THE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE.

IN Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles,
The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a',
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess,
In Lon'on or Paris, they'd gotten it a'.
Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine,
Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw,
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton ;
But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'.

AN EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

A BROTHER POET,

WHILE winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw,
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,

And hing us owre the ingle,

I set me down to pass the time,
And spin a verse or two o' rhyme,
In hamely westlin jingle.

While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the great folk's gift,
That live sae bien and snug:

I tent less, and want less

Their roomy fireside;
But hanker and canker

To see their HORRID pride.

It's hardly in a body's power
To keep, at times, frae being sour,

To see how things are shared;

How best o' chiels are whiles in want,

While coufs on countless thousands rant,

And ken na how to war't;

But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,
Though we hae little gear

We're fit to win our daily bread,
As lang's we're hale and fier:

in, chimney nook

little

so comfortably

notice

from

fellows, sometimes fools know not, spend

trouble

wealth

long, sound

16

"Mair speir na, nor fear na,"*
Auld age ne'er mind a feg,
The last o't, the warst o't,
Is only but to beg.

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en

When banes are crazed, and bluid is thin,

Is doubtless great distress!

Yet then content could make us blest;
Even then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.

The honest heart that's free frae a'
Intended fraud or guile,
However fortune kick the ba',
Has aye some cause to sinile:
And mind still, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma';
Nae mair then, we'll care then,
Nae farther we can fa'.

What though, like commoners of air,
We wander out we know not where,

But either house or hal'?

Yet Nature's charms, the hills and woods,

more ask not old, fig

worst

bones, blood

from

not small

no

fall

without

The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,

Are free alike to all.

In days when daisies deck the ground,

And blackbirds whistle clear,

With honest joy our hearts will bound
To see the coming year:

On bries when we please, then,
We'l sit and sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't,
And sing't when we hae dune.

It's no in titles nor in rank;
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,

To purchase peace and rest;
It's no in making muckle mair ;
It's no in books, it's no in lair,

To mak us truly blest;

If happiness hae not her seat
And centre in the breast,

We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest:

Nae treasures nor pleasures

Could make us happy lang;

hillocks

try

then

have done

much learning

The heart aye's the part aye

That makes us right or wrang.

wrong

As hardly worth their while? Alas! how aft, in haughty mood, God's creatures they oppress! Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, They riot in excess!

Baith careless and fearless

Of either heaven or hell!
Esteeming and deeming

It's a' an idle tale!

T'hen let us cheerfu' acquiesce;
Nor make our scanty pleasures less,
By pining at our state;
And even should misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some,

An's thankfu' for them yet.
They gie the wit of age to youth;
They let us ken oursel';

They make us see the naked truth,
The real guid and ill.

Though losses and crosses

Be lessons right severe,

There's wit there, ye'll get there,
Ye'll find nae other where.

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts!

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,

And flatt'ry I detest),

This life has joys for you and I;

And joys that riches ne'er could buy:

And joys the very best.

There's a' the pleasures o' the heart,
The lover and the frien';

Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!

It warms me, it charms me,
To mention but her name:
It heats me, it beets me,

And sets me a' on flame!

Oh all ye Powers who rule above!
Oh Thou whose very self art love!
Thou know'st my words sincere!

The life-blood streaming through my heart,
Or my more dear immortal part,

Is not more fondly dear!

When heart-corroding care and grief

Deprive my soul of rest,

Her dear idea brings relief

And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, all-seeing,

Oh hear my fervent prayer
Still take her, and make her
Thy most peculiar care!

of

good

both

give know

attend to would wrong

adds fuel

All hail, ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love, the friendly tear,
The sympathetic glow!

Long since, this world's thorny ways
Had numbered out my weary days,
Had it not been for you!

Fate still has blest me with a friend,
In every care and ill;

And oft a more endearing band,

A tie more tender still.

It lightens, it brightens
The tenebrific scene,
To meet with, and greet with

My Davie or my Jean!

Oh how that name inspires my style.

The words come skelpin', rank and file,

Amaist before I ken!

The ready measure rins as fine

As Phoebus and the famous Nine
Were glowrin' owre my pen.

My spaviet Pegasus will limp,

Till ance he's fairly het;

And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,
And rin an unco fit:

But lest then, the beast then

Should rue this hasty ride,

I'll light now, and dight now,

His sweaty, wizened hide.

DEATH AND DR HORNBOOK.

A TRUE STORY.

SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'd:
Ev'n ministers they hae been kenn'd,

In holy rapture,

A rousing whid at times to vend,
And nail't wi' Scripture.

The clachan yill had made me canty-

I was na fou, but just had plenty;

I stachered whyles, but yet took tent aye
To free the ditches;

And hillocks, stanes, and bushes kenn'd aye
Frae ghaists and witches.

The rising moon began to glow'r

The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns, wi' a' my power,
I set mysel;

But whether she had three or four.
I could na tell.

dark

hastening almost, know

runs

staring over spavin'd

warm hobble

at a good pace

wipe withered

from

known

fib

village ale, merry drunk

staggered, heed

avoid stones, knew ghosts

stare

out-over