kinnaird!

My weak endeavours shall be still to show
How I'm attach'd, what gratitude I owe
For your high bounty: and my rural pen,
In humble verse, shall shew I still remain,

Your Lordship's most grateful, Most humble, and most Obedient servant, ALEX. NICOL.

An ELEGY on auld Use and Wont

The EPITAPH.

Here lies auld honest Use and Wont,
Which loss we never will surmount
As lang as time remains; her death
Will to all ranks be meikle skaith.

Oh Scotland! Scotland! hae ye not,
Though ye have stupidly forgot,
Ye have avow'dly cut the throat
Of Use and Wont;
And brought upo' you sic a blot
You'll ne'er surmount?

Had Use and Wont been to the fore,
As she lies buried in her gore,
It had advantag'd Scotland o'er
Nae little luck:
But now, unless ye her restore,
Ye're a' mere muck,

I need nae say, 'tis o'er well kend,
What Use and Wont was to her end;
She was to church and state a friend
While in her health;
Frae father to the son descend
She made our wealth.

Now sin' auld Use and Wont's awa',
The clergy, that should people shaw
The gate to heaven, are wood wrang a',
They're sae divided;
Religion's toss'd like ony ba',
And fair misguided.

A race of kings have fill'd our throne,
Twa thousand years and mair bygone,
Descended a' hail sale frae one,
Fergus the first;
But now in Scotland we have none
Sin' Wont's deceast.

We had baith parliament and king
In our ain land, and ilka thing
That did fo'k good, and gar'd us sing
Wi' merry mood;
But now we a' may turn the spring
Sin' Wont is dead.

Our peers and gentry were content
To bide at hame and spend their rent:
But now to travel they are bent,
Baith ane and a';
And crack their credit ere they stint,
Sin' Wont's awa.

Our landlords did nae grudge to see
Their tenants thrive, grow rich, and free:
But now, gin they win ae babee,
Without remead,
Their rent is rax'd to a degree,
Sin' Wont is dead.

Pride was nae in our land sae rife,
Nor prejudice, envy, and strife,
'Mang nei'bours near, or man and wife;
A' did their best
To lead an honest moral life,
Till Wont deceast.

A farmer ween'd himself fu' bra',
When he had plaiden hose like sna',
A good gray hodden coat, and a
Grey plaid aboon,
Warm mittens on his hands, and twa
Strong pointed shoon:

But now ilk chiel that wins a fee,
Maun hae bra' blues; and wha but he?
Wi' buckles at's neck, feet, and knee,
Well scour'd and clean,
As new coach harness use to be;
He looks nae mean.

Our lairds and lords, yea e'en our king,
For garb sought never ony thing
But what our ain land forth did bring;
Ladies, and a'
For foreign fegrims did nae fling
Their gou'd awa'.

We sought nae foreign wines nor tea,
Nor rum, nor brandy, o'er the sea;
Good hailsome whisky ay took we
To gust our gums;
We car'd nae scantly ae babee
For o'er-sea drams.

While Wont winn'd here a living wife,
Our gou'd and silder were as rife
As coals are in the shire of Fife;
But sin' she's dead,
There's mony leads a silly life,
Right scant o' bread.

While Use and Wont winn'd in thir lands,
We had nae use for bills nor bands;
All bargains stood by shaking hands,
Or prolling thumbs:
But now, without them, naething stands;
Bargains or sums.

We had baith gou'd and silder mines,
And poets too that cou'd mak' lines,
And some as honest sound divines
As ither nations;
But now our land its beauty tines
Wi' unca fashions.

Our brousters made good nappie ale,
And sald it cheaper a good deal,
And ane then got far better sale,
Than now some twa:
But now the drinking trade maun fail,
Sin' Wont's awa'.

For taxes on our ale and maut,
And on our tallow, hides, and saut;
And mony wrangs, besides a' that,
I'll no descrive:
But Wont thae things wou'd regulate,
Were she alive:

Our ancient rights and liberties,
And courts of our regalities,
Our sheriffs, stewarts of a' degrees,
Baith ane and a',
Great men's superiorities,
Wi' Wont's awa'.

Our land is now skier naked made;
Not ane auld gun, or rusty blade,
Is left us now to save our head
When danger comes;
Our faes of us naething may dread,
Except our bums.

Our native garb aside is laid,
The ancient tartan coat and plaid;
Nane o' them a' dare now be had,
Sin' Wont's awa';
Poor Scotland now maun a' be sway'd
By English law.

But Use and Wont, like mortals a'
Must unto death a victim fa':
I leard it had been ither twa;
But what remead?
That honest heart is e'en awa';
Alas, and dead!

An ELEGY on Johnie Galla'.

The Epitaph of Johnie Galla',
A singular and antique fallow;
Wrought without tyring, fed wi' pleasure,
Despising honour, pomp, and treasure.
Of all e'er wore a liv'ry coat,
He was the mirror without spot.
Though here he lyes in dust, yet he
Shall live in this his elegie.

Inhabitants of Rossie, now
Doubtless your tears are not a few;
John Galla' ye nae mair can view,
Without remead:
He's tane his last good night o' you,
Alas! and died.

He was a servant neat and tight,
Baith leel, and trusty, and upright:
His master's turn he cou'd nae slight;
Nor was he sweer,
Either by day or yet by night,
This mony year.

He kept the doors baith snug and clean,
And a' things feat as a new prin:
Baith ear' at morn, and late at e'en;
He never tyr'd:
His equal's scantly to be seen;
Yet he's expir'd.

His feet sae harness'd on the soles,
That he could tread on burning coals:
It set him well to smile at droles,
And shake his head:
Well cou'd he purge the scuter holes:
But now he's dead.

His doublet brisk fac'd up wi' red,
And well cock'd hat upon his head;
He by his mein might seem to lead
The British force;
His aspect look'd sae fierce and dread,
On foot or horse.

When he was mounted on a beast,
Don Quixote was to him but jest:
For ilka squire wou'd have embrac'd
Him for a knight;
If he had been in harness dress'd,
And armour bright.

Though he was fit for actions brave,
He did nae lord it o'er the lave,
Nor like ambitious fools behave;
But wi' mair wit,
In sober mood, with visage grave,
Did ay submit.

He took his lot just as it came,
Nor fate nor fortune did he blame;
Untouch'd by a revengefu' flame,
Or jealousie:
This character was ay his aim,
Fair honestie.

Like him at weddings wha cou'd dance,
Sae nimbly in the ring advance?
He gar'd his metal-buttons glance,
Like fire and tow;
And kiss'd the lasses as by chance
They came in's row.

Well cou'd he waught at ale or beer;
And gar fouk swelter, laugh, and sneer,
When he the lasses but came near,
And mint'd to kiss:
But now he wins nae langer here,
Ah, and alas!

Now, wha will manage his wheel-barrow,
Sae fairly drive the plow and harrow?
Malicious thoughts he did debar a',
And vengefu' feud:
Behind he has nae left his marrow;
But now he's dead.

The geese and swine will miss him sair,
He gae them curns of pease and bear:
Of out-things he took special care:
And a' he said
Was simple truth, and naething mair:
But now he's dead.

The church's odd debates he shun'd,
And was nae at state factions stun'd:
He laid nae stress on monie's fund;
But e'en jogg'd on,
Judging plain dealing surest ground
To walk upon.

Sure his religion was the best,
Unstain'd wi' envy or contest:
'Mongst other things that he profest,
He was intent
To take his victuals, and his rest,
Wi' free content.

He made nae whining fair profession,
To raise his pastor's expectation,
That he was working for salvation,
Like hypocrites:
Against him never court nor session
Gave out decreets.

He was nae drunkard, nor a glutton;
Yet he could taste good ale and mutton:
The world he valued not a button,
That is well kent:
Nor had he change of suits to put on,
Yet ay content.

He was a subject in his station,
Loyal as any in the nation,
And well behav'd in his vocation,
And was indeed
The quite reverse of affectation:
But now he's dead.

He neither spent his time nor money
In courting lasses, black or bonny;
He never ca'd them Dear nor Honey,
When in his prime:
Good truth they were a' ane to Johnie
At ony time.

There's nane can ban his banes when rotten,
For gear he had that was ill-gotten:
He'd rather that he had been sodden,
Hale in a kettle;
Or in some desert lyen forgotten
Under a nettle.

He died in nae choleric pet,
Nor was his stomach overset,
Nor age nor labour made him fret:
But death unseen
Came sliding in when it was late,
And clos'd his een.

100

When on his tae side like a lamb,
Death wi' a sweat, baith cauld and clam,
Soon smoor'd out a' the rudy flame
That life express'd;
While in a grouffing easy dwame
He slept to rest.

Thus Johnie died withoutten pine;
And was well row'd in linen fine.
Ilk ane that kend him, cry'd, Oh whine,
Poor Johnie's dead!
Nane 'tween St Johnstoun and the Skrine,
Can fill his stead.

Right was he in a coffin laid,
Like ane of qualitie array'd:
In caps good ale and brandy gade,
Just like dub-water;
That gar'd the carlins crack that stay'd,
And nonsense clatter.

Nae little honour was conferr'd
Upon him when he was interr'd:
Nane o' the company deferr'd
To see it sae;
But when they came to the kirkyard,
Ilk ane look'd wae:

And as a sign he was respected,
There was nae ane call'd, that neglected
To come just at the time expected;
Nor did they part
'Till they his grave-stane had erected,
A' griev'd in heart.

He buried was within the night,
Wha hang out a' her torches bright:
Wow! they shin'd dowie at the sight,
And unco blae;
For Phœbus had withdrawn his light,
He was sae wae.

101

Then all, as men discreet and wise,
Cry'd “Poor man, in his grave he lyes:
“Though we should greet out of our eyes
“The brinish tear;
“Yet fate, alas! to us denies
“His presence mair.

“Sin' he sae honestly is laid
“Now in his grave, it may be said,
“'Tis nature's debt that maun be paid
“Wi's a' as well:
“Let's try if we'll by Bacchus' aid
“O'er grief prevail.”

Then back they went to Rossie green,
Where at the first they did conveen:
They drank his dredgie late at e'en,
Ilk ane cap out;
Nae dool nor dolour mair was seen,
But health about.

An EPISTLE, from Mr D--- L--- Schoolmaster at Kinnaird, to Alexander Nicol Schoolmaster at Collace, February 3d 1749; on seeing my last book, called Nature without Art.

Dear Sandy, when I saw thy book,
And gat a grip o't i' my cluik,
I read it o'er into the nook
On ilka e'en;
But in little langer than an ouk,
I tir'd my een.

Thou chief art of the poets a';
Thy verses they are unca bra,'
And in them there is not a flaw.
To be discern'd
By eyes of mine; and I hae twa
Wi' which I learn'd:

102

And wi' e'm I'd be glad to see
The man that penn'd the book for me;
But ah, alas! where can he be,
In what'na' place?
Some tell me that his dwelling's nie,
Up at Collace.

Which tho' it binnae far awa',
Alas! the gait I dinnae knaw,
Nae farther up than Sunnie ha';
Then pardon me,
Altho' I never came ava'
To visit thee.

This trash I'm sure when ye inspect,
Its filthiness will make you yeck:
But to the dult please, Sir, direct,
To Kinnaird straight;
Where he an answer will expect,
Baith right and taight.

In verse acrostic my name I thought to sen';
But waes me now, a hair is in my pen.

This, with my compliments to you and your spouse, is from, Sir, Your humble and obedient servant, D--- L---, A. B. Teacher of the school of Kinnaird.

Alexander Nicol's Answer to the foregoing Epistle, February 6th 1749.

Sir,

The next day after Candlemas,
I yours receiv'd in a Scots dress;
A hantle war's gane to the press,
As witness mine;
On whilk ye'd little wit to stress
Your twa good een.

103

Anes in a day, when I was young,
If ony chiel my praise had sung,
I'd like a travel'd tailor flung,
And been right vain;
But now wi' eild, alas! I'm dung,
And blunt's my pen.

Whereas you say, You dinnae knaw
Nae further up than Sunnie ha';
I think ye've a Scots tongue to ca'
At towns and speer;
And some good body wou'd you shaw
The hie gait here.

Besides, you say, Your verse is trash;
To praise them here I sanna fash:
But I's be whipped wi' a lash,
Twice ilka day,
If Allan Ramsay made nae cash
O' war' nae they.

Now, sin' my answer ye expect,
I've ventur'd on't for manners sake.
Excuse my muse, now auld and weak
And rusty grown;
Tho', to say truth, she in effect
Was ne'er high flown:

For latin, logic, greek, nor grammar,
I dinna hae: and tho' I stammer,
Against me ye need raise nae clamor,
But e'en forbear;
For my dull Muse would need a hammer
To gar her steer.

But yet I wou'dnae for a colt,
Say, or hae't said, I were a dult:
I'd lend my Muse a hearty scult,
And gar her trot;
Let right or wrang be the result,
I'd valu't not.

104

As custom is my compliment,
I send to you tho' unacquaint;
Wi' you I wou'd be well content
To spend a gill,
When I come shortly, after Lent,
Down the Bought-hill.

In verse acrostic ye intendit
To write your name, and to me send it:
May be I might had quite miskend it,
And smoor'd your wit;
Our correspondence then had endit.
E're it took foot.

Now take the hair out of your pen,
And anes mair try the rhyming strain;
For I right fickle was and fain,
To be sae rous'd,
By ane wha never did me ken,
Sae seldom us'd.

Your second essay I expect;
For if I had it to inspect,
It would revive my intellect,
That's dull and heavy;
And that wou'd gar me hae respect,
For dainty Deavy,

While Alex. Nicol.

James Ratcliff's Retreat from the Prison of Edinburgh, Monday 23d of July 1739, he being to be hanged the Wednesday after:

A SONG.

I

I as in bedlam, was confin'd
A prisoner in chains;
And unto death I was design'd,
Had I not taken pains.

105

I saw the hour of death approach
Unto me very nigh:
But now I'm free of that reproach;
That cursed death I fly.

II

Farewell, prison-house, I now
No more in you remain;
Ye iron fetters all adieu,
I think the day's my ain:
Farewell ye magistrates, and all
In fair Edina's town;
I value not, nor never shall,
Your judgment, sword or gown.

III

But be advis'd by me, I pray,
Your prison better watch,
Upon the next comes in your way,
Since I have made dispatch.
Since I'm out of your confines, I
Rejoice and bless the night,
Wherein I had the liberty
To take my farewell flight.

IV

Tence now, ye sullen fears of death!
I'm now beyond the pow'r
Of that call'd justice; and my breath
It cannot now devour.
In mercy Heaven grants respite
To some that's doom'd to die;
The which with praises I'll requite,
While I triumphing fly.

V

Grass-market is not now my dread,
Nor yet the fatal tree:
It surely is the place of blood,
But so 'tis not to me.
Let murderers and perjurers
Have still it in their due;

106

But let stout-hearted pilferers
Their liberties pursue.

