I wad na been surprised to spy You on an auld wife's flainen toy; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,

On's wylie coat; But miss's fine Lunardi! fie,

How dare ye do't?

O Jenny, dinna toss your bead, An' set your beauties a’abread! Ye little ken what cursed speed

The blastie's makin' Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,

Are notice takin!

To serve their king and country weel,
By word, or pen, or pointed steel !
May health and peace, with mutual rays,
Shine on the evening o' his days;
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe,
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow !"

I will not wind a lang conclusion,
Wi' complimentary effusion :
But whilst your wishes and endeavours
Are blest with fortune's smiles and favours,
I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent,
Your much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which powers above prevent!) That iron-hearted carl, want, Attended in his grim advances By sad mistakes, and black mischances, While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am, Your humble servant then no more ; For who would humbly serve the poor? But by a poor man's hopes in heaven! While recollection's power is given, If, in the vale of humble life, The victim sad of fortune's strife, I, through the tender gushing tear, Should recognise my master dear, If friendless, low, we meet together, Then, sir, your hand-my friend and brother!

O wad some power the giftie gie us, To see oursels as others see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us

And foolish notion; What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us

And e'en devotion!

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.

I.
Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet

Sat legislation's sovereign powers ! From marking wildly-scatter'd lowers

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours,

I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

II. Here wealth still swells the golden tide,

As busy trade his labours plies; There architecture's noble pride

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; Here justice, from her native skies,

High wields her balance and her rod; There learning, with his eagle eyes,

Seeks science in her coy abode.

TO A LO USE.
ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH,

HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?
Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely

Owre gauze and lace;
Though faith, I fear ye dine but sparely

On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn'd by saunt and sinner,
How dare ye set your fit upon her,

Sae fine a lady?
Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner,

On some poor body.
Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ;
Where ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle
Wi' ither kindred, jumpin cattle,

In shoals and nations ;
Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle

Your thick plantations.
Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right

Till ye've got on it,
The vera tapmost, towering height

O'miss's bonnet. My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump and gray as onie grozet ; O for some rank, mercurial rozet,

Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't,

Wad dress your droddum!

III.
Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind,

Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail,

Or modest merit's silent claim ; And never may their sources fail !

And never envy blot their name!

IV. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn!

Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy! Fair B-strikes th' adoring eye,

Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine I see the sire of love on high, And own his work indeed divine !

V. There, watching high the least alarms,

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar;

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And sae about him there I spier't ; Then a' that ken't him round declared

He had ingine, That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,

It was sae fine.

That set him to a pint of ale, An' either douce or merry tale, Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel,

Or witty catches, 'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale,

He had few matches.

Like some bold veteran, gray in arms,

And mark'd with many a seamy scar;
The ponderous walls and massy bar,

Grim rising o'er the rugged rock;
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repellid th’invader's shock.

VI.
With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,

I view that noble, stately dome, Where Scotia's kings of other years,

Famed heroes! had their royal home:
Alas! how changed the times to come!

Their royal name low in the dust!
Their hapless race wild-wandering roam!
Though rigid law cries out, 'Twas just !

VII.
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,

Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Through hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : E’en I who sing in rustic lore,

Haply my sires have left their shed,
And faced grim danger's loudest roar,
Bold following where your fathers led !

VIII.
Edina! Scotia’s darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and towers,
Where once beneath a monarch's feet

Sat legislation's sovereign powers ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers,

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours,

I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

Then up I gat, an' swoor an' aith, Though I should pawn my pleugh and graith, Or die a cadger pownie's death,

At some dyke-back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith

To hear your crack.

But, first an' foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle fell,

Though rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's oel,

Does well eneugh.

I am nae poet, in a sense,
But just a rhymer, like, by chance,
An' hae to learning nae pretence,

Yet, what the matter? Whene'er my muse does on me glance,

I jingle at her.

EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.—APRIL 1st, 1785.

Your critic folk may cock their nose, And say, “ How can you e'er propose, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,

To mak a sang ?”
But, by your leaves, my learned foes,

Ye're may be wrang.
What's a' your jargon o' your schools,
Your Latin names for horns an' stools;
If honest nature made you fools,

What sairs your grammari: Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools,

Or knappin hammers.
A set o’ dull conceited hashes,
Confuse their brains in college classes !
They gang in stirks, and come out asses,

Plain truth to speak;
An' syne they think to climb Parnassu;

By dint o'Greek !

WHILE briers and woodbines budding green, do' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, An' morning poussie whiddin seen,

Inspire my muse,
This freedom in an unknown frien',

I pray excuse.
On fasten-een we had a rockin,
To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin;
And there was muckle fun an' jokin,

Ye need na doubt;
At length we had a hearty yokin

At sang about.
There was ae sang, amang the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleased me best,
That some kind husband had addrest

To some sweet wife:
It thrill'd the heart-strings through the breast,

A' to the life. l're scarce heard aught describes sae weel, What generous, manly bosoms feel ; Thought I, “ Can this be Pope, or Steele,

Or Beattie's wark !" They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel

About Muirkirk.

Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire, That's a' the learning I desire ; Then though I drudge through dub an' mire

At pleugh or cart, My muse, though hamely in attire,

May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee, Or bright Lapraik's my friend to be,

If I can hit it ! That would be lear eneugh for me,

If I could get it.

My senses wad be in a creel Should I but dare a hope to speel Wi’ Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield,

The braes o' fame; Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel,

A deathless name.

