Mine was the' insensate frenzied part, POEM ON LIFE. ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER, DUMFRIES, 1796. My honour'd colonel, deep I feel The steep Parnassus, Surrounded thus by bolus pill, And potion glasses. O what a canty warld were it; Would pain and care, and sickness spare it ; As they deserve: (And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret; Syne wha wad starve ?) Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, I've found her still, Ay wavering like the willow wicker, 'Tween good and ill. Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on Wi' felon ire; Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, He's off like fire. Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair, Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare O' hell's damn'd waft. Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by, And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, And hellish pleasure; Already in thy fancy's eye, Thy sicker treasure. Soon heels o'er gowdie! in he gangs, And murdering wrestle, As dangling in the wind, he hangs A gibbet's tassel. But lest you think I am uncivil, To plague you with this draunting drivel, I quat my pen: The Lord preserve us frae the devil! Amen! amen! ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACH. Mr curse upon thy venom'd stang, Wi' gnawing vengeance; Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines! When fevers burn, or ague freezes, But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases, Ay mocks our groan! Adown my beard the slavers trickle! While raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup. O' a' the num'rous human dools, Sad sight to see! The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree. Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, And ranked plagues their numbers tell, Thou, Tooth-ach, surely bear'st the bell O thou grim mischief-making chiel, In gore a shoe-thick ;- Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A towmond's Tooth-ach! SONG. Tune, Morag.' O WHA is she that lo'es me, CHORUS O that's the lassie o' my heart, If thou shalt meet a lassie, In grace and beauty charming, Ere while thy breast sae warming, If thou hadst heard her talking, But her by thee is slighted; O that's, &c. If thou hast met this fair one; If every other fair one, But her thou hast deserted, SONG. JOCKEY'S ta'en the parting kiss, Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, Plashy sleets and beating rain ! Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, Drifting o'er the frozen plain! When the shades of evening creep O'er the day's fair gladsome e'e, Sound and safely may he sleep, Sweetly blithe his waukening be! |