VI

I never did the poor oppress,
But those that had to spare,
I thought it no unrighteousness
The same with them to share.
But many landlords in the land
Oppress with tyranny
The poor; and yet they safer stand
Than gen'rous knaves like me.

VII

Dalgliesh, that dog, no doubt would have
His trade still going on;
He thought to send me to my grave;
For pity he has none.
But now, I think, he's mumpt of me,
And may go hang himself:
I'll triumph o'er him and the tree,
Had I some little pelf.

VIII

But now I have not time to stay
To tell you all my mind;
Lest I should by too much delay
Your tyranny more find.
Let magistrates and judges both
With anger gnaw their nails:
It is best-sailing, by my troth,
When wind fills up the sails.

A SAPPHIC ODE.

I

Fairest angel, sweetest creature,
Loveliest dearest thing in nature;
Tell me, tell me, why that heart,
Which can fiercest flames impart,

107

And those eyes so vastly bright,
Flaming with excessive light,
Neither vows nor pray'rs can move,
Nor the pleasing joys of love.

II

Deep despair, and wasting sighs,
Caus'd by your celestial eyes;
Restless nights and pining grief,
Yet no prospect of relief;
Frightful dreams, distracting woes,
And each pang a lover knows,
Break my quiet, rack my breast,
Chasing thence each milder guest.

III

Such a radiant form as thine,
Sure the gods could ne'er design,
Rude Tay's rumbling stream to grace;
Or create so fair a face,
'Midst eternal snows and frost,
To each social pleasure lost;
Or e'er place so bright a star,
In so low, so wild a sphere.

IV

No, another fate is due,
Brightest seraphim, to you;
All the rapt'rous joys that wait
On the blessed nuptial state;
Ev'ry pleasure that can move,
Or incite the soul to love;
Ev'ry gift the world can show,
Or the heavenly pow'rs bestow.

V

So the fam'd Cyprian dame,
Which now sets the world in flame,
Lost 'midst shatter'd ruins lay,
And had never bless'd the day,

108

Till great Cosmo's searching eye
Did the latent marble spie;
Ravish'd saw, with joyful eyes,
The fair polish'd wonder rise.

The Venus of Medicis, found by Cosmo Duke of Tuscany.

A SONG, Tune Allan Water.

I

As charming Phillis, all alone,
Walk'd on the banks of Illa water;
The fish up to the surface came,
The birds on ev'ry tree did chatter:
All join'd so in the harmony,
As if it was by them concerted
How to engage her to the place,
Or how she should be there diverted.

II

So slowly flow'd the gentle stream,
As if it meant she should discover,
By its aversion to depart,
How much it also was her lover.
But when press'd on by the next wave,
Which also made all haste to have her,
It mourn'd and murmur'd all along,
That it should be constrain'd to leave her.

III

Then Phoebus lifted up his head
To see this much admired creature,
He blush'd that she shou'd him exceed,
And spread his rays o'er ev'ry feature;
Thinking, that by his scorching heat
He should have made those eyes to cover,
That him of light and life defeat,
And make each creature her fond lover.

109

IV

But whilst she thus did him attack,
The nimble deer came out to meet her,
And to their silent shades and groves,
With all their art they do invite her.
With armed heads, and winged heels,
So cheerfully they trip'd before her;
And when she stood, they stopp'd and gaz'd,
As if they humbly would adore her.

V

By accident I passed by,
While thus each creature she alarms;
None was more captivate than I,
Nor more engaged to her charms:
I fix'd mine eyes on ev'ry part,
And then I turn'd them up to heav'n,
Wishing the gods may send relief,
To cure the wound that she had giv'n.

A POEM on R--- H--- of South-Ballo.

Let valiant heroes glory o'er the dead,
And in triumph their conquer'd captives lead;
Let bribes in courts the covetous allure,
And misers hoard in bags their cash secure;
Let lawyers lead their clients to expence,
And wrangling clergy dispute for the sense;
Proud haughty beaux expose their foolishness,
Oppressors all within their pow'r distress;
Lovers for gold instead of beauty pant;
And debauchees drink, whore, and swear, and rant;
Improvers, architects, and foreign scums,
From landlords wheedle many needless sums;
Let poets write strange hyperboles of praise
On silly wretches, worthy of no lays,
Or write heroic numbers on the wars,
Intending to describe European jars:

110

But me, let me, in low plebeian verse,
The works and merits of a friend rehearse,

And were it in my small engine to raise
Bright and heroic strains in Ballo's praise,
I would not grudge either my pains or time,
To furnish out the most delightful rhyme.

The Fates concurr'd with Nature, both exert
Their skill in forming of a man expert,
Complete in body, more complete in mind,
Surpassing many of the human kind:
For who could trace him from his birth and cradle,
Till he became a man to mount a saddle,
Might see his embryo fancies quickly grow,
Unto a pregnance, yea, an overflow.

Thus Jove's own brain one time so pregnant grew,
That to get ease the god himself not knew;
Till Vulcan came, and daring with his hammer,
Gave him a blow that made his godship stammer;
And cleanly cleft his ripen'd brain in two,
Whence out in haste the armed Pallas flew.

Just so, when time had Ballo's fruitful thought
To perfect rectitude and ripeness brought,
A thousand schemes, each justling to get vent,
Oppress'd his brain, all pleading his consent.

Some bid him travel: others, arts pursue:
Some to the court his politics to shew:
Some bid him try the martial feats of war;
For there, there only same and honours are:
Men seek by these for an immortal name,
That after-ages may their deeds proclaim.

But he, delib'rate, saw the ills that might
Upon such vain aspiring mortals light:
The trav'ller often in his journey dies;
And fame oft from the proudest warrior flies;
Artists find small encouragement oft-times;
Courtiers detect'd for some inglorious crimes.

Thus he survey'd the scenes of life; and bless'd
The country life, as judging it the best.

111

Thought he, What's honour or wide-mouth'd renown,
The dignity and glory of a crown,
Guarded by foes, at best but seeming friends,
Pretending such for base sinistrous ends?
While I contented and securely sleep,
Needing no centinels my life to keep:
Good angels guard my chamber all the night,
And early cock proclaims approaching light:
Up with the sun, I and my rural train,
Each to their labours, some to plow the plain,
Some thresh the corn, others do dung prepare,
Plying each season of the wheeling year.
What life more sweet, enjoying more content,
Than when the farmer views his meadows, pent
With various flow'rs, which ev'ry now and then
Nod with sweet zephyrs puffling o'er the plain?
Nor need I be less famous, if I please,
Than potentates, e'en kings, and great grandees.

Thus after chusing of a farmer's life,
Bless'd with a virtuous and a loving wife,
His fruitful thought with ease began to play
Upon his buildings seeming to decay:
The muddy walls he tumbled down, and threw
Them into dunghills, straightway building new.

But to describe the schemes and plans he laid,
The thousandth part by me cannot be said;
Improvements, buildings, plantings, these declare
What mighty feats by him performed were.

ACROSTIC.

Revere ye Muses, and exalt the name
Of a bright patriot; and let the same
Be grav'd on brass and marble, that it may
Endure till time thro' waste of reign decay.
Review his worth, his works and management,
The curious buildings with their ornament;

112

How beautiful the lofty summits rise
Upon firm bases, and invade the skies;
New culture shews a landskip fruitful fair;
The barren heaths and rugged mountains bear
Elms, ash and fir, and hedges young enclose
Rich fertile plains, where corn in plenty grows.

Old men shall say, in time to come, that these
Fair buildings, and these stately rows of trees,

Set were and builded by a farmer's hand,
Of curious thought, whose name should fairly stand
Within Fame's temple, wrote in purest gold,
Till latest ages wond'ring hear it told.
His vast performance here not only shines,

But mighty floods shall bear them to the Indes;
A thousand things he curiously hath wrought,
Lay open to the world his fruitful thought;
Lavishly Nature her rich gifts bestow'd
On him, till they in ev'ry part o'erflow'd.

A Remark on the Poverty of Poets.

If poverty that virtue had
That it all poets perfect made,
I would be one as good as any;
For often I have not a penny;

Yea more sublime drown'd o'er the head
With debt, and pinching want of bread:
If these be the unerring muse,
I have the bays none can refuse.

The Complaint of a Lark directed to a great Lion: A Fable; occasioned by another Lion being influenced by some evil Speaker, to suspect the honesty of the Lark.

Sir,

I'm oblig'd, in bitterness
Of soul, to utter my distress,

113

Not unto you, but to all those
That know me, whether friends or foes.
Let my complaint with echoes sound,
With doleful notes to all around,
That all, whoever heard my name,
May judge how far I am to blame.

I'm blam'd, tho' guiltless, for a crime
I know no more of, than the time
When I'm to die: and oh! 'tis hard
To be from my best friend debar'd
By scandalous reports, the which
My very heart and vitals touch.
All birds and beasts, yea, and the best,
Their friendship unto me express'd,
And gave me good encouragement
If I did either sing or chant:

But now I'm ruin'd, and my name
Must sink with dire reproach and shame.
Because my friend, like Phœbus fair,
Doth influence each other star,
Who in conjunction will unite
To make my misery complete.
But my once worthy friend I'll not
E'er brand with such a nasty blot,
As for to say, or think, that he
Would take a prejudice at me:
Except some devil's imp of hell,
In wickedness that must excel,
To him had represented me
In such a scandalous degree.

Therefore this one thing shall I say,
As Jove's to judge the world one day,
The wretch that scandal'd me at first,
Escapes fair, if he's not accurs'd.

'Tis true to my experience
I never knew such exigence
As the last winter all my life,
Having five young ones and a wife,

114

But little income easy spent,
Yet never seem'd I discontent;
For if the sun did warmly blink,
Up in the air then would I clink,
And there chirp o'er a song of praise
To Jove in hopes of better days.
Tho' many time, as I'm a sinner,
I left my little homely dinner
To distribute among the rest,
And made diversion all my feast,
And slept for supper; seldom more
I eat but once in twenty four:
Yet none without my nest e'er knew
Whether my tripes were toom or fow.

Had it not been my gentle heart,
I had not acted such a part,
If I had to my friend reveal'd
What I industriously conceal'd:
For certain he some oars had laid
Some support for me to have made;
For many time, when unexpected,
Something for me he has collected;
Reliev'd me when in many strait.
But now, how wretched is my fate!
My name is torn, my friends are lost;
Now what remeed? despair I must.
Oh vengeance, vengeance, Heav'n take
Upon the wretch that first did make
My friend my honour to suspect,
And me with prejudice neglect!

When I think on the defamation
Of my good name, a perturbation
And agony sets all my soul
In fever like a burning coal:
It galls me to the heart to think
That e'er my character should shrink;
For tho' I am of low extraction,
I ever had the satisfaction,

115

So far back as tradition traces,
Or man remember can the faces
Of my progenitors, was not
In all our characters a blot.
Tho' I'm a poor and simple lark,
Yet all that know me can remark,
I love my honour and good name,
As the proud hero does his fame;
And all my intimate acquaintance
Will as soon trust that lofty mountains
Can be thrown down into the sea,
As there's dishonesty in me.

Besides, the crime I'm charg'd with may
Be seen, as clear as light by day,
To be as false an accusation
As e'er was heard of in the nation:

For my good friend had in his house
A tame she-fox, that did abuse
Him by imbezzlements; 'tis said
That I with her connivance had.

But none of all the feather'd kind
Was ever with false foxes join'd,
Especially the lark, a bird
That none offends by deed or word.
Our rules of life are innocent,
Not justly suff'ring detriment:
For in the morning when we rise
We soar aloft among the skies;
There chearfully we sing Jove's praise,
With warbling notes and easy lays;
We've gratitude, and pure good will
Towards our benefactors still;
We know no flatt'ry, fraud or guile,
Our fellow-creatures to beguile:
Ambition fires our little souls,
That lifts our thoughts above the poles;
So that we scorn that dirty way
That mankind call dishonesty.

116

Tho' I, of all the choir, myself
Am but a senseless silly elf;
Yet I defy all living creatures,
Tho' of the most malignant natures,
To prove in justice black's my eye
Relating to fair honesty.

I love my friends and benefactors,
And I forgive all my detracters;
Disdaining, as below me far,
Envy at any one to bear:
For ne'er a forest bird or beast
More gen'rous spirits e'er possess'd.

Perhaps by this I may offend
Him who was once my worthy friend:
But let him think in sober mood,
If wronged innocence be rude
To clear itself, when so put to it,
What blockhead is he would not do it?

I would not for broad Britain's rent
Defame a creature innocent,
Tho't were below my rank as far
As my old friend's superior.

'Tis murder, in the worst degree,
Thus to defame a creature free:
For me I'd rather choose to die,
Than to survive my honesty.

But the event I must refer
To mighty Jove, who cannot err,
Who governs all sublun'ry things,
And turns the hearts of mighty kings;
Therefore his mercy I'll implore,
Who can my innocence restore,
And will against that wretch declare
Dire vengeance, horror and despair,
That causeth my disquietude:
But my complaint I must conclude.

117

The MORAL.

Some are so bad they will not stand
E'en the most innocent to brand;
And when themselves are guilty found,
Their neighbours they will also wound;
And all men credits that report
That tends towards their neighbour's hurt.

The Cat and the Ape. A Fable.

A child, on a time as he sat at his dinner,
By an ape and a cat was attack'd in this manner:
These animals both fast to him approach'd,
And first on the elbow him gently touch'd,
To curry his favour, but chiefly to gain
Some part of his dinner their lives to sustain.
Both us'd their endeavours to gain the child's heart,
And make him with some of his victuals to part.
Puss simply purring as her natural song,
Stroak'd his hand with her head, while her tail swept along
His mouth and his nose: which when he had done
A small bit he gave her, and bade her begone.
The ape, hunger-bitten, was mov'd with envy
'Gainst puss, whom he seemingly lov'd formerly:
He thought it high time both to speak and to act,
If he ought of the child's dinner should make.

“That base ill-bred badrons (then said the false ape)
Attacks my dear child in too rustic a shape:
She can teach you nothing that you stand in need,
Except it be rubbing your hand with her head.
Be ruled by me, my dear child, if you can,
I'll teach you to mimic the deeds of a man;
I'll teach you to climb, to leap and to scratch,
And fifty fine things in a moment dispatch.”

Ambition puffs up the poor child to believe;
Not doubting or dreaming that he did deceive;

118

He gave him his dinner: but when he was strute,
At the child's disappointment did both laugh and flout;
And told him his kyte was so cram'd with his victual,
At present he could not well show him his mettle;
You'll wait till I'm clunger; but take care of that,
Regard not the rubbings of badrons the cat.

The MORAL.

True honest simplicity never can gain
Such profits from mankind as flatt'ry obtain.

On seeing Smith and Craig's bantering Poems, anent the building of a School-house at Glenshie.

Long time I sought, at last did see,
Smith's poems he made in Glenshie,
Anent the building a school-house,
And fondly them I did peruse.

I found a whig call'd Jasper Craig,
Who with the lairds had made a league
To banter Smith out of his right,
And so with paper-balls they fight.

