Dalrymple has been lang our fae,
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae,
And that FELL rascal ca'd M'Quhae,
And baith the Shaws,

That aft hae made us black and blae,
Wi' vengefu' paws.

Auld Wodrow lang has hatched mischief,
We thought aye death wad bring relief,
But he has gotten, to our grief,

Ane to succeed him,

A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef;
I meikle dread him.

And mony a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain would openly rebel,
Forby turn-coats amang oursel;
There's Smith for ane,

I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill,
And that ye'll fin'.

Oh a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills,

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,
Come, join your counsel and your skills,
To cowe the lairds,

And get the brutes the powers themsels
To choose their herds.

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
And Learning in a woody dance,

foe

much woe

both oft, bluc

one

fellow, thrash

many

besides

anmasculine

halter

And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,
That bites sae sair,

Ironio satire, sidelins sklented

On my poor Musie;

Though in sic phrasin' terms ye've penned it,

I scarce excuse ye.

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.

(Oh, Fergusson! thy glorious parts

Ill suited law's dry musty arts!

MY BAN upon your whunstane hearts,
Ye E'nbrugh gentry;

The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes
Wad stowed his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head,
Or lasses gie my heart a screed,

As whiles they're like to be my deid,
(Oh 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.

Ramsay and famous Fergusson
Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon
Yarrow and Tweed, to monie a tune,
Owre Scotland rings,

While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon,
Naebody sings.

Th' Illissus, Tiber, Thames, and Seine,
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line;

But, Willie, set your fit to mine,

And cock your crest,

We'll gar our streams and burnies shine
Up wi' the best!

We'll sing auld Coila's plains and fells,
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells.

sidelong directed

cajoling

basket

youth

whinstone Edinburgh

cards

filled

give, rive deatl

excite

Are hoary gray:

Or blinding drifts wild furious flee,

Darkening the day!

O Nature a' thy shows and forms
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!
Whether the summer kindly warms,
Wi' life and light,

Or winter howls, in gusty storms,
The lang, dark night!

The Muse, nae poet ever fand her,
Till by himsel he learned to wander,
Adown some trotting burn's meander,
And no think lang;

O sweet to stray, and pensive ponder
A heart-felt sang!

The warly race may drudge and drive,
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, and 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!"

bore the bell fellows

walking in blood

meadows linnets

dove coos

no, found

worldly jostle, push

describe

buzz over

brother

We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither: too, unknown, each

Now let us lay our heads thegither,

In love fraternal;

May Envy wallop in a tether,

Black fiend internal !

* Nimble frisking movements of the hars

[other

quiver, halter