In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane1 of the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;2
But little wist she Maggie's mettle-
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain gray tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, tak heed;
Whene'er to drink you are inclin❜d,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS
THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES
OF THAT KINGDOM.

HEAR, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's;-

If there's a hole in a' your coats,

I rede you tent it:3

A chield's amang you, taking notes,

If in

And, faith, he'll prent it.

your bounds ye chance to light
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel' wight,
O' stature short, but genius bright,

That's he, mark weel

And wow! he has an unco slight

O' cauk and keel.5

1 It is a well-known fact, that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any farther than the middle of the next running stream. It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back.-R. B.

I advise you to look to it.

2 Effort.
4 Plump.

5 Chalk and red clay.

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,'
Or kirk deserted by its riggin,
It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in

Some eldritch part,
Wi' deils, they say, Lord safe's! colleaguin
At some black art.-

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer,
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamor,

And

you deep read in hell's black grammar,
Warlocks and witches;

Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,

Ye midnight bitches.

It's tauld he was a sodger bred,
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled;
But now he's quat the spurtle-blade,
And dog-skin wallet,

And ta'en the-Antiquarian trade,

I think they call it.

He has a fouth3 o' auld nick-nackets;
Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets,*
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,5
A towmont gude,

And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,
Before the Flood.

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished the gender
O' Balaam's ass;

A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor,

Weel shod wi' brass.

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg,
The cut of Adam's philibeg;

The knife that nicket Abel's craig

He'll prove you fully,

It was a faulding jocteleg,"

Or lang-kail gullie.R—

1 Building. Vide his "Antiquities of Scotland."-R. B.

2 Has quitted.

6 A twelvemonth.

3 Plenty.

7 Clasp-knife.

* Vide his "Treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapons."-R. B.

5 Nails.

8 Large knife.

But wad ye see him in his glee-
For meikle glee and fun has he,-
Then set him down, and twa or three

Gude fellows wi' him;

And port, O port! shine thou a wee,

And then ye'll see him!

Now, by the Pow'rs o' verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose!—
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,

They sair misca' thee;

I'd take the rascal by the nose,

Wad say, Shame fa' thee!

ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT.1

April, 1789.

INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!

Go, live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
The bitter little that of life remains ;

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn,
And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.

1 I have just put the last hand to a little poem, which I think will be something to your taste. One morning lately as I was out pretty early in the fields sowing some grass seeds, I heard the burst of a shot from a neighbouring plantation, and presently a poor little wounded hare came crippling by me.-R. B.

ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING
HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS.

WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green,
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian strains between:

While Summer, with a matron grace,
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
The progress of the spiky blade:

While Autumn, benefactor kind,
By Tweed erects his aged head,
And sees, with self-approving mind,
Each creature on his bounty fed:

While maniac Winter rages o'er

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,
Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:

So long, sweet Poet of the year,

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;
While Scotia, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

TO MISS CRUIKSHANK, A VERY YOUNG LADY; WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR.

gay,

BEAUTEOUS rose-bud, young and
Blooming in thy early May,1
Never may'st thou, lovely Flow'r,
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r!

Never Boreas' hoary path,

Never Eurus' pois'nous breath,

Never baleful stellar lights,
Taint thee with untimely blights!

Never, never reptile thief

Riot on thy virgin leaf!

1 The "dear little Jeanie" of one of his letters; her father was a Master in the High School at Edinburgh.

Nor even Sol too fiercely view
Thy bosom blushing still with dew!
May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem,
Richly deck thy native stem;
Till some ev'ning, sober, calm,
Dropping dews, and breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings,
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,
Shed thy dying honours round,
And resign to parent earth

The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.

ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ., BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR.

SAD thy tale, thou idle page,
And rueful thy alarms:

Death tears the brother of her love
From Isabella's arms.

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew,
The morning rose may blow;
But cold successive noontide blasts
May lay its beauties low.

Fair on Isabella's morn

The sun propitious smil❜d;

But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
Succeeding hopes beguil'd.

Fate oft tears the bosom chords,
That Nature finest strung:
So Isabella's heart was form'd,
And so that heart was wrung.

Dread Omnipotence, alone,

Can heal the wound He gave ;
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes
To scenes beyond the grave.

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow,
And fear no withering blast;
There Isabella's spotless worth
Shall happy be at last.