But Craig the Presbyterian clerk,
He has made very smutty wark;
For his expressions, so profane,
A Puritan's profession stain.

But the Episcopal's more modest,
And plainly tells him he's the oddest
For filthy words as one can hear;
They would offend a strumpet's ear.
Indeed the Black-Smith, as he names him,
With ridicule and banter shames him;
And proves him but a poetaster,
Although he be a Craig of Jasper;
And teaches him in poetry,
Where capitals should used be.

119

Shame to be thus reprov'd and taught
By one whom he had reckon'd naught.

But o'er the craigs and Highland hills,
Smith skips triumphing o'er their quills.
In satire no man dares come near him,
In Lyric strains they all admire him:
His panegyrics are so just,
That ev'ry reader praise them must:
And for an answer to a letter,
None of them all could give a better:
For ready wit and easy verse,
Craig like to Smith could ne'er rehearse:
So that for modesty and wit,
The Whig to Tory must submit.

Yet they had been both poets good,
Had not their subjects been so rude:
But true it is, for all their biting,
There never came fair words in flyting.

An EPISTLE to Mr Robert Smith Schoolmaster at Kinnaird, upon his saying he would not stay in the Place.

Kirk of Collace, April 30th, 1750.

SIR,

If you were not over nice,
I'd humbly offer my advice,
And it is shortly this;
Stay at Kinnaird, for I do think
You want not company and drink,
And all things at your wish.
Upon a bank, afore the sun
Your house is situate;
A purling stream that round it run,
Commodious I wat:
With respect to prospect,
You have the Carse all o'er,
By Tay-side, where ay tide
Flows twice in twenty-four.

120

You live hard by the orchard wall,
Where mellow fruit unshaken fall,
Just at your very feet;
An able house well thatch'd aboon,
A garden near to rest at noon:
What should move you to flit?
Flocks feeding on the mountains round,
Where lambs do skip and play;
The feather'd kinds their music sound
To waken up the day:
You view then the plowmen
All whistling pleasantlie;
There's nae thing, but ae thing,
You want to happy be;

And that's a wife, as I suppose,
That puts an end to lovers woes,
And calms the tide of life;
Which if you had, I dare well say,
You would not mint to go away;
Look out then for a wife:
And settle with your state content,
And tempt not Providence:
If you remove, you may repent,
Void both of peace and pence:
Neglect then, t'affect then,
Pride and inconstancie;
Engage in religion,
If you would happy be.

Your youth-hood makes you fickle yet,
And makes you your affections set
On vanity and gain:
But be advis'd to mortify
Your youthfu' laits by piety;
Ambitious to obtain
Eternal happiness at last,
When this frail body dies;
For pleasures here will soon be past;
All are but vanities.

121

Be plain then, remain then
Still in that hearty place;
Discerning youth's learning,
And your own growth in grace.

Your father's counsel keep in mind;
Let not thy brain be stuff'd with wind,
To drive you here and there;
Like empty clouds that soar aloft,
With ev'ry tempest tossed oft
With violence through the air.
Consider, that a rolling stone
Contracts but little fog;
There is a dub at ev'ry town,
At some a sinking bog:
Look out, then, about then,
And seek a pious maid,
Both homely and comely;
Then will your mind be stay'd.

This, with my hearty compliment,
I with the bearer have you sent,
That you may think upon it.
But yet 'tis scantly worth your pains;
'Tis the extract of wither'd brains,
A poor imperfect sonnet;
But you may trust 'tis from my heart
Whate'er I wish or say:
With you I have no will to part,
Therefore I wish your stay.
Admit, Sir, my wit, Sir,
Was never very meikle;
What then? I remain ay
Your servant
SANDY NICOL.

122

Mr Smith's ANSWER.

Sir,

Your letter I receiv'd of late:
But wow! it was lang after date,
Nae less than se'enteen days:
But when it came, I it perus'd,
And with attention thereon mus'd,
And ponder'd ev'ry phrase;
But yet I still am at a loss
An answer how to send,
Since to my muse 'tis sick a cross
To pen six lines on end;
She haults ay, with faults ay,
And canna' get 'em mended;
Ay skipping and hipping
The words I most intended.

So that I cannot be so kind,
As freely tell you all my mind,
In this my rustic strain.
But only for good manners' sake,
I've sent you here for to inspect
The product of my brain:
The which, no doubt, when you peruse,
You will not much admire;
But if you would lend me your muse,
My genius to inspire,
I then, Sir, would pen, Sir,
An answer that were better:
But fulness of dulness
My senses all do fetter.

Whereas, in yours, you counsel me,
In flitting not too rash to be,
But even to stay still
In this sweet place, as ye describe it,
Where all things are for me provided
According to my will:

123

But will with me's of more extent
Than ever I'll attain;
For which cause I must rest content
And think here to remain,
Ay grudging, and drudging
At my poor slavish trade,
Designing declining't,
If better might be had.

You say, a wife's the only thing
That I want here to make me sing,
And live most happily;
Which if it be, I'll look about,
And see if I can find ane out,
That will be fit with me
In sacred wedlock for to join,
And give to me her heart;
Then I'll be her's, and she'll be mine,
Ay until death us part.
If she then, shall be then
According to my mind,
I'll bless her, and kiss her,
And still to her be kind.

My resolutions now you've got;
But whether they be right or not,
I can't tell for my life:
But be's they will, if I be spar'd
But a short while into Kinnaird,
I'll look out for a wife;
Which if my fancy happen right,
And she do not despise me,
I will them bless, both day and night,
Who did at first advise me.
Excuse now, my muse now,
She has not meikle pith,
To write this, nor dite this,
Nor yet hath Robert Smith.

124

POSTSCRIPT.

If you think fit to take your pen,
And write me something back again,
I kindly will accept the same,
With a' my pith,
And so your servant I remain,
While Robert Smith.

Another EPISTLE to Mr Robert Smith.

February 23d, 1751.

SIR,

I see you haslins do incline,
That I should dig into the mine
Of my poetic brain:
But ah! 'tis a' sae overgrown,
And heaps of rubbish tumbled down,
By time's extensive reign;
That perfect mettle to find out
Would be an unca tawing,
'Twould surely cost me many rout,
Great threaping and hard thrawing,
While heching, and peching,
Because I hae nae pith,
To get, Sir, a bit, Sir,
To send to Robert Smith.

You see by this I'm out o' breath:
But, may be, you'll say, That's nae skaith,
By spending breath I live.
Sae is the fate of folk that's auld;
For young folk's clever, stout and bauld,
And will nae mainings give;
Therefore hae wi' ye o'er the hill,
Altho' it be wi' toil,
I'll do my best to shaw good will,
If't were but for a mile.

125

Ken auld dogs are bauld dogs;
They bite sair when they bite:
I'll try, then, if I then
Something to you can write.

I set my fancy on a tow'r,
And bade it round about it glowr,
Some subject to spie out,
That might be fit to send to you:
At last and lang ane came in view;
I caught it by the snout,
And drest it in my liv'ry syne,
And bade it come to you:
E'en take it, tho' it be not fine,
Tho' better be your due.
Uneasie to please ye,
I would do ony thing;
But musty and rusty
I am, and cannot sing.

But I'd say, I'm surpris'd to see
Sae many fools of ilk degree
Among the human race:
For, when I look the warld around,
I cannot see a man that's sound,
And wise in ev'ry case.
For viewing man when he's a child,
He can but girn and greet;
Or when a youth, he's very wild,
And often indiscreet;
Or when, Sir, a man, Sir,
He seldom is content
With what, Sir, good fate, Sir,
Has freely to him lent.

If he shall have a little more
Than what his father had before,
It puffs him up with pride:
For set a beggar on horseback,
The very first course he will tak,
He'll to the devil ride;

126

For beggars they can bear no wealth,
Nor rich to want submit;
And sickness frets the man of health;
For few or none have wit,
To spie out, and try out,
The vanity of things,
Whilk double the trouble
On silly mortals brings.

The worldling he torments himself
With anxious cares to gather pelf,
Perhaps for fremit heirs.
Th'ambitious cuts his way thro' all
Difficulties that may befal,
Thro' seen and unseen snares,
Aspiring to more high degrees
Of honour and renown:
Nor bloody wars, nor raging seas
Can cast his courage down;
Disdaining remaining
In any certain place;
Till he ay shall see ay
The upshot of the case.

The man of pleasure takes his ease;
And, all his appetites to please,
He spares no charge nor cost:
Ne'er minding he account must make;
Such is his folly and mistake,
He gratifies each lust.
Thus ev'ry mortal shews his folly
In less or more degree:
Some overjoy'd, some melancholly;
Some o'ers in all we see;
Exposing, supposing
Their folly to be wise;
While others, e'en brothers,
Such wisdom will despise.

For my part I can easy spy
A mote into my neighbour's eye,
While in my own's a beam;

127

Yet strength of logic never can
Convince me, that I am the man
For folly that's to blame.
As fools are wise in their conceit,
E'en so is all mankind;
As when we reason make submit
To passions of the mind;
'Tis common, that few men
Can their follies spy;
Too late they regrete, ay,
When 'tis past remedy.

I have no time here to enlarge
Upon the follies that I charge
Against the human race:
But as I said, I cannot spy,
In no where that I cast mine eye
One wise in ev'ry case:
For youths they want experience,
Their wisdom is to learn:
And men use little diligence
True wisdom to discern:
The aged's engaged
With great infirmity:
No leisure for pleasure,
Nor wisdom, they can see.

The rich and poor, the high and low,
Respectively their follies show,
So that no man is wise.
The rich and great are proud and vain,
They look on poor men with disdain,
And them in heart despise.
The poor, again's not innocent,
For they're fill'd with envy;
They with their state are discontent,
And fret continually:
Ay grudging, and drudging,
To gain their daily bread;
All wholly in folly
Are plung'd quite o'er the head.

128

Yea, the religious and divines
True solid wisdom undermines,
Their follies glaring be;
For when opinions they espouse,
They tie themselves thereto by vows,
And strong, strong bigotry:
But some, for love of worldly gain,
Would make shipwreck of all;
As they for ever should remain
Upon this earthly ball;
Ne'er dreading, nor heeding.
How life-days slide away,
And death shall their breathes all
Cut, and in dust them lay.

Farewell, my friend: and if your Muse
Had but free scope, which ye refuse,
I would get something more.
But by this stanza I'm confin'd;
My Muse is also out of wind,
And trachl'd very sore;
Therefore upon another pitch,
Where freedom we may find
To write what we incline to touch,
And freely tell our mind.
Adieu, then, to you then;
My Muse is tir'd and bruckle:
Yet duty to you, too,
Obliges Sany Nicol.

The PETITION of Alexander Nicol. Schoolmaster at Collace, to the Honourable Sir William Nairn of Dunsinnan Baronet.

Honourable Sir,

'Tis kend to many far and near,
Th'improvements I have made while here
On yard and biggings baith:

129

And for my land, I'm very sure,
By the one half 'tis not sae poor;
Yet 'tis not free of skaith:
For neighbours that ly round about it,
Have par'd it sait awa';
It is sae little that I doubt it,
That 'tis not right at a':
If ye then, to me then,
Would tell what should be o't,
Wi' pleasure, I'd measure't,
And see if 'tis right or not.

But the main thing I mostly want,
Is what, Sir, you can easy grant,
And I'm no right without it;
That's summer-pasture for my cow,
The whilk, Sir, if I get frae you,
I'll pay't, you need not doubt it.
Near by me, Sir, you know you have
Some rigs to others set;
Some part thereof is what I crave,
For payment I may get:
'Twould please me, and ease me
Of much difficulty:
Sir, grant it, I want it,
And beg it earnestly.

As for my house, 'tis shame to see't,
And I am almost herried wi't,
'Tis war than a sheep-cot:
The windows give but little light,
Without a broad to shut at night,
To keep rough weather out;
The roof's sae bad, when rain dings on,
It draps through ev'ry place;
And for the space of six years gone,
Sir, this has been my case:
I find then, the wind then,
And rain dings out my light;
Believe me, it grieves me,
I'm aft a weary wight.

130

And I maun tell you what I think,
Though I had a' the meat and drink
You hae about Kirkhill,
And had nae other lodging-place,
Except the school-house of Collace,
It would be mis'ry still:
But your allowance, Sir, I doubt,
Has gone some other way;
What you bestow'd to make it out
Has been to knaves a prey;
And those men you chose, then,
To see the work well done,
Made slight things for right things,
And yet the price all one.

It is dependents' comfort sure,
When landlords do for them procure
Things necessary right:
And honours also doth accrue
To kind superiors as due,
And puts all grudge to flight.
I witness can and testify,
How gen'rously you did
Things of like nature rectify,
Where you concernment had;
And I can't deny but
That I was satisfied;
Which made me, to speed me,
Here in you to confide.

By these among whom I have been,
I'm bragg'd when they my house have seen;
They tell me to my face,
We thought Sir William would have giv'n
You something like a little heav'n
To live in at Collace:
We see your house is ten times worse,
Than what it was before;
'Tis neither fit for cow nor horse,
Butt window, roof, or door.

131

But I then, reply them,
Sir William knows it not,
Else he unto me would
Some better things allot.

But if I had things neighbour-like,
I with a kind of airy fyke,
Would brag them ane and a';
And on the matter look right vain,
And briskly show them but and ben,
My house just like an ha',
My yard, my barn, and my byre,
And little glebe of land,
And summer-pasture, though for hyre,
All under your own hand:
I'd then, Sir, maintain, Sir,
Your generosity,
No dominie that common be,
In better case than me.

My poor petition now you see:
And if you please to grant it me,
I would be well content;
If not, I'll seek some other place,
Though loth to leave you and Collace,
Sae lang as life's me lent:
For many years experience,
Your friendship I can boast;
And yet in you have confidence,
The same will not be lost.
If you, then, would bow then,
And grant me my request;
The favour would ever
Make me to wish you blest.

ALEX. NICOL.

132

An EPITAPH on Alexander Robertson of Struan.

Poor Struan's eyes are clos'd, he lies
Now in Death's darksome shade;
His chearful voice and mirthful joys
Are all in silence laid:
In this he err'd, that he preferr'd
The man he hated most,
To be his heir, and took not care,
Till his estate was lost.
He in his life had not a wife
Among the human race;
But the nine lasses of Parnassus
By turns he did embrace.
No children did from him proceed
Of the terrestrial kind:
But thousands stand in well-rang'd bands,
The produce of his mind;
These will show forth his fame and worth,
Through ages to ensue;
No time can waste, nor envy blast
A character so true.
What he desir'd, he ne'er acquir'd;
And that was once to see
Each ancient Lord to's own restor'd,
And James supreme to be:
But all may know, that here below,
None can be satisfied;
For all men wish some certain bliss,
That is by Heav'n denied.
But now his shade is from us fled,
And join'd the seraphs bless'd;
There to complete the numbers sweet,
That here he oft express'd.
Let Scotsmen all, both great and small,
Lament the death of Struan,
And ev'ry thing that seems to bring
About their country's ruin.

133

An ACROSTICK.

Push'd on by virtue, and industrious care,
As all men are in something singular,
The Fates agreed to favour each design
Remarkably that he did e'er incline.
In him the proverb's good to a great pitch,
Chiefly the hand that's diligent makes rich:
Keenly, by day, he and his servants wrought,

His sleep by night was banish'd oft by thought;
Unweariedly each day he did pursue
New schemes and projects that he had in view,
Till he made purchase of a good estate,
Each year still adding till it was more great:
Reverse of pride and churlishness, yet he

Observ'd the rules of mod'rate decencie.
Fortune smil'd on him with a full broad face,

Kindly caress'd him to his grave in peace.
No common man e'er such a figure made,
Admir'd by all; now his immortal shade
Pursues his active course where it is fled.

To the Memory of the Honourable George Hay of Leys, Esq

Gone then, great Hay! and shall my rustic Muse
A tribute to his memory refuse?
O Death, thy pow'r extensive is too far;
Thy sword devours in peace, as well as war:
Strange! that a tyrant should for ever reign!
All good and bad subjected to thy chain!
The brave and great, that mankind could defy,
Must in a moment, at thy pleasure die!
The peaceful, grave, and sober mortal must,
By thy austerity, be turn'd to dust!

134

Leys' brave ancestors stood the direful shock
At Loncarty, there thund'ring with the yoke
Regain'd the vict'ry, when it was near lost,
By turning back the fainting flying host;
Chear'd royal Malcolm's soul, who saw the day
Again restor'd by the undaunted Hay:
Yet these by thee, O cruel death, are slain;
But, spite of thee, their progeny remain.

Thou hast devour'd great Errol's house, 'tis true:
But yet the Hays thou never couldst subdue;
Kinnoul yet stands in honour and renown;
Antiquity thou never canst pull down.

Leys peaceful, grave, and sober; yet thy dart
Found out a path to pierce his honest heart,
And cut him down: but as the phœnix dies,
Another from her ashes doth arise;
So Leys, though dead, a progeny succeeds,
To represent their great ancestors' deeds.

What can we say? Sure there is not a soul
That can the pow'r of conqu'ring death controul:
All we can do, is to lament and grieve
That cruel death ev'n lets not good men live.

Leys, not less famous in a peaceful reign,
Than his progenitors in a campaign.
If he'd been call'd, his valour had been shown,
And made the Hero and the Patriot one:
But, as he liv'd in such a peaceful age,
More useful studies did his mind engage.

He seeing farmers at such cost and toil,
For little produce by a barren soil;
He taught them how to cultivate the same,
And thereby purchas'd honour, wealth, and fame.

Whereas Carse-farmers in the days of yore,
The more they toil'd, the less they had in store:
But now their wealth encreaseth with less pain;
Their barns enlarg'd cannot contain their grain:
All this is owing to the Laird of Leys,
By his example and his counsel wise.

135

But now no more he treads the fertile plain,
T'inspect the labours of the rustic swain,
Directing how fields should be till'd and sown,
Or when and how the meadows should be mown:
No more he calls the swains and maids at morn
To rise, and reap his fruitful fields of corn:
No more he orders how to sort each grain,
And tell what should to ev'ry rick pertain:
No more he sits with a devout decorum,
To judge as justice of the peace in quorum.
Doubtless his consort, with a grieved mind,
Laments an husband dutiful and kind:
Doubtless his children mournfully deplore
A prudent father, that he is no more:
No doubt his friends the sable garments wear,
And on reflection often drop a tear.
The church and state may mourn, since, to their cost,
They both in him a faithful member lost:
In him all men a good example saw,
Of frugal life, religion, and of law:
He made the wicked of their deeds asham'd,
And dread him, if they only heard him nam'd.
But so it is, that mortals all must die,
Some in their bloom, some in their infancy;
And some arrive at such old age, that they
Like to a lamp, for want of oil, decay:
Thus Leys expir'd in good old age; and ev'n
Belov'd of all, of God, and ta'en to heav'n:
There the reward of virtue he enjoys,
An endless bliss that neither fades nor cloys.

On Captain Balnave's being dangerously sick of a Fever at the time he should have been married; inscribed to his Lady afterwards.

Hail, welcome here, Largotion fair,
To be the mother of an heir;

136

An helper meet, and social friend
To him that has your favour gain'd:
But thanks to Cupid, for his craft,
That at the white so aim'd his shaft,
So that the whizzing arrow flew
Unerring in its path to you;
Insensibly the feather'd dart
Pierc'd thro' your young and tender heart,
And caus'd an easy restless pain,
That made you night and day complain;
Yet not in words, but in your thought,
'Till providence Alexis brought.

But Cupid he had cunningly
Took up his lodging in your eye,
And at first sight he unawares
With's arrow pierc'd the son of Mars.

Then honest Hymen standing by
Resolv'd to fix the nuptial ty,
To ease you both of future pain,
That you no longer might complain.

But all the nymphs, with envy cry'd,
When your felicity they spy'd,
We've lost Alexis, certainly;
Let's smite him now that he may die,
That so our sister-nymph, as well
As we, the smart of loss may feel.

When Mars beheld such insolence,
Such vi'lence to pure innocence,
He straightway to Apollo ran;
Said, Brother, come and see this man;
The Naiades and the wood-nymphs hath
Destroy'd him almost unto death:
Our sons on earth their skill have lost;
Come cure him up, whate'er it cost:
Then shall libations offered be
To Hymen, and to you, and me:
The lovely pair will us invoke,
And make our sacred altars smoke.

137

Then soon Apollo did apply
For him a present remedy,
And cur'd him up; the happy swain
Was perfectly reliev'd of pain.

Then golden Hymen brought his robe,
At which your virgin-heart did throb
With vigorous and gay desire,
That Hymen's torch doth still inspire.
Then he your hands and heart did join,
Both bowing to the sacred shrine.

Enjoy now as much happiness
As I can wish, or you possess.

Thus, Madam, here my tale I end,
Not wishing it would you offend:
May be indeed I've said o'er meikle,
Yet no ill's meant by Sandy Nicol.

On the City of DUNDEE.

Near where the Tay joins with the ocean wide,
Dundee's fair harbour stands on its north side,
Where ships of burden safely can repose,
While billows rise, and loudest tempest blows.

The ancient city, fam'd for arms and arts,
Parent of many that have shown their parts,
Nothing inferior to the world abroad;
Such to this city is the gift of God.

Dundee is peopled with a prudent race
Of wealthy traders, that enrich the place;
To strangers kind, and hospitably good,
With manly virtues almost all endu'd.

Where ancient buildings were by time defac'd,
More spacious new ones in their rooms are plac'd:
An ancient steeple rears its head on high,
O'erlooks the town, and penetrates the sky;
Strangers admire, when it afar they spy.
A new town-house, much like a palace fair;
None of its kind can with it once compare:

138

Their care and prudence did of old provide
An hospital for those that are decay'd;
Two ancient churches, decently decor'd
With all utensils necessar well stor'd.

Accommodations they have many now,
Which their ancestors ne'er so much as knew:
The water-works that turneth as they please
To quench with speed the flames devouring bleeze;
Lamps in the streets that give a splendid light,
Whereby we walk safe in the darkest night;
An ancient spring, whose streams long useless stray'd,
In leaden conduits now are all convey'd
From street to street, the cities multitude
By them's supplied with water fresh and good.

But ancient things commodious and great,
Buildings and wealth, these ne'er secure the state.
Where's Babel, Troy, and fam'd Jerusalem?
There's scarce a vestige to be found of them;
For pride and lust, and wretch'd idolatry,
Bloodshed and rapine, and proud tyranny,
Long since have made them in oblivion ly.

But, lo! Dundee's fam'd citizens have been,
Thro' ages past, for virtuous actions keen:
Their fervent zeal for pure religion shin'd,
And left the rest of Scotland far behind,
And with the work of reformation join'd.

Here virgin beauties, with such lustre shine,
That ev'ry charm about them seems divine:

Here virtuous matrons, chastly fix'd in love,
That to their husbands helps and comforts prove:

Here men of learning, honour and renown,
In ev'ry age, have grac'd this ancient town:

Hail, ancient city! citizens, all hail!
May ne'er your grandeur, wealth and honours fail!
Thy trade still prosper both by sea and land!
What-e'er you wish be still at your command!
Let your religion flourish still in thee,
Thy greatest glory since thou wast Dundee!

139

The BROKEN LAIRD REPAIR'D; OR, The DYVOUR turn'd a THRIVER:

A COMICAL TALE, IN FIVE CANTOS.

Happy the man, who, studying Nature's laws,
Thro' known effects can trace the secret cause;
His mind possessing in a quiet state,
Fearless of fortune, and resign'd to fate.
Dryden.

Persons in the Poem.

An old Gentleman and his Lady.
Waste-all, their child.
Laborious, their child.
Miss Jenny, their child.
Caution, tenant to the gentleman.
Auld use-and-wont, wife to Caution.
Secret, servant to Caution, in love with Miss Jenny.
Burgher, a rich merchant.
Trust and Outly, two creditors.
Tipple, wife to Laborious.
Miss John, the minister.

140

CANTO I.

You that in stories take delight
To pass the tedious winter night,
Lend your attention here a-while,
The sequel it will make you smile:

Pass by its faults with negligence,
And think the author wanted sense;
And look not on it as a crime,
What's usher'd in for sake of rhyme;
None can pretend all men to please:
But here it comes just as it is.

There was a gentleman of late,
Who had an opulent estate,
A virtuous lady, chaste and fair,
That did three children to him bear:
Two sons; as usual, the first-born
Was heir; the second had a turn
For husbandry and rural life,
But chanc'd to wed a tippling wife.
The heir was Waste-all nam'd; and he
Was justly nam'd so, as you'll see:
Laborious was the second's name,
Whose wife Miss Tipple must needs claim:

The daughter, youngest of the three,
Was beauty's perfect symmetrie.
No byass'd misconstructed blame
Could ever stain Miss Jenny's name.
Her careful pious mother taught her
All duties that became a daughter;
And she as willing to obey,
Receiv'd her precepts ev'ry day;
Till she arriv'd in the complex
The perfect mirror of her sex:

141

She could be chamber-maid and spinner,
And on a pinch could dress a dinner:
Thus, country-like, she did acquire
To manage both at barn and bire;
Yet could behave in her vocation
By the best born in the nation;
Of her, her father comfort had;
Her mother on her death-bed said,

“Your parents, Jean, you ne'er despis'd;
Therefore by me be now advis'd,
Ay learn to work, go where you will;
Can do, my dear, does seldom ill.
And for this reason we all know
All things are fickle here below:
Before you end your precious life,
You may become a farmer's wife;
Yea fortune may, if she's not kind,
Cause you to wed a lab'ring hind:
An idle life's unsafe and sinful,
But diligence is often gainful;
Pray for a blessing from above;
Submit to the good will of Jove;
Be ay content in poverty,
Grateful as in prosperity:
And when I'm sleeping in the dust,
You'll find my counsel good, I trust.”

Now mark what must not be forgot,
This worthy gentleman of note
Had an old tenant in his ground,
Whose counsel was ay safe and sound:
His name was Caution; and had long
Liv'd in the place: he was not young;
For I'm inform'd he was not under
Twelve years, of being ag'd two hunder.
It passes for a true relation,
That he's the oldest in the nation:
Some say Auld-wont his wife, was more,
Before she wed him, than six-score.

142

Be that as 'twill, I'm very sure,
They were no churls, nor were they poor:
They lov'd it well to see folk thrive:
They many children kept alive,
With bits and sops about their table:
As for the poor, that were not able
To work, they never went away
Without sufficient alms one day.

But some with grudging eyes beheld
His prosp'rous state, with envy fill'd,
Thus to insult the honest man,
In public companies began:

“There's Caution, tax-man of Burnhaugh,
Inclos'd with weeds of arns and saugh;
Securely sits both warm and dry,
Nothing oppress'd with poverty;
Yet he deals more unto the poor,
Than all the increase of our store:
And as an oracle of fame,
All fools admire his very name;
Yea, our good laird, though he be wise,
With wiser Caution must advise,
Concerning his rash son and heir,
That rambles wasting here and there;
Yet both their wits can ne'er contrive
A mean to make that young man thrive.”

Thus, when he heard their taunts about,
His patience was so much worn out,
That, like a clock run near the hour,
He did assume the speaking power.

“My friends, (said he), what though I be
A tax-man? doubtless so are ye;
Each of you in as good possession,
Though not content with your condition:
And what though I sit dry and warm?
Can that to you do any harm?
Use means, with frugal honesty,
And then you'll sit as snug as I.

143

'Tis true, and must needs be confess'd,
With poverty I'm not oppress'd;
But that's the blessing of kind Heav'n,
That to me such good luck has giv'n.
As for my giving to the poor,
More than the increase of your store,
I, by experience, see 'tis plain,
The more I give, the more I gain.
Ay since I held my tenement,
Each year thereof I paid my rent,
And had enough to give and take;
Which freely, for the Sender's sake,
I frankly dealt unto the poor,
That call'd for pity at my door:
Oft have I prov'd that true record,
Who gives the poor lends to the Lord;
But now there's few within the land
Will trust a farthing in his hand.

But some think neither sin nor shame,
To play some guineas at a game;
Or at horse-races wagers lay,
Which shall be foremost, black or bay:
And some to hunting are so glu'd,
And love so much the sport renew'd;
That they, to purchase dogs and hounds,
Will forfeit honour, wealth, and grounds.
Some love to gratifie their eyes
With new-form'd plans and rarities
Of building, planting: and there be
That study schemes of husbandrie,
Improving grounds to such a pitch,
Intending thereby to make rich;
Some venture on the mighty main,
Some unknown treasure to obtain:
Some face the awful scenes of war,
To gain the trophies of a scar;
Ambitious madness men pursue,
But there's but few, a very few,

144

That walk in any ways conform
To Heaven's laws, or them perform:
Few when they're blest with wealth in store,
Deign to take pity on the poor.

But Heaven's Judge, that judgeth right,
Seeing such wretches, in his sight,
Consume his lib'ral gifts to feed
Their lusts, while his poor people need
To be supplied; then will not he
On such at last avenged be?
Yea, we may daily see and hear,
That those in honour who shin'd clear,
The only top-props of the place,
Are turn'd to ruin and disgrace:
By the effects, I guess the cause
Has been their breach of Heaven's laws.
For those in the superior rank,
Do ruin inferiors point blank:
And equals, one another would
Devour with pleasure, if they could:
For pride, intemp'rance, and oppression,
Abound so much in all the nation;
Landlords oppress'd by government,
Make them again rax out their rent,
Their tenants to oppress; and they
Cause their sub-tenants to obey,
And serve with rigour at command,
Like Israelites in Egypt-land:
Like them they over-burden'd cry
To Heav'n against their tyranny.
Jove, who is an impartial Judge,
He hears the poor, he's their refuge;
And their oppressors will annoy;
And with just judgment them destroy.
Witness the late rebellion, which
Swept off oppressors poor and rich;
And if those that are left behind
Be to inferiors so unkind,

145

Just judgment sure will find them out,
And that ere long, I make no doubt.”

