How ill exchang'd for riper times, Of others, or my own! Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, Ye little know the ills ye court, That active man engage! The fears all, the tears all, Of dim-declining age. WILLIE CHALMERS. Wr' braw new branks in mickle pride, And up Parnassus pechin'; Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush, Then up he gets, and off he sets For sake o' Willie Chalmers. I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name I am nae stranger to your fame Nor his warm urgèd wishes. Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet, His honest heart enamours, And faith ye'll no be lost a whit, Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers. Auld Truth hersel might swear ye're fair, 60 70 IO 20 I doubt na fortune may you shore And band upon his breastie : Some gapin' glowrin' country laird My bonnie maid, before ye wed Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp Forgive the Bard! my fond regard And every year come in mair dear 30 40 A BARD'S EPITAPH. Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, And owre this grassy heap sing dool, Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, O, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here heave a sigh. Is there a man whose judgment clear, Wild as the wave; Here pause—and, thro' the starting tear, The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, And softer flame; But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain'd his name! Reader, attend! whether thy soul Know prudent cautious self-control EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE. O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine, Your dreams an' tricks Will send you, Korah-like a-sinkin', Straught to auld Nick's. 30 20 ΙΟ Ye hae sae mony cracks an' cants, An' fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! That holy robe, O dinna tear it! Spare 't for their sakes wha aften wear it, But your curst wit, when it comes near it, Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, Frae ony unregenerate heathen Like you or I. I've sent you here some rhyming ware, I will expect Yon sang; ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care, Tho', faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! An' danc'd my fill! I'd better gane an' sair'd the king 'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, An' brought a paitrick to the grun', And, as the twilight was begun, Thought nane would ken. ΙΟ 20 30 40 The poor wee thing was little hurt; Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't; But, Deil-may-care! Somebody tells the poacher-court I was suspected for the plot; I scorn'd to lie; So gat the whissle o' my groat, An' pay't the fee. But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, The game shall I vow an' swear! As soon's the clockin'-time is by, For my gowd guinea; Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! "Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame Scarce thro' the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim, An' thole their blethers! It pits me aye as mad's a hare; When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient. 60 70 |