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Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair,
Sball ever be my muse's care ;
Their titles a' are empty show ;
Gie me my highland lassie, 0.

Within the glen sae bushy, 0,
Aboon the plain sae rushy, O,
I set me down wi' right good will ;
To sing my highland lassie, 0.

Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine,
Yon palace and yon gardens fine !
The world then the love should know
I bear my highland lassie, 0.

Within the glen, &c.

But fickle fortune frowns on me,

And I maun cross the raging sea : But while my crimson currents flow, I'll love my highland lassie, o.

Within the glen, &c.

Altho' thro' foreign climes I'range,
I know her heart will never change,
For her' bosom búrns with honour's glow,
My faithful highland lassie, o.

Within the glen, &c.

For her l'II dare the billow's roár,
For her I'll trace a distant shore,

That Indian wealth may lustre throw
Around the highland lassie, 0.

Within the glen, &c.

She has my heart, she has my hand,
By sacred truth and honour's band !
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,
I'm thine, my highland lassie, 0.

Farewell the glen sae bushy, 0!
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O!
To other lands I now must go,
To sing my highland lassie, 0 !




NOVEMBER 4, 1793.

OLD Winter with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer prefer'd;
What bave I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night's,horrid car drags, dreary, slow ;
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning,

Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil,
To counterbalance all this evil ;

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Give me, and I've no more to say,
Give me Maria's natal day!
That brilliant gift will so enrich me,
Spring, summer, autumn, cannot match me;
"Tis done! says Jove ; so ends my story,
And Winter once rejoic'd in glory.


Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast,

On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; My plaidie to the angry airt,

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee: Or did misfortune's bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom,

To share it a', to share it a'.

Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare; The desert were a paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. Or were I monarch o' the globe,

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign ; The brightest jewel in my crown,

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. Vol. XXXIX.





With Books which the Bard presented her.

Tuine be the volumes, Jessy fair,
And with them take the poet's prayer;
That fate may in her fairest page,
With every kindliest, best presage
Of future bliss enrol thy name :
With native worth, and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution still aware
Of ill—but chief, man's felon snare;
All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind-
These be thy guardian and reward ;
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard.

SONNET, written on the 25th of January, 1795,

the Birth-day of the Author, on hearing a Thrush sing in a morning Walk.

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Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough ;

Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain :

See aged Winter, ’mid his surly reign,
At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear,

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart,

Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day!

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care ;
The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with

thee I'll share.

EXTEMPORE, to Mr. S**E, on refusing to dine

with him, after having been promised the first of Company, and the first of Cookery; 17th December, 1795.

No more of your guests, be they titled or not,

And cook’ry the first in the nation;
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit,

Is proof to all other temptation.

T'O Mr. S** E, with a Present of a Dozen of Porter.

O, had the malt thy streng h of mind,

Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 'Twere drink for first of human kind,

A gift that e’en for S**e were fit.

Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries.

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