Then spake Laborious in a rage,
“Men have been plagu'd in ev'ry age,
With you, and scoundrels such as you,
Who 'bout nonsense make such a-do:
Such senseless tattling fools imagine,
That we know nothing of religion,
Because we don't observe the motions
Of their poor whining vulgar notions.
Your scoundrel kind, Sir, and the poor,
Are nations' plagues, I'm very sure;
For they're inclin'd to idleness,
Under pretences of distress;
And you, as senseless, them supply,
Under pretence of piety,
Such feigned hospitality
Is an inlet to villainy,
And gives encouragement to such,
As on the public would encroach,
Like drones that in the hive abide,
And eat what frugal bees provide,”

Then Caution said, “My friends, allow
That I but once more speak to you:
I only give what God gives me,
To those that are in poverty;
And by experience I perceive,
The more I give, the more I have:
While you, with all your frugal cunning,
Through various schemes and arts are running,
Contriving how you may oppress
The poor, and put them in distress;
And to maintain your pride and lust,
To ev'ry man you are unjust;
To brutes, and to the earth itself,
Intending to increase your pelf.
You think it good and lawful thrift,
The King and government to shift

146

Of their just tributary rent,
On cov'tousness you are so bent.

Your equals daily you envy,
Because they're not in poverty;
And if you can, by slight or might,
You will deprive them of their right.

As for inferiors, do you not
As much as if you'd cut their throat?
You daily in a study dive
How to cut off their means to thrive,
How to impair their privileges;
And with superior awe, obliges
Them rig'rously to serve, while you
Frown on them with contracted brow;
Coarse victuals, and not half you give,
Of what they were wont to receive.

As touching beasts, you over-drive them,
And often of their food deprive them;
Were't not their price you fear to lose,
Daily to death you would them toss:
Thus brutes feel your oppressing hand,
And grant to answer your command.

To earth unjust, like atheists, you
Manure, and dig, and dung, and plow;
Intending maugre Jove to have
More increase than you can receive.
There's scarce a bit of ancient swaird,
Which our forefathers ever spar'd
For common pasture to the poor,
But you must tear up and manure.
Such things as these you may approve;
But curs'd is he land-marks remove:
And, notwithstanding all the ways
You take to gain, your stock decays;
As witness ev'ry month we hear;
Yea, daily from the gazetteer;
Your fair estates expos'd to sale,
To keep your bodies out of jail.

147

By what is said, I don't intend,
The least among you to offend:
But truth is truth, think what you will;
I say no more; my friends, farewel.”

The end of the first Canto.

CANTO II.

When to the antipodes the sun,
With expeditious haste, had run,
And left our horizon to borrow
Light by reflection till to-morrow;
The lab'ring hinds from toil retire,
To rest and tattle by the fire,
And with the lasses interween
Their rustic sangs and jests between;
While burghers and rich farmers chuse
In taverns to tipple and carouse.

Our gentleman of whom we spake,
Another better course did take:
Rather than tipple at ale or wine,
He'd meditate on things divine;
How happy man was at the first,
And by what means he was accurs'd;
What mischiefs mankind had invented,
Since Eve their happiness prevented;
How mankind, worse than tygers, would
Devour each other if they could,
And for greed of this vain world's good,
Would shed each other's precious blood;
Like savage brutes of the male kind,
When they a lustful female find,
The strongest would destroy the rest,
To share alone the brutal feast.
While other gentlemen were plotting,
How oppression might get footing,
He, like a grave and sound divine,
To rules his conduct did confine:

148

From morning till it was near ten,
He gave himself to thinking; then
From that time, till it was near two,
His public matters did pursue:
From two to six the fields he walk'd,
And oft with honest Caution talk'd:
Then, chagrin humours to suppress,
He with his wife would play at chess;
And all the pledges that they laid,
Were easy won, and easy paid,
A bottle of good ale or beer,
With which the winner made good cheer;
A cheaper purchase drowth to quench,
Than rich Canary wines or punch.

But, as good men oft evil see
Before it come, e'en so did he:
He saw his son, with sad reflection,
So prodigal set on distraction,
That made him think 'twould be his fate
To waste and ruin his estate,
That he had scrap'd and kept together,
Like a discreet and prudent father.

Then to his virtuous spouse he said,
“My dear, when we in dust are laid,
That worthless wretched son of ours
So high above our income tow'rs,
He'll shortly make, for ought I think,
Our name and honour both extinct.”

Said she, “Good husband, there's no hope;
He must get leave to take his scope.
E'en let him drink as he is brewing;
He'll think on't when he comes to ruin.
Our frail and tott'ring bodies must
Within a little turn to dust;
Let worldly pomp and honours go,
Since Providence will have it so;
It will not break our hearts when we
The desolation shall not see.”

149

Thus were the ancient pair resign'd,
Because they could not change the mind
Of their untoward rakish son,
Who out of course so far had run.

Then the wise lady sent for Caution,
And told him that she had a motion
How to relieve her graceless son,
When he his outmost course had run:
But, “Honest friend, I know you must,
By course of nature, turn to dust:
You have a servant, as I hear,
Whose name is Secret, bring him here;
I will commit to him a letter,
Containing all the secret matter;
I'll take his oath that he'll conceal it,
And to no mortal e'er reveal it,
Until he see his extreme need,
Then may he break the same and read.

Then Secret came, to whom she gave
The letter seal'd, and bade him have
A special care to keep it close,
And unto none the same expose,
Until the time my son you see
In extreme need and misery.

“Madam, (said he), I shall obey
Whate'er your Ladyship shall say,
As I shall answer at the last
To heaven's Judge for what is past.”

Now Death approach'd the ancient pair;
They died, and left their rambling heir,
Who quickly wasted his estate,
And so involv'd himself in debt,
That night nor day he could not rest,
Pursu'd with captions, and oppress'd
To such a desperate degree,
He knew not how nor where to flee:
Two creditors, nam'd Trust and Outly,
Chas'd and assaulted him so stoutly,

150

That made him to appoint a day,
To give his whole estate away.

But, in the time of that respite,
He thought to put on them a bite;
And bargain'd with one Burgher, who
Inclin'd he should outwit them: so
Having agreed, he gave him all,
His rights and titles, great and small;
And so to make a full conclusion,
He gave him a sole disposition.

But, wicked chance! just in the nick,
As Burgher counted out his tick,
Trust and Outly came in view,
And forthwith to the table drew.
“Better (said they) to be a guest
At ending of a plenteous feast,
Than the beginning of a fray,
As we have been by chance this day.”

Then said rich Burgher, “All is one
To me, however way 'tis gone,
Th'estate is mine,—let Waste-all now
His nearest and best course pursue.”

Then Waste-all said, “Good Sirs be kind;
Since you to ruin me design'd,
You've got my 'state, now let me have
My bonds return'd, is all I crave.”

Said Trust and Outly courteously,
“That, Sir, is what we should deny,
Because we are not yet paid out:
But we will get no more we doubt;
Therefore we frankly here return them,
And if you please, Sir, you may burn them:
Besides, to shew a disposition
Generous to your low condition,
So far your credit to enlarge,
We grant an ample free discharge.”

Then Waste-all said, “I must conclued,
Your proffers are both kind and good:

151

But nothing now can me avail;
I'm fit for nothing but a jail;
Nay, not for that, but rather live
As an abandon'd fugitive,
Be the reproach of all mankind,
Unstable both in place and mind.”

Then Jenny said, all bath'd in tears,
“Long since, alas! these were my fears,
If you were e'er involv'd in care,
You would be driven to despair.
To reason sure it is contrary:
Dear brother, join the military;
Though there you serve in lowest station,
You are a man of education;
Behave yourself, and you will be
Advanc'd to a more high degree.
Howe'er, you ought to be content;
'Tis your past pride's just punishment.
Why should a living man complain?
Wealth may depart and come again:
For my part, I'm content to serve
In meanest station, e'er I starve;
Let's make the best o't that we can:
I'll play the woman, you the man.
Good Caution was our father's friend,
And counsellor unto the end;
Apply to him; he'll not despise you,
Tho' you are poor, but will advise you:
He's not so partial, to respect
The rich and great, and poor neglect.”

Then Waste-all said, “My sister dear,
I to your counsel shall give ear.”

To Caution's house they went full wo,
Where was Laborious come, also
His wife, and Burgher, Trust and Outly,
All came to hear poor Waste-all's outcry,
Who tore his hair and clothes so fine,
And cry'd, “I've forfeit all for wine,

152

For wantonness and frolic game,
For which I now must live in shame.
My pious parents I despis'd,
Was by lewd company entic'd,
While there was ought into my pocket:
But by all these I now am mocked.”

Some said, he's mad; some said, he'll mend:
Among them he had scarce a friend:
Some bade to get for him a whore,
And some bade kick him to the door:
Some bade give him a glass of wine;
Some bade him come, sit down and dine.
Ne'er was a man more far forlorn,
Sustaining so much loss and scorn.
Poor miserable prodigal,
I'll leave him that he may bewail
His own misfortune and miscarriage,
And treat of fair Miss Jenny's marriage.

The end of the second Canto.

CANTO III.

It seems there are but very few
Themselves from Cupid can rescue:
For he's suppos'd to shoot at random;
And sometimes hits by chance the grandame,
As well's the grandchild; all is one:
His arrows force resist can none,
Save eunuchs only; yea, a nun
The pow'r of love she cannot shun;
Nay, grief herself in vain must strive
The force of Cupid to deprive;
As witness here Miss Jenny fair,
Dejected with dishevel'd hair.
Young Secret sees a thousand charms
Inviting him into her arms;
Like to the sun, when he is shrouded,
When by a summer show'r o'erclouded;

153

His rays obliquely may encline,
Yet will they with great lustre shine;
So beauteous charms more sweet appears,
When they're bedew'd with tender tears.

Now Secret was a man reserv'd,
And honest Caution long had serv'd;
Yet must he feel the wounding dart
Of Cupid piercing to his heart,
That made him sigh and wry his brow,
And think, “What shall I say or do?
Can I attempt, in my low station,
A maid of birth and education?
Yet she's reduc'd, as well as me,
To an inferior degree.
I'll speak my mind, be as it will;
Perhaps with her I may prevail:
A proverb I have heard declare,
A faint heart wins no lady fair;
Wherefore I'll try my art to gain her,
For never would a lover fainer.”
So by degrees the lover drew
To have a private interview.

At last he found her all alone,
Fetching many a sigh and groan;
But like a lover he drew near,
Possess'd at once with hope and fear:
At last his courage won the day,
And to love's passion he gave way.
Said he—
—“Dear Mistress, why in tears?
Pray, cast aside your useless fears;
Learn with all ills to be content,
You can't foresee nor yet prevent.
You gave your brother good advice,
Take part thereof, if you are wise;
Submit to fate, slight worldly honour,
And never grudge at heaven's Donor.

154

And if you please to condescend
Your future life with me to spend,
Perhaps you may be happy more
Than what you ever was before:
For tho' I'd been a lord or earl
And you but a poor country girl,
I could have lov'd none else but you,
Tho' I'd sought all the world thro'.

It is presumption to be sure,
For me to think I should procure
Your love, that you might live with me,
Who am but poor of low degree:
Yet I must needs my passion vent,
Which doth my breast so much torment;
If you disdain to pity me.
No pleasure more on earth I'll see.

Yet let me tell you, tho' I'm now
In equal circumstance with you,
Indeed I was as highly born;
Therefore torment me not with scorn:
For Jove of mortals doth dispose
(For reasons that himself best knows)
According as he hath a-mind,
The consequence we only find.”

Miss Jenny fetch'd a sigh, and said,
“Dear Sir, respect for you I had
Before you spake; but much more now,
Believing what you say is true.

But, tell me, Sir, e'er I consent,
How you resolve our settlement;
What business you mean to drive,
By which we may both live and thrive.”

“You need not fear, my dear, (said he)
Each year I wan a certain fee,
Most part whereof I have in store,
And Providence will send us more:
And my good master Caution will
I'm sure befriend us ever still;

155

From him we'll get a little house,
Till fortune more for us produce:
Therefore, my dear, give your consent,
And learn with me to be content.”

Said she, “It seems 'tis fate's decree
That you and I should wedded be:
And since that I am brought so low,
Great thanks I to my mother owe,
That taught me how to work, and gain
My daily bread, life to maintain.

But, Sir, your birth you seem'd to hint
Was unto me no detriment:
Please tell me out the story clear;
For fondly I the same would hear.”

“Ah! lovely fair, (said he) my birth
To me is now but little worth!
Which is the cause I have conceal'd it,
And in this place yet ne'er reveal'd it:
Yet I'll do ought at your command;
Therefore, my fairest, understand,
My father was an honest man,
Descended of a noble clan;
My mother also nothing less;
But on that I need lay no stress:
His name was Honest, and had not
In all his character a blot;
But to say truth, the country round
With him was scarcely ever sound,
Because his principles were quite
Reverse to what was their delight.
The good of others still he, sought,
And ever spake just as he thought:
He lov'd his sov'reign and his nation,
And hated bribery and oppression:
Laws and religion he supported,
And the disconsolate comforted:
E'en to be short, his life and fame
Agreed exactly with his name.

156

But in defence of lawful right,
As he upon a time did fight,
They took away his precious life;
With grief thereat soon died his wife:
I and my brother then were left,
Of comfort and all good bereft:
My brother older was than me,
And frolicsome to that degree,
That soon he wasted pack and purse,
And died soon after with remorse;
For gaming, balling, whoring, drinking,
He never had time left for thinking,
Till he, (ah poor unhappy wretch!),
Of both our fortunes made dispatch;
Which an untimely end brought on him,
And few or, none was to bemoan him:
I, griev'd at such a dismal case,
Did wander from my native place,
Not knowing where, with tardy motion;
At last I fell on honest Caution;
With whom I hir'd, and wrought ay since,
None knowing of my circumstance.
But now, methinks, kind Heaven smiles,
And all my future fears beguiles;
My sunken sp'rit revives again,
Like to clear shining after rain;
I'll frankly bear all ills of life,
Since I'll enjoy thee for my wife.”

“What you advance (said she) appears
The greatest wonder in mine ears,
I ever heard:—two never met
So equally unfortunate.
Let us to Heav'n ourselves resign;
The will of Jove shall ay be mine:
If Jove we love, serve, and obey,
He will support us every way;
And what he sees we really need,
Doubtless by him will be supplied,

157

But towards Caution's house let's go,
There's my poor brother full of woe.”

“But stay, dear Jenny, I have now
Thought on somewhat I have to shew
To your dear brother, now in tears,
That may prevent his future fears:
Go therefore, bring him here to me;
The sequel you shall after see.”

“Glad would I be, if any were
Could mitigate my brother's care.
But are you bound so to conceal it,
That unto me you can't reveal it?
By ties of love, Sir, I would crave
I might the welcome secret have.”