Or is't the paughty, feudal thane,
Wi' rufied sark an' glancin' cane,
Wba thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,

But lordly stalks,
While caps and bonnets aff are ta’en,

As by he walks ?
* O Thou wha gies us each guid gift!
Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift,
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift,

Through Scotland wide ; Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift,

In a' their pride !"
Were this the charter of our state,
* On pain o' hell be rich an' great,"
Dampation then would be our fate

Beyond remead;
But, thanks to heaven! that's no the gate

We learn our creed.

(0 Fergusson! thy glorious parts Ill suited law's dry, musty arts ! My curse upon your whunstane hearts,

Ye Enbrugh gentry! The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes,

Wad stow'd his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or lasses gie my heart a screed, As whyles they're like to be my deed,

(O sad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed;

It gies me ease.
Auld Coila now may fidge fu'fain,
She's gotten poets o' her ain,
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,

But tune their lays,
Till echoes a' resound again

Her weel-sung praise. Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measured style; She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle

Beside New Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil

Besouth Magellan.

For thus the royal mandate ran, When first the human race began, * The social, friendly, honest man,

Whate'er he be,
Tis he fulfils great nature's plan,

An' none but he !"
O mandate glorious and divine !
The ragged followers of the nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shine

In glorious light,
While sordid sons of Mammon's line

Are dark as night. Though here they scrape, an' squeeze, an'

growl, Their worthless nievefu' of a soul May in some future carcass howl,

The forest's fright;
Or in some day-detesting owl

May shun the light.
Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,
To reach their native, kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys,

In some mild sphere,
Still closer knit in friendship's tie

Each passing year.

Ramsay an' famous Fergusson Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; Yarrow an' Tweed to monie a tune,

Owre Scotland rings, While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon,

Naebody sings.

Th’Illyssus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine Glide sweet in monie a tunefu’line! But, Willie, set your fit to mine,

An' cock your crest, We'll gar our streams and burnies shine

Up wi' the best.

We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown with heather bells, Her banks an’ braes, her dens and dells,

Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells,

Frae southron billies.

TO W. $*****N,

OCHILTREE.

May, 1785. I got your letter, winsome Willie ; Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; Though I maun say't, I wad be silly,

An' unco vain,
Should I believe, my coaxin' billie,

Your flatterin strain.
But I'se believe ye kindly meant it,
I sud be laith to think ye hinted
Ironic satire, sidelin's sklented

On my poor musie;
Thougn in sic phrasin' terms ye’ve penn'd it,

I scarce excuse ye.

At Wallace' name what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! Oft have our fearless fathers strode

By Wallace’side, Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod,

Or glorious dyed.

O, sweet are Coila's haughs an’ woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin hares, in amorous whids,

Their loves enjoy, While through the braes the cushat croods,

With wailfu'cry!

This past for certain, undisputed ;
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it,
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it,

An'ca'd it wrang; An' muckle din there was about it,

Baith loud and lang.

Some herds, weel learn' upo' the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk,

An' out o' sight, An' backlins-comin, to the leuk,

She grew mair bright.

This was denied, it was affirm'd; The herds an' hissels were alarmn'd: The reverend gray-beards raved an' storm'd,

That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform'd

Than their auld daddies.

E'en winter bleak has charms for me, When winds rave through the naked tree; Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree

Are hoary gray ;
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,

Darkening the day!
O nature ! a' thy shows an' forms
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms !
Whether the simmer kindly warms

Wi’ life an' light,
Or winter howls, in gusty storms,

The lang, dark night!
The muse, nae poet ever fand her,
Till by himsel he learn'd to wander,
Adown some trotting burn's meander,

An' no think lang;
O sweet! to stray, an' pensive ponder

A heartfelt sang!
The warly race may drudge an' drive,
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive,
Let me fair nature's face descrive,

And I, wi' pleasure,
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive,

Bum owre their treasure. Fareweel,“ my rhyme-composing brither!" We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: Now let us lay our heads thegither,

In love fraternal: May envy wallop in a tether,

Black fiend, infernal ! While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes; While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies : While terra firma, on her axis,

Diurnal turns,
Count on a friend, in faith an' practice,

In Robert Burns.

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks ; An monie a fallow gat his licks,

Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks,

Were hang'd an' burnt.

This game was play'd in monie lands, An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, That faith the youngsters took the sands

Wi’ nimble shanks, The lairds forbade, by strict commands,

Sic bluidy pranks.

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, Till now amaist on every knowe,

Ye'll find ane placed ; An' some, their new-light fair avow,

Just quite barefaced. Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin ; Their zealous herds are vex'd an'sweatin; Mysel, I've even seen them greetin

Wi' girnin spite, To hear the moon sae sadly lied on

By word an' write. But shortly they will cowe the louns ! Some auld-light herds in neebor towns Are mind't in things they ca' balloons,

To tak a flight, An' stay a month amang the moons

An' see them right.

POSTSCRIPT.
My memory's no worth a preen;
I had amaist forgotten clean,
Ye bade me write you what they mean

By this “new-light," 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been

Maist like to fight. In days when mankind were but callans At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance,

Or rules to gie, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans,

Like you or me. In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o'shoon, Wore by degrees, till her last roon,

Gaed past their viewing, An' shortly after she was done,

They gat a new one.

Guid observation they will gie them ; An' when the auld moon's gaun to leave them, The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' the

Just i’ their pouch,
An' when the new-light billies see them,

I think they'll crouch!
Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter
Is naething but a “ moonshine matter;"
But though dull prose-folk Latin splatter

In logic tulzie,
I hope, we bardies ken some better,

Than mind sic brulzie.

* "New-light" is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously.