Frightin' awa your deucks an' geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An gar the tatter'd gypsies pack
Wi' a' their bastarts on their back!
Go on, my lord! I lang to meet you,
An' in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han' assign'd your seat
'Tween Herod's hip an' Polycrate,—
Or if you on your station tarrow
Between Almagro and Pizarro,
A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't ;
An' till ye come-Your humble servant,
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY.
Now Kennedy, if foot or horse
E'er bring you in by Mauchline Corss.
Lord man, there's lasses there wad force
A hermit's fancy,
And down the gate in faith they're worse
And mair unchancy.
But as I'm sayin' please step to Dow's
And taste sic gear as Johnny brews,
Till some bit callan brings me news
That you are there,
And if we dinna had a bouze
Ise ne'er drink mair.
It's no I like to sit an' swallow,
Then like a swine to puke an' wallow,
But gie me just a true good fallow
Wi' right ingine,
And spunkie ance to make us mellow,
And then we'll shine.
Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk,
Wha rate the wearer by the cloak,
An 'sklent on poverty their joke,
Wi' bitter sneer,
Wi' you no friendship I will troke
Nor cheap nor dear.
But if, as I'm informed weel,
Ye hate as ill's the vera De'il,
The flinty hearts that canna feel
Come, Sir, here's tae you ;
Hae there's my haun' I wiss you weel,
And gude be wi' you.
ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ.
OF ARNISTON, LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF
THE COURT OF SESSION.
LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains ;
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan ;
The hollow caves return a sullen moan.
Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves,
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly;
Where to the whistling blast and water's roar,
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.
O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!
Justice, the high vice-regent of her God,
Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway'd her rod;
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow
She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe.
Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men :
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise,
And throw on poverty his cruel eyes;
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:
Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes,
Rousing elate in these degenerate times;
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:
While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong:
Hark, injured Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale,
And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied wail!
Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains,
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains :
Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign,
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,
To mourn the woes my country must endure,
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.
O, COULD I give thee India's wealth,
As I this trifle send !
Because thy joy in both would be
To share them with a friend.
But golden sands did never grace
The Heliconian stream;
Then take what gold could never buy-
An honest Bard's esteem.
ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG
IN wood and wild, ye warbling throng,
Your heavy loss deplore;
Now half-extinct your powers of song,
Sweet Echo is no more.
Ye jarring, screeching things around,
Scream your discordant joys ;
Now half your din of tuneless sound
With Echo silent lies.
LINES WRITTEN AT LOUDON MANSE.
THE night was still, and o'er the hill
The moon shone on the castle wa';
The mavis sang, while dew-drops hang
Around her, on the castle wa'.
Sae merrily they danced the ring,
Frae eenin' till the cock did craw;
And aye the o'erword o' the spring,
Was Irvine's bairns are bonie a'.
A SECOND VERSION OF THE KIRK'S ALARM.
ORTHODOX, orthodox,
Who believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience---
There's an heretic blast,
Has been blawn i' the wast,
That what is not sense must be nonsense,
That what is not sense must be nonsense.
Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac,
Ye should stretch on a rack,
To strike evil-doers wi' terror;
To join faith and sense,
Upon any pretence,
Was heretic damnable error,
Was heretic damnable error.
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