Said he, “Dear Jenny, rest content;
'Tis partly to get his consent,
That you and I should wedded be;
What's more, soon after you shall see.”

Then unto him in haste she went;
And said, “Dear brother, be content,
Go speak with Secret; lo! he waits
For you just now without the gates:
I'll in, and hear yon gentles talk,
While you and he shall take a walk.”

When she went in, Auld-use-and-wont
Did give her knee a hearty dunt;
And cry'd, “Miss Jenny, sit by me,
There's nane mair welcomer can be.”

Laborious took her in his arms,
And cry'd, “She has a thousand charms;
Great pity 'twere one should be lost,
That can of wit and beauty boast.”

Then Burgher said, “Good Sir, 'tis true,
And may prevented be by you;
For you are rich enough, and can
E'en help the girl to get a man.”

“Well jested, Burgher, on my word:
If you give ought, I'll give a third

158

Above you, were it thousands more
Than what she could have had before.”

“Well then, (said Burgher), at this rate,
Although my wealth's not very great,
To manage you, I'll compliment
Miss Jenny with a whole year's rent
Of the estate I lately bought,
Or as much cash, I'll 'minish nought;
And to make good, Sir, what I said,
My obligation shall be had.”

Then Tipple said, “Reach me the cap,
I'll drink to Mistress Jane's good hap;
For beauty, wit, and honesty,
Procure good fortune certainly.”

“Na, na, (said Wont), I winna say
That Fortune favours good folk ay;
For aft the best do suffer need,
When warst are satisfied wi' bread.
I've seen a proud insulting knave,
With some few bags of cash, behave
As he had been a Lord himself;
So proud some are puff'd up with pelf:
While wit and virtue have been made
Oblig'd to beg their daily bread.”

Said Tipple, “Let her health go round;
I'm glad she has such favour found;
And wish her more and more success,
Till she exceed in happiness.”

“Come, come, (said Burgher), sign, Laborious;
This deed of ours must be notorious;
An hundred pounds I give and grant,
To ease Miss Jenny of her want;
And you shall give her two, no less,
According as you did profess.”

Laborious said, “I will be glad,
Since you for her such tidings had:
So here we both shall sign the band,
And give it freely in her hand.”

The end of the third Canto.

159

CANTO IV.

Here view young Secret and his Lady
Pregnant with news, to speak both ready:
But he, more quick, first silence broke,
And unto this effect he spoke;

“A letter I just now receiv'd,
At which I am both glad and griev'd:
Since here we have a little leisure,
My dear, I'll read it for your pleasure.”

To Mr Symon Secret, residing with Mr Caution in Burnhaugh, &c.

“My dearest nephew;------
------Understand,
So soon as this comes to your hand;
Come here to me, for I am lying
Most dang'rous ill, for certain dying:
My children all are dead and gone,
And I am only left alone;
And I bequeathe, as heirship due,
My whole estate and wealth to you;
Come take possession.—If you're spar'd,
See my corpse decently interr'd.
My feeble fingers scarce will sign
My name to this imperfect line:
Your loving uncle till I die
I shall remain,—
—Philanthropy.”

April 2d, 1753.

“My dear, these are sad news, (said she),
Since you must alter your degree,
I'll now be left to mourn my fate,
Nothing my grief can now abate:
In my low state you seem'd to prove
A comfort once to me, my love;

160

But now from me you must depart,
And leave me here to break my heart.”

Said he, “My dear, pray cease to mourn:
To you I shortly shall return;
Then you and me shall never part,
Till death shall break our tender heart:
And, to confirm what here I say,
We'll marry e'er I go away:
Yet fain I would my uncle see,
If that I could before he die:
But freely could I part with all,
That mankind dear or valu'd call,
And that with the profoundest ease,
Before I you in ought displease;
For still I'll love and honour thee,
Since you have stoop'd to favour me.”

Miss Jenny, smiling through her tears,
Began to drop her former fears;
Said, “My dear Secret, Heaven smiles,
And all my grief and fear beguiles:
Can I then chuse but grateful be
To Jove, for all his care of me?
Yea, while I being have, I'll praise
Him, who from nothing did me raise,
And by his care and providence,
Provided for me ever since.
My portion was entirely lost,
And I had nought whereof to boast,
Save that I could work with my hands,
To satisfy Nature's demands:
But when my brother saw me mourn,
His heart did with compassion burn;
And said he would assign for me
A portion fitting my degree:
Burgher alledging that he would
Not give so much as well he could,
So rais'd his pride and emulation,
That made him speak forth in a passion,

161

‘Pray, Burgher, what needs all this trouble?
‘Whate'er you give I'll give a double.’
Said Burgher, ‘There's no tie on me,
‘But Nature's self obliges thee;
‘She neither is my kin nor blood:
‘But, seeing she's both fair and good,
‘I'll give her wholly, out of hand,
‘A year's rent of her father's land;
‘And this the more engages me,
‘To get sufficient mends of thee.’
So they both sign'd the evidence,
More out of pride than good pretence.
Lo! here it is: I wish my brother,
Poor Waste all, had just such another;
I'm sure he would take better tent,
Than he has done, how it were spent.”

Then Secret said, “Some lucky chance
His broken fortune may advance:
But Laborious must not know,
What there's pass'd last betwixt us two;
For, since a portion he assigns you,
You marry must as he designs you.

But Waste-all is well satisfied,
That you just now shall be my bride;
And he is gone to call Miss John,
To join our hands, and make us one:
My master and my mistress, both,
To tell the secret, will be loth;
They shall be witnesses; and, when
Time will allow, let others ken.

To-morrow, by the break of day,
If health permit, I must away:
But do not grudge, my dear, nor mourn;
For very soon I will return.”

Then Secret went, the rest to warn
To meet him just now in the barn:
With that Miss John and Waste-all came,
That put Miss Jenny in a flame.

162

But, gath'ring courage, in they went;
Both signified they were content:
So joining hands, Miss John them bless'd,
Declar'd them married, them dismiss'd.
Then, coming to the company,
One cry'd, “Miss Jenny, sit by me:
Welcome, Miss John; here take your place,
You're come in time to say the grace;
For Caution is so staunch a Whig,
And with the clergy turn'd so big,
That men in company cannot
Make free with him without a blot.”

Said Tipple, “That is very true;
For if we're merry we're call'd fu':
The like of him, if they were able,
Would make an honest man a rebel:
They prize their own fantastic wit,
Because the ball is at their foot:
This is a critical sad time,
When ev'ry thing is judg'd a crime
That's not conform to whiggish whims,
A pack of saucy d---ls limbs.”

Miss John replied, “Dear Madam, stop,
You should have better sense I hope,
Than ridicule against the laws,
Religion, and the good old cause.”

“The good old cause, alas! (said she),
Is lost, for any thing I see.
Our nation's constitutions all
Are chang'd, and no memorial
Of ancient privileges left;
Fram church and state all are bereft.
But, Sir, I'll not expect of you
My meaning you will misconstrue:
I love the government and laws,
I also love the good old cause;
I love religion when 'tis right,
And all conform to holy writ;

163

But impositions on folks conscience
Are both ridiculous and nonsense.”

Miss John then whisp'ring, said to Caution,
“'Tis the drap drink that rais'd this motion:
Pray, Madam, drop this topic now;
For I suppose you please but few.”

“Content (said Tipple), I don't doubt;
For few love truth tell'd here about.”

The end of the fourth Canto.

CANTO V.

The western hills eclips'd the sun,
When his diurnal course was run;
Night spread her mantle o'er the fields,
And men resorted to their beilds;
So here in Caution's house was met
A company at table set:
For he a supper had prepar'd,
To comfort his young broken laird:
But by their wits all were not able
To make him sit down at the table;
For no doubt but he looked blate
When he had spent his whole estate.
Laborious call'd him, “graceless brother
As ever was born of a mother.”
Trust and Outly said, “no man
Will do ought better than he can;
Poor man! his case is right forlorn,
He gets now baith the skaith and scorn.”

Miss John said, “It is Jove's donation
That makes men manage with discretion.”
Then Caution said, “Dear Sir, I pray
Be pleas'd the company obey;
Sit down to supper: and take heart;
For wealth will come and will depart;
And if it leave not us, we must
Leave it e'er long, and turn to dust.”

164

Auld-wont said, “I have seen some men
Toil and turmoil with meikle pain;
Yet all fatigue they could endure,
They could not help their being poor:
And I have seen some men grow rich,
That were intended to be such;
And men of honour, wealth and pow'r,
That thought themselves in pomp-secure,
Brought to contempt, reproach and scorn,
And in the saddest case forlorn.
So that none needs to be cast down,
When fortune, after smiles, doth frown;
For she is but a ticklish jade,
And those that heed her freaks are mad.”

Miss Jenny said, “His management,
No doubt, his mind will now torment:
Yet he's in better case this way,
Than many gentlemen this day:
Who, skulking, dare not once come near
Unto their dwelling-house for fear;
And many of them stain and catch'd,
And soon disgracefully dispatch'd;
Their goods confiscate, and their lands
Are forfeit all in the king's hands:
Their generation's banish'd from
Their nation and their native home:
Whose fates much sadder are by far
Than those of my poor brother's are!
For tho' his lands be lost, yet he
May sojourn in the nation free,
And use what occupation may
By providence come in his way.”

Then Burgher smil'd; and, jesting, said,
“If Waste-all well-lin'd pockets had,
He'd sojourn with a better grace,
Than he can do in any place.”

Then Tipple said, “Sir Burgher, you
No doubt in this have spoken true;

165

But yet I think your manners scant,
To brag a poor man with his want.”

“Madam (said he) be not offended,
For it is more than I intended.”

“I think (said she) you needed not
Cast on his father's son a blot;
A better fellow than yourself
(For all your base ill-gotten pelf)
Would not have brag'd him at this rate,
For all your opulent estate:
For, poor man, his necessity
Was your curs'd opportunity;
Just like a covetous meal-monger,
That knows the poor must starve with hunger,
Unless they give what price he pleases:
Sir, by these means your wealth increases.”

Said Burgher, “It is women's failing,
They always love to fall a-railing:
Howe'er, your ladyship to fire,
I'll drive the jest a little higher;
Let Waste-all, if he pleases now,
Before the company and you,
Lay half my money in my hand,
I'll wholly give him back his land.”

Then Waste-all said, “Sir, here I hold
Your money shall to you be told;
I have it in my pocket here,
That will the bargain fully clear.”

Then all the company amaz'd,
On one another mutely gaz'd.

Miss John said, “Such another turn
I never saw since I was born:
Now, Burgher, you are fairly bit
By him you judg'd had little wit.”

Then said Auld-wont, “I think this day
Might be the subject of a play;
For better sport I never saw,
Since ever I came here awa:

166

It pleases me my master's son
Will yet (poor man!) enjoy his own;
I wish ilk ane could sing and say,
My ain's my ain, as he this day.”

Then Burgher said, “That's come in season;
I take you witness, she spake treason.

“Nay, hold! (said Caution) that's envy,
And in revenge you make a lye;
For, tho' she wish'd ilk ane their ain,
Is that a treasonable stain?

“Yes, yes (said Burgher) the pretender
Thinks Britain should to him surrender,
And set him king upon the throne,
Because he reckons it his own.”

Then said Auld-wont, “Sir, you, and others
That in strange cruelty are brothers;
You think no sin to cast aspersions
Upon well-meaning honest persons:
I had no thought of king nor queen,
And wonder what such catchers mean:
If ye were rightly serv'd, 'twere reason
You were convicted, Sir, of treason;
For when you say, the crown's his own,
What wants he more, Sir, but the throne?”

Laborious said, “I never dive
Who should be king, if I can thrive;
For kings and great men ne'er cast out
About the mean and vulgar rout:
So, when the king and government
Promotes our int'rest, I'm content.
I would not join, to change by force
This government, perhaps, for worse:
I think it is the height of nonsense,
When we have liberty of conscience,
Freedom of trade, and ev'ry thing
Can be expected of a king,
To wish a change, for one who may,
Perhaps, oppress us ev'ry way.”

167

“To me (said Caution) it appears
This bygone time, for many years,
Our clergy and our gentry, they,
For the most part have gone astray:
Cursing, whoring, gaming, drinking,
Was most the gentry's way of thinking;
And living at too high a rate,
By which they wasted their estate:
Oppression, pride and tyranny,
Covetousness and luxury,
Brought divine judgment on their heads,
To punish these their sinful deeds.

The careless clergy seldom mind,
Except on Sundays, things divine;
Their stipends, glebes and gardens, they
In their mind bear the greatest sway.”

Then said Miss John, “You are not blate
To scandalize us at this rate,”

“I speak in gen'rals, Sir, (said Caution)
Therefore do not mistake my notion;
For I'll say truth, you may expect it,
Where one is serious ten neglect it:
Let him to whom this charge is laid,
Come challenge me for what I said;
And then I'll know him to be one
At whom I meant to cast a stone;
Not knowing whom I hit until
He tell me that I have done ill.”

Miss Tipple said, “Let quarrels pass:
I'm dry; let's have the other glass.
Now Use-and-wont is an old wife;
Let's have a hist'ry of her life:
Say, why is she call'd Use-and-wont?
Or was she nam'd so from the font?

“That be my task, (Miss Jenny said):
Long since, when she was but a maid,
Her name was Custom, as is plain,
Attested by all honest men.

168

Long since, in our ancestors time,
When Use-and-wont was in her prime,
She was like to a statute book,
On which the nation all did look:
And every one was deem'd a fool,
That acted ought beyond the rule:
Then was no need for bills nor bands;
All bargains stood by shaking hands:
Then was no tacks on tenements;
Each paid their ancient usual rents:
None would adventure for his neck
His neighbour's tenement to take:
None entries paid for their possessions,
And none complained of oppressions.

And if they had, as neighbours will,
By virtue of the other gill,
Or sitting long beside the barrel,
About some trifle bred a quarrel,
And rais'd the topic to such height
As made them rise, perhaps, and fight;
And may be, with their rackless blows,
Broke others heads, or bled their nose:
Yet of Auld-wont they stood such awe,
That they durst never go to law;
But the next day, when sober men,
They took a pint, and 'gree'd again.

Besides, the lawyers did not plead
For love of gain, or for their bread:
Justice and equity was all
By which a cause could stand or fall:
Yea, ev'ry thing within the nation
Was done with justice and discretion.

But foreigners did us corrupt,
And our own customs we gave up,
And brought us fashions from abroad,
That to us at the first seem'd odd;
Yet we embrac'd them at the last,
And Use and wont away we cast.

169

Some were so mad for her confusion,
That they consulted a physician,
How they a ling'ring potion might
Give her, to wear her from their sight:
So when she was quite out of vogue,
And hunted sore thro' moor and bog,
As an exile she here remains;
And Caution thought her worth his pains
To chuse her for his wife, and they
Liv'd ever happy to this day:
And Use-and-wont has been her name
Ay since an exile she became;
Ay since the poor have miss'd her sore,
And many yet will miss her more.
But shortly there will come a time,
When they'll confess it was a crime:
For lo! the curse that shall attend
The wretches that did thus offend,
Will eat their substance out to nothing,
And leave them neither food nor clothing;
No landlord e'er shall thrive a day,
That helps to put Auld-wont away.”

