Had I a statue been o' stane,

His darin look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, The sacred posy-Libertie !

And frae his harp sic strains did flow,

Might rous'd the slumbering dead to hear; But oh, it was a tale of woe,

As ever met a Briton's ear!

He sang wi' joy his former day,

He weeping wail'd his latter times;
But what he said it was nae play,
I winna ventur't in my rhymes.

COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER,

WITH A PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE.

REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,

Of Stuart, a name once respected,

A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart,

But now 'tis despised and neglected.

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal;

A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal.

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne; My fathers have fallen to right it;

Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it.

Still in prayers for K- G

join,

I most heartily

The Q-, and the rest of the gentry,

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; Their title's avow'd by my country.

But why of this epocha make such a fuss,

But loyalty truce! we're on dangerous ground,
Who knows how the fashions may alter?
The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring us a halter.

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard,
A trifle scarce worthy your care;
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard,
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye,
And ushers the long dreary night;

But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky,
Your course to the latest is bright.

THERE was once a day, but old Time then was young,

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, From some of your northern deities sprung, (Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?) From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would: Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good.

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war,

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew: Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore,Whoe'er shall provoke thee, the' encounter shall rue!'

With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn, But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort,

Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn.

Long quiet she reign'd; till thitherward steers
A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand:
Repeated, successive, for many long years,

They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the

land:

Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry,

They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside; She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly, The daring invaders they fled or they died.

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore;

The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth

To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore: O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd, No arts could appease them, no arms could repel ; But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd,

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell.

The cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose,
With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife;
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose,

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life: The Anglian lion, the terror of France,

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd, the Tweed's silver flood;

But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance,
He learned to fear in his own native wood.

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : For brave Caledonia immortal must be ;

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose, The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; But brave Caledoniona's the hypothenuse;

Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them always.

The following Poem was written to a Gentleman who had sent him a Newspaper, and offered to continue it free of Expense.

KIND Sir, I've read your paper through,
And faith, to me, 'twas really new!
How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted?
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted,
To ken what French mischief was brewin;
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin;
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie works
Atween the Russians and the Turks;
Or if the Swede, before he halt,
Would play anither Charles the twalt :
If Denmark, any body spak o't;
Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't;
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin,
How libbet Italy was singin;

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss,
Were sayin or takin aught amiss:

Or how our merry lads at hame,

In Britain's court kept up the game :
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him!
Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ;
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin,
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in;
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin,
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin;