And sock or buskin skelp alang

To death or marriage;

Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang
But wi' miscarriage?

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives;
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives
Horatian fame;

In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives
Ev'n Sappho's flame.

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches;
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches
O' heathen tatters:

I pass by hunders, nameless wretches,
That ape their betters.

In this braw age o' wit and lear,

Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair
Blaw sweetly in its native air

And rural grace;

And wi' the far-famed Grecian, share
A rival place?

Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan-
There's ain; come forrit, honest Allan!
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,
A chiel sae clever;

The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tantallan,
But thou's for ever!

Thou paints auld Nature to the nines,

In thy sweet Caledonian lines;

Nae gowden stream through myrtles twines,

Where Philomel,

While nightly breezes sweep the vines,

lier griefs will tell!

dash

one

dwarf

who ballads

dresses, spark

[ling hundreds

learning

none, more

blow

one, lad forward skulk, door

man so

golden

TO A KISS.

HUMID seal of soft affections,
Tend'rest pledge of future bliss,
Dearest tie of young connections,
Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss.
Speaking silence, dumb confession,
Passion's birth, and infant's play,
Dove-like fondness, chaste concession,
Glowing dawn of brighter day.

Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action,
When ling'ring lips no more must join
What words can ever speak affection,
So thrilling and sincere as thine!

LAMENT,

WRITTEN WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE SCOTLAND.

O'ER the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying,
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave,
What woes wring my heart while intently surveying
The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave.

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail,

Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native shore;
Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale.
The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more.

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander,
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave;
No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her,
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave.

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast,
I haste with the storm to a far distant shore;
Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest,
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.

AN EXTEMPORE EFFUSION,

ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE.

SEARCHING auld wives' barrels,

Och, hon! the day!

dirty yeast

moving, children

stones

TO MY BED.

THOU bed, in which I first began
To be that various creature-Man!
And when again the Fates decree,
The place where must cease to be;-
When sickness comes, to whom I fly,
To soothe my pain, or close mine eye;—
When cares surround me, where I weep,
Or loose them all in balmy sleep ;-
When sore with labour, whom I court,
And to thy downy breast resort-
The centre thou-where grief and pain,
Disease and rest, alternate reign.
Oh, since within thy little space,
So many various scenes take place;

Lessons as useful shalt thou teach,
As sages dictate-churchmen preach;
And man, convinced by thee alone,
This great important truth shall own!
"That thin partitions do divide
The bounds where good and ill reside;
That nought is perfect here below;
But BLISS still bordering upon WOE.

LINES

SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED.

THE friend whom wild from wisdom s way.
The fumes of wine infuriate send

(Not moony madness more astray)—
Who but deplores that hapless friend?

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part,

Ah, why should I such scenes outlive!
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!
'Tis thine to pity and forgive.

THE RUINED MAID'S LAMENT.

Он, meikle do I rue, fause love,

Oh sairly do I rue,

That e'er I heard your flattering tongue,

That e'er your face I knew.

Oh, I hae tint my rosy cheeks,
Likewise my waist sae sma';

And I hae lost my lightsome heart,

That little wist a fa'.

Now I maun thole the scornfu' sneer

O'mony a saucy quean;

much, regret, false

lost

must bear many, prond

When, gin the truth were a but kent,
Her life's been warse than mine.

Whene'er my father thinks on me,
He stares into the wa';
My mother, she has ta'en the bed
Wi' thinking on my fa'.

Whene'er I hear my father's foot,
My heart wad burst wi' pain;
Whene'er I meet my mither's ee,
My tears rin down like rain.
Alas! sae sweet a tree as love

Sic bitter fruit should bear!
Alas! that e'er a bonnie face
Should draw a sauty tear!

*

if, known

Worse

taken

would

eye

salt

ON THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY.

How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace

Discarded remnant of a race

Once great in martial story?

His forbears' virtues all contrasted-
The very name of Douglas blasted-
His that inverted glory.

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore;

But he has superadded more,

And sunk them in contempt;

Follies and crimes have stain'd the name,
But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim,
From ought that's good exempt.

ancestors

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CHILD.

Oн sweet be thy sleep in the land of the grave,

My dear little angel, for ever;

For ever-oh no! let not man be a slave,

His hopes from existence to sever.

Though cold be the clay where thou pillow'st thy head,

In the dark silent mansions of sorrow,

The spring shall return to thy low narrow bed,
Like the beam of the day-star to-morrow.

The flower-stem shall bloom like thy sweet seraph form,
Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom,

When thou shrunk'st frae the scowl of the loud winter storm,
And nestled thee close to that bosom.

Oh still I behold thee, all lovely in death,

Reclined on the lap of thy mother;

When the tear trickled bright, when the short stifled breath, Told how dear ye were aye to each other.

My child, thou art gone to the home of thy rest,

Where suffering no longer can harm ye,

Where the songs of the good, where the hymns of the blest,
Through an endless existence shall charm thee.

While he, thy fond parent, must sighing sojourn,
Through the dire desert regions of sorrow,
O'er the hope and misfortune of being to mourn,
And sigh for this life's latest morrow.

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S POCKET-BOOK.

GRANT me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live,
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give,
Deal freedom's sacred treasures free as air,
Till slave and despot be but things which were.

FRAGMENT.

THE black-headed eagle

As keen as a beagle,

Ile hunted owre height and owre howe;

But fell in a trap

On the braes o' Gemappe,

E'en let him come out as he dowe.

hollow

WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS,

ON THE OCCASION OF A NATIONAL THANKSGIVING FOR A
NAVAL VICTORY.

YE hypocrites! are these your pranks?-
To murder men, and gie God thanks!
For shame! gie o'er, proceed no further-
God won't accept your thanks for murther!

THE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES.

YE true "Loyal natives," attend to my song
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long:
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt;

But where is your shield from the darts o' contempt?

car