Laborious all the rest invited,
To have all bargains whole compleated:
So when they'd finish'd ev'ry thing,
They look'd all chearful as the spring:
Ev'n Burgher, who beguil'd himself,
Look'd blithe, although he lost his pelf;
Caution no little was comforted,
To see the rest as they had sported.

Miss John said, “Caution, once you had,
If right I mind, a pretty lad:
Where is he now? since I came here,
I have not seen the boy appear.”

Said Caution, “Sir, he's gone to see
His uncle that is like to die.”

As they thus talk'd, they heard a horse
Come riding in the way with force:

170

By orders forth a servant ran,
And found it was a gentleman,
Who hastily began to speer,
“What company have you got here.”
Miss Jenny heard, and fast as able,
With Waste-all, rose up from the table,
And to the door like lightning flew;
Who, when of him she got a view,
She cry'd, “My love, my life, my all,
Light down, and into my arms fall.”

Then in they went; the rest amaz'd
All on the stranger strangely gaz'd:
When Caution came to understand
That it was Secret, caught his hand,
And said, “Sir Secret, by your dress,
I think we secrets may confess.”

“Yes, yes, (said he); and now I crave
I may her brother's pardon have;
For she's my wife now, come what will,
To have and hold for good and all.”

Said Caution, “Is your uncle dead?”
“Yes, Sir, (said Secret); in his stead
I now am heir, as sure's I'm here,
And that's two hundred pounds a year.”

Laborious said, “I am well pleas'd,
My brother and my sister's rais'd
To as great honour and degree,
As they were born both heirs to be:
I wish you joy with all my heart,
And so in peace we'll all depart,
Each one to our respective place,
And leave the young folk to solace
Themselves with love, till the next day
We meet again.” Here ends the play.

171

Sung by Miss JENNY.

Mankind is like a tennis-ball,
Toss'd to and fro by fate.
Though one to-day were Lord of all,
In honour ne'er so great;
Yet the next day reproach and scorn
May be his sordid lot;
His wealth dispers'd, and he forlorn,
And's pleasures quite forgot.
Our joys continue but short space;
Our griefs more lasting be;
We may soon fall into disgrace,
Though in prosperitie.
We mortals too short-sighted are
True virtue to discern;
How to escape the baneful snare,
We too, too seldom learn.

On FORTUNE.

I know not what mischievous jarring odds
Sometimes fall out among the factious gods:
But oftentimes dame Fortune, being blind,
She gets a clash or redding-stroke behind,
That makes her stagger, and confus'dly reel,
And miss the centre of her ticklish wheel;
She and her favourites cry barlafumble,
While in the dirt they topsy-turvy tumble.
Such accidents have many mischiefs done:
They kick'd a Charles from the British throne;
While on the top he safely seem'd to tread,
The wheel soon turn'd, the monarch lost his head.

But she by wings still to the top is borne,
And in her hand holds Amalthea's horn;
Bidding all mortals, high and low, repair
To her, and of the same rich plenty share.

172

But that sleek wheel, whereon the strumpet treads,
Still hovers o'er the dark oblivion shades:
Yet heedless mortals by her philters drawn,
To gain the top, their very souls will pawn:
Like swarms of bees ambitiously they climb,
And wrestle to ascend the slipp'ry rim;
Yet some saint-hearted heavy arses sway
The wheel half round, thence in the dirt go they,
While on the other side aloft some rise,
Insulting, as they would invade the skies;
Rivals in direct opposition hing,
And thousand vot'ries their petitions bring,
Imploring Fortune to send favour down,
And their endeavours with glad success crown
She deals to all, both honest man and rogue,
By chance, just as the blind man kill'd the dog:
Some get preferment; other some obtain
A virtue to increase and manage gain;
Whilst other wrestlers, that might merit plead,
In no endeavours ever can succeed.

Thus she unconstant, without judgment, roves;
She'll hate to-morrow, whom to day she loves:
And whom she hates is seldom reconcil'd;
No more her favours are to them reveal'd.
Just like a friend, suspicious causeless grown,
Whose wonted smiles turn to an angry frown;
His threat'ning aspect dire resentment shows,
Though nought save innocence his party knows:
So she, if disoblig'd, or, which is worse,
If she but think so, doth intail her curse.

Great monarchies, and glorious empires, she
Has laid in dust by her austeritie;
Besides ten thousand thousand families
By her o'erthrown in dark oblivion lyes:
Nay, heroes proud, that could the world command,
Could never her unconstant freaks withstand.
Th'aspiring youth need not her favour plead.
Nor does she ought regard the hoary head:

173

The rich, tho' rais'd to fame's stupenduous height,
Cannot secure her favours for one night:
She slights religion, and the learned schools;
But favours most the covetous and fools.

A PASTORAL between Colin, Willie, and Deavy, upon Baledgarno's Marriage.

Three canty shepherds met upon the plain,
Chearfu' as sunshine after show'rs of rain:
Ilk ane was blithe to see another out,
Free on the fields to laugh and loup about.
Kind Willie, he, in hamely laughing terms,
Claught Colin keenly in his rustic arms;
And furthy Deavy, seeing them, grew bauld,
His brawny arms soon did them baith infauld.
“Dear welcome lads, (the blythsome Deavy cry'd),
This is the day our pipes maun a' be try'd.”
“Wi' a' my heart, (quoth Colin), fetch them out,
And let us lilt ilk ane a spring about.”
Quoth Willie, “Then to take awa' a' grudge,
We twa will sing, and Colin he'll be judge:
And wha sings best sall be the prettiest man,
And a' the flutes sall fairly be his aun.
Deavy.
What, sall we sing of courts, or war's alarms;
Or love, the sweetest theme, and fastest charms?

Colin.
Naithing but love shall be your task to sing:
Love best befits us; 'tis the darling thing.
Ilk ane o' you the other's lass describe,
That partial love may not your fancies bribe.
But I could wish I shou'd na' judge, but hear,
I've nae mair skill save an impartial ear.
Now, Willie, ye maun first begin the lay,
And a' your sweets of vocal notes display:

174

If Babie's beauties can inspire your breast,
Sik sentiments will by you be express'd.
Deavy sall neist on Annie's charms advance:
And, when we've done, we'll tune our reeds and dance.

Willie.

O Phœbus, master of the tunefu' nine,
Exoner me, and polish my engine!
Gi' me that verse, sung in a saft sweet lay,
That's due to Daphne, and the honour'd bay!

But yet in vain I crave your help, when she
In beauty is superior to thee:
Whilk ye may view; yet a' your eloquence
Can ne'er express her in a perfect sense.
'Tis vain for you to rax aboon your height;
Your light's but single, her's is double bright.
Thy absence is but night; but her's is hell:
In all things else, fair Babie does excel.
O lucky Deavy! lucky anes and ay!
Happy in Babie's bright refulgent ray;
Reflecting on you virtue, goodness, greatness,
As in her face ten thousand beauties witness.
Babie's a star, ay, she's a lovely star;
She's lovely fair, her cheeks sweet roses are:
Her smiles! her lips! how sparkle her bright eyes!
But in her mind what nobler beauty lyes!
I'm sure your senses canna' miss to strive,
Whilk sall outdo another when they dive
On Babie's beauties; when you see her face,
Your sight to hearing surely maun gi' place,
To hear her voice; but, when you touch her lip,
'Tis as you wi' the gods did nectar sip;
Your sight and hearing are confounded quite,
Your touch and taste all surfeit with delight.
Pears drop to see her; apples fade away;
The purple vine, and olive, baith decay.
Wherewi' sall shepherds weave their garlands now,
When myrtles, bays, and roses tyne their hue?
All nat'ral beauties quickly disappear
At Babie's presence, in her bloom maist clear;

175

Her well-shed hair, ev'n parted on her brow,
As by her bridegroom, at the marriage vow,
Apollo's skill, wi' a' his tunefu' nine,
Her simple beauty canna' right define.
Out of her breast ten thousand arrows fly,
By which ten thousand lovers wounded ly;
But sprightly Deavy wan the lovely prize.

Thrice happy lad! thrice happy shepherd's fate!
That gain'd fair Babie, Babie good and great.
I'll mint nae mair fair Babie's charms to trace;
Her ilka virtue, beauty, charm and grace
Leads aff my thoughts into a senseless maze,
Till like a statue, I maun thoughtless gaze;
Therefore, dear Deavy, as your rightful due,
I'll fairly yield the flutes and bays to you.

Deavy.

Dear Willie, gin ye shall defective prove,
How can I sing the wonders of your love?
Sin ye of Babie sickan thoughts can raise,
What can I say to worthy Annie's praise?
Sin ye prefer to Phœbus Babies eyes,
I can but say Annie's the fairer prize.
Ay Annie was, and is! what's this I say?
Ah! my unguarded giddie fancies stray,
O Pan, recover my tint senses now
When Annie's charms in recompence I shew!
Annie's a lass well wordy o' your care:
A lass said I! * nae better o' my pray'r;
She's now a wise: well snappering nae mair,
Need I invoke the rural pow'rs by pray'r.
If Annie's self can oughtlins me inspire,
I may presume again to touch the lyre:
If not, I'll swear henceforth nae mair I'll sing,
Nor sall I ever touch the trembling string.

If sleepy poppies vie wi' lillies white,
Or western shades wi' fair Aurora's light;
If black wi' snaw white lambs, or night wi' day,
Or dowie cyprus wi' the cheefu' bay;

176

Sae may the nymphs, and maist accomplish'd fair,
Wi' sweeter Annie mint anes to compare.

Her breast is like a cabinet of goud,
Wherein the richest jewels are bestow'd;
Wit, virtue, prudence, constancy and love,
And a' good things we mortals can approve;
Humility, discretion, chastity,
And thousands mae that raise her dignity.
Her stature's comely: O! her charmtng voice
Wad gar a sullen dotard sot rejoice.
And you, O Willie, then how bless'd are ye,
When to a' these you can have access free?
In praising Babie ye my Muse prevented,
Or I had Annie's character augmented,

Willie.
Na, Deavy, na; forsooth I canna' say
For compliments, but ye have won the day.

Deavy.
Na, Willie; you your hyperboles advance
Aboon a rustic shepherd's eloquence.

Willie.
Your Babie merits a' I said, and mair,
And has mae virtues than I can declare;
For, as I said, Apollo wi' his nine
Ae charm about her canna right define.

Deavy.
Your Annie merits mair nor I can say;
For, as I said, if night can vie wi' day,
Sae may her sex mint wi' her to compare;
Pan or Sylvanus may her worth declare.

Willie.
Babie frae Colin's ancestors descended;
They're much the same, for a' we have contended.

Deavy.
Your Annie's birth declare her worth and merit,
And in her shine our Colin's noble spirit:
Ay, Annie bears our worthy Colin's name,
That shines renowned in records of fame;

177

And ye yoursel' e'en sprang frae Colin's race:
And twice sinsyne the fam'lies did embrace:
By Hymen's ties, by him they friendship vow'd;
By Annie now that friendship is renew'd.

Willie.
Babie partakes of Colin's worth and fame,
And bears as well a worthy shepherd's name;
And ye yoursel' was ay to Colin dear,
And now by Babie in a tie mair near.

Deavy.
There's not a herd on a' the banks of Tay
Can tell sic tales as Colin's fel' can say;
For his forbears built twa' stately bowers,
To screen them frae the winter sleets and showers:
On a' our banks nane may them parallel,
They cast a dash that a' the lave excel.
Now wand'ring Sue the auldest ane possesses;
She's left it void, and now it fair decreases:
The other now is Colin's residence,
For bonnieness might lodge a king or prince.

Willie.
Well is he wordy o't; and may he lang
Possess the same, to judge the shepherd's sang.

Colin.

To judge your sangs wou'd be a kittle part,
Ye hit sae near ilk ane another's art:
As in a cock-fight ye your heads have won,
Nor by the one the other is outdone;
Ye baith deserve alike the wager laid:
And Deavy now what ye of Annie said,
It might in Willie raise a jealousy,
But that he errs in that as well as ye.
Keep baith your flutes: and, Willie, I to you
Present a garland fitting for your brow;
Well wrought of myrtles, bays and roses sweet.
Emblems of conquest, peace, and love's delight;
A virtuous cleek of silder clear tho' auld,
That keeps the tod frae louping o' the fauld:

178

These sma' propines I frankly gi' to you,
And wish you heal sangs sweetly to renew.

And, Deavy, ye a stob-bairn mauna be,
Sae lang as I hae ony thing to gi';
I'll compliment you wi' a pair o' doves,
Milk white, as emblems of conjugal loves,
And eik a pipe I gat frae Pan langsyne,
Whase virtue cheers the heart as well as wine.
Now turn your notes into anither strain,
Your real judgments frae the heart explain,
Whilk o' the twa is best; a single life,
Or to be knit in wedlock to a wife?

Deavy.
In reason Colin ought to be obey'd,
Sin for our pains baith you and me are paid:
How shall we sing? by turns, or even out?

Willie.
Lang tales I hate, let's e'en take turn about.

Deavy.
Then, to be short, a single life is best,
If we cou'd live but virtuous, good and chaste.

Willie.
What anger ail'd you then to take a wife,
If ye sae meikle prize a single life?
If ane had tald you sae when ye was single,
Your judgment to believe't wou'd had a pingle.

Deavy.
But stay, dear Willie, I've experience,
And that, ye ken, gi's fouk a hantle sense:
Youth-head is wild, and ill to manage aft,
Unless their tempers are but dead and saft:
Syne in that case man canna' act his part:
The lave befools him, says he has nae heart.

Willie.
Well, what o' that? youth maun be out, and then
We turn sedate, wise and judicious men;
Bless'd wi' a wife, get children to succeed
In our awn parts, when we are fail'd or dead.

179

Deavy.
Of graceless youths there's little hopes that they
Will e'er be good unto their dying day:
They may indeed get children and a wife;
But that ne'er mends their base and vicious life:
Their ill example spills baith wife and bairns,
And ev'n does ill to a' their near concerns;
But virtuous free men's void of houshold care,
And meikle lost in keeping house can spare.

Willie.
The best of a' have frolics in their youth;
Age and experience leads them up to truth:
A rackless youth may prove a man right wise,
And may like you the leats of youth despise.
But, to live single purposely to spare
For framet blood, sure is the warst o' care.

Deavy.
A family is no sae easy guided,
Nor yet are they sae easily provided;
Besides it adds still to our guilt the mair,
If we in virtue not exemplar are:
But to live single is a virtuous life,
And far mair canny than to wed a wife.

Willie.
Well Deavy lad, sin' virtue you commend,
Tell me whereto a virtuous life shou'd tend.

Deavy.
That question, Willie, is right easie kend,
To happiness a virtuous life will tend:
Thereby prolong we life, and please the gods,
Who take us when we die to bless'd abodes.

Willie.
Can oughtlins better please the gods than this;
Or oughtlins mair augment our happiness,
Than wed a virtuous charming lovely wife,
Wi' her to lead an honest frugal life;
And, as I said, get children to succeed
In our awn parts when we are fail'd or dead?

180

Deavy.
Ah! witty Willie, I maun awn indeed
Ye've fairly hit the nail upo' the head:
That's it I meant; a virtuous man and wife
May live a pleasant and a happy life;
By their examples a' their neibers may
Turn good and virtuous, ev'n as well as they.

Willie.
I trow sae, lad; 'twou'd be nae little strife
Wou'd gar ye now forsake a married life:
Ye wou'dnae quit your Babie good and fair,
For a' the pleasures of a batchelor.

Deavy.
Nor wou'd ye part wi' Annie's lovely eyes
For a' the wealth that in the Indies lyes.
But, Willie, see the sun goes out o' sight,
And easter shades now usher in the night:
On our young lambs the dew fa's wet and cauld;
Let's wear them saftly to the ev'ning fauld.
Adieu, dear Colin, Willie, baith adieu;
We'll meet the morn, and a' our sangs renew.

Willie.
What think ye, Colin? Deavy, lad, what cheer
Can we expect to hae around the year,
When the first day our flocks the fields adorn
Insensibly we to an end have worn?

Colin.
Adieu, dear Willie, Deavy lad adieu;
Babie and Annie will think lang for you:
Let's part the night; and meet again the morn,
And sing the blythsome spring and Sol's return.

VENUS's JOURNEY. A POEM inscribed to Mr Ogilvie of Inchmartine, on his Marriage.

Ye rural Muses, touch my tuneless lyre,
And with new fancy all my song inspire:

181

Give numbers unconstrain'd in ev'ry line:
May all the poem, like its subject, shine.

A fertile plain, where Neptune reign'd of old,
And mighty tides with furious winds were roll'd;
In midst of which an island rear'd its brow,
That all old Ocean's force could ne'er subdue:
The nat'ral ash, with shady beeches, spread
Around the place, and form'd a rural shade:
The Graces there for cool repose retir'd,
And Flora spread her garland on the swaird:
The choirsters, that charm the month of May,
Then sung their matins in the midst of Tay.

Martin a saint, searching for solitude,
View'd from an height, amidst the raging flood,
That paradise, by Nature only fram'd,
Fix'd there his cell, and it Inchmartine nam'd.

The growing tides this saint did so affright,
He utter'd this complaint upon the height:

“Here nat'ral beauties deck the place all round;
But ah! me fears one night I may be drown'd.
Thou Pow'r divine, that Jordan's waves withstood
Till thine own people marched thro' the flood,
Command this torrent, this proud threat'ning stream,
To turn aside, or make its force more lame;
That, unsurpris'd, I in this place may live,
And ev'ry morning thee due homage give.”
Thus said, he to his nightly haunt return'd,
And all the night with such complaints he mourn'd;
Still praying, that the waves might not invade
And overwhelm him in his silent bed:
Till near the dawn, amidst the roaring deep,
The sounding billows lull'd him fast asleep.
Æolus the while wrought with the flowing tide,
And beat with vi'lence on the southern side:
That rais'd a gulf sufficient to receive
The rapid Tay, and each ascending wave;
So that the place, where billows us'd to rore,
Is cover'd now with yellow harvest o'er:

182

The lonely cave is now a stately dome;
Pomona claims the barren ash's room,
Which curiously, where Nature play'd her part,
Are beautified and polished by art.
The tulips, lilies, flow'rs of various hue,
Instead of cowslips and wild dasies, grow.
Inchmartine now a safe retreat remains,
And Ceres loads her bounty on the plains:
In peaceful dust the holy hermit lyes,
Succeeded by the ancient Ogilvies.

Hymen, reviv'd with summer's fragrant scene,
Repairs to visit the fair Paphian queen;
Applies her softly that she would engage
A pleasure-journey with her equipage,
To view dame Nature in her richest dress,
And see the swains their lovely nymphs caress.

The humble goddess, with a smile reply'd,
“Where would ye, Sir, this journey should be try'd?”

Then gratefully the old enamour'd god
Bow'd to the goddess with an aged nod:
“Please venture north Saint Martin's isle to view,
Where fair Alexis we may soon subdue;
Who mourns impatient on the banks of Tay,
And knows no reason why he pines away.”
Then arming Cupid with new shields and darts,
Prov'd armour for the most obdurate hearts,
Equip'd for journey, all the godlike train
Stood mounted on the wide-extended plain.
From off her chariot the bright goddess cry'd,
“My son, approach, come even to my side:
Sweet darling beauty, comfort of my heart,
To you my great designs I must impart:
I cannot call you disobedient son,
Since my commands you never left undone,
With as much haste as ever you was sent:
And wedded beauty to the life go paint,
And underneath the fair and lovely scheme
Write Rothemay and Ogilvie's fair name,

183

And on the crest your double golden dart,
Piercing the centre of Alexis' heart.”

Soon as the goddess ended her commands,
The artful Cupid ply'd his nimble hands:
This piece of sculpture, rare and richly wrought,
He finished, and to his mother brought.

Then with seraphic speed they wing'd their way
Thro' orient clouds of the approaching day:
By that the sun had made the morning smile,
The train alighted in the beauteous isle.
Alexis fair, half walking, half asleep,
Confus'd with thinking, fetch'd a sigh so deep,
That made the place to echo with the groan;
And yet the cause was still to him unknown:
At last look'd up, and with new transport spied
Cupid's performance, and with rapture cry'd,
“Ye unseen powr's, explain the artful draught,
And from this labyrinth wind out my thought.”
At last the optics of his sight were stay'd,
Fixing his eyes, the writing he survey'd;
Wond'ring again, he view'd the lovely scheme
From Rothemay and Ogilvie's fair name;
He gather'd straight, he knew the lovely prize,
And where the treasure, hid before, now lyes.

New vigour started in each nerve and vein,
And vapours vanish'd from his love-sick brain:
Fir'd with the object, he the object knew,
With fond ambition from his bed he slew;
Call'd for the strongest and the swiftest steed,
That he might fly, if possible, for speed;
Whereon he mounted, pray'd his stars to guide
His bended course towards the lovely bride.

With boundless speed the fiery courser flies
Along the plain towards the lovely prize,
Where Cupid long before Alexis came,
Had fir'd the fair with new uncommon flame:
Their sev'ral breasts with equal fervour glows,
Their sentiments both fondly would disclose;

184

A thousand blushes seiz'd the tender youth,
While he essay'd to open his fair mouth;
Thousands of fears surpris'd the fair one's heart,
Till he could utter or his love impart.
Courage at last o'er bashfulness made way,
Both strove in love each other to outvie.
What joys, what transport, each by turns did feel,
The thousand part no mortal can reveal.
Hymen, relenting, crown'd these lovers bliss;
Their hearts their hands join'd with a nuptial kiss:
Each adding fuel to another's flames;
Each who loves most th'ascendant ever claims.
Unwearied love, unwasted flames, be thou
The dear attendants on the wedlock vow!
Let these sweet pair retain Love's youthful fire
A Nestor's age, and then with love expire!
Their souls unite, like two dear lovers, fly
To endless bliss, to love eternally;
While their bright offspring, as the phœnix race,
Shall honour, in their turns, the age and place!

On Mrs Ogilvie's Chariot-wheel sinking on the Brink of the River Spey.

Bright as Aurora on sweet May,
When she her beauties all display,
Excited by the pow'r of love,
Clarinda in her chariot drove:
Secure she thought, and nought dismay'd;
On either hand a beauteous maid,
Whose sweet angelic form and show,
All Cupid's art seem'd to undo.

As the swift chariot sweept along,
Each charm attract'd the gazing throng:
So that each swain, as thunder-struck,
Stood gazing on the empty track.
While the fierce steeds with speed made way,
Along the rapid river Spey,

185

Thoughtless of harm, the prospect drew
The fair one's eyes abroad to view
The river in its rolling pride,
And pleasant landskips on each side.

But winter storms and summer spates,
That brooks' and rivers' bounds dilates,
Had undermin'd the bounding brae,
Of this same ancient river Spey:
The surface hung impending o'er
The oozy deep, along the shore.
So when Clarinda, in her coach,
Too near the confines did approach,
The ground deceitful sunk, and stay'd
The chariot-wheel: she frighted cry'd,
“Is there no human helper nigh,
Before we perish here, and die?”

Pussilus, a Dutch Captain, rode
There, mounted like a demi-god:
Yet stupidly he stood afar,
Like a doom'd pannel at the bar,
And heeded not Clarinda's cries,
Nor crystal drops run from her eyes;
Though he profess'd a man of war,
Deign'd not to help th'affrighted fair.

At greater distance than Pussilus,
A young knight, stout as bold Achilles,
Who acted true knight-errantry,
Like lightening flew for her supply.
Not like Don Quixote's vap'rish notions;
That push'd him on to frantic motions:
Nor was his steed like Rosmant,
Nor hunger-bitten, tir'd or faint;
Nor did he want a spur and whip,
To make his courser Light-foot trip
Towards Clarinda, thus distress'd,
Whose looks her gratitude express'd.
New joys sprung up in midst of fears,
And drain'd her rapid flood of tears:

186

As sun-beams after show'rs of rain,
Shine brightly o'er the moist'ned plain;
So she sweet innocence display'd,
When he, with expedition, cry'd,
“Come, fair Clarinda, to my arms,
Secure from danger, hurt, or harms;
Come, lovely maids, come safe ashore,
The threat'ning aspect dread no more.”

By lucky chance, an aged tree
Had stood time out of memory,
Whose interweaving roots extended
Some distance round the place, defended
From falling in the mighty deep,
Where mermaids dance, and dolphins creep,
Until the bold and courteous knight
Rescu'd Clarinda in her fright.
Long may its branches bud and spring,
And on its boughs birds ever sing.
Thou bless'd supporter of the fair,
The scent of bays and laurels wear,
Still fresh and green around the year;
And all its kind, where-e'er they be,
Be nam'd for ever Venus' Tree.

And honest Meg of country breeding,
Fond her fortune to be reading,
May, as to some Divinity,
Apply this consecrated tree;
Who'll, like an oracle, proclaim
Her lover's residence and name;
The colour of his hair, and trade,
Shall in a trice be all display'd.

Ev'n Willie, when he cannot gain
His mistress for affect'd disdain,
May to the wood next morn repair,
Invoke the tree by earnest pray'r;
Thrice round it run, its branches kiss;
Syne utter such a charm as this;

187

By Juno's charms,
And Cupid's arms,
I conjure thee impart,
And ease my flame
For that fair dame,
The Empress of my heart:

Tell me if I
From her may fly,
Or once again renew
My wonted art,
To gain her heart,
And her disdain pursue.

To the Right Honourable the Lord Kinnaird, on his commencing Master of Masons, &c.

Hail! noble patron of true Masonry,
Fame's temple-builder to posterity!
Fresh in records shall be your noble name
Ingrav'd on pillars of immortal fame.

Destin'd by Heav'n, that myst'ry to revive,
With fresher glory in the place to live:
Sure fervent love to ancient rules and laws,
Made you thus honour and support the cause.

This secret grand, by kings rever'd of old,
Unpurchas'd still for Lydian piles of gold,
Now, by your care, in its full glory stands,
And mocks the blow of sacrilegious hands:
Despises founds and dreadful shocks of war,
The storms of time, and tempests from afar.

This, all true Masons, unconstrain'd, will own,
When your proceedings are to them made known;
All in the sphere of Masonry that move,
With loud applause, your conduct shall approve.

This lodge reviv'd, and by your love allur'd,
By wholesome rules, judiciously secur'd

188

To after-ages; those unborn shall praise
The undertaking in more lofty lays.
Antiquity, with all its glorious fame,
Shall be transmitted in your noble name:
While Fame exists, yea, and shall still be shown,
What Charles Lord Kinnaird has done alone,
To rectify and to confirm, what all
Accepted Brothers fam'd or valu'd call.

End of the first part.

University of Virginia Library

I. NATURE without ART.

PART I. Containing Comical POEMS on Several Subjects.

An Account of the Author, being an Epistle to the Right Honourable Susanna Countess of Strathmore, in the Year 1727; but newly revised and corrected, with some Circumstances then omitted.

An Introduction to a Wedding SONG. To the Right Honourable the Lord ------.

The ODE.

A POEM, inscribed to the Right Honourable the Earl of Morton, on his accepting the former Ode, &c.

The DREAM.

On the Death of the Honourable Henry Crawfoord of Monorgan, who died March 1731.

The young Man's Litany.

The young Woman's Litany in Choice of an Husband.

To the Right Honourable, the Lord Gray, upon his sending me Mr Ramsay's Poems.

To two GENTLEWOMEN.

An ACROSTIC.

Another ACROSTIC.

LOVE's CURE.

A Collection of Scots Songs, being new Words adapted to old Tunes.

SONG I.

[What's all this vain world? or what boots it me]

SONG II.

[Bless'd with my dear Eliza's charms]

SONG III. TIMBER STAIRS.

SONG IV. The poor Prentice.

SONG V. Few good Fellows when Jamie's awa'.

SONG VI. The Pease Straw.

SONG VII. My Love she is the Ring-leader

SONG VIII. The Summer Evening.

SONG IX.

[On a sweet summer evening, a-walking I went]

SONG X. O'er the Muir to Meggy.

SONG XI. The Leacher's Lament.

SONG XII. The amorous Shepherd.

SONG XIII. The ADMIRATION.

SONG XIV. The COMMENDATION.

SONG XV.

[In former ages, when]

SONG XVI. The COMPLAINT.

SONG XVII. The Auld Goodman.

Her REPLY.

SONG XVIII. The FIDELITY.

SONG XIX. The forlorn MAID.

SONG XX. The BANKS of TAY.

An Epitaph on that puissant Duke of Berwick, Great Marshal of France, who, at the siege of Phillipsburgh, viewing the trenches, had his head shot off by a cannon ball, in the year 1734.

CHRIST's KIRK on the GREEN.

CANTO IV.

An Epistle to Mr P---, one of his Majesty's Officers of Excise, on his ridiculing my Verses.

A Letter to J--- B--- an old Batchelor, persuading him to marry.

Written by a Gentleman upon seeing some of my Verses.

My ANSWER.

An Epistle to Mr Allan Ramsay.

Said on WRITING.

An Epistle to a Friend newly married, against the will of his Wife's Friends.

To the Laird of ABERCAIRNIE.

Upon our jolly Change-Keeper leaving the place.

A Tale of two Brothers, and their Posterity.

The AUTHOR's Wish.

On FORTUNE.

Upon the fair Sex.

PROVERBS, Chap. xxxi. Verse 10.

The honest Country-man's Meditation, as he was humming it over alone in Words at Resting-time.

Thirty Riddles, with their Expositions.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.