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As the trout in speckled pride,

Playful from its bosom springs; To the banks, a ruffled tide

Verges in successive rings.

Tripping through the silken grass,

O'er the path-divided dale, Mark the rose-complexion'd lass,

With her well-poised milking pail.

Linnets, with unnumber'd notes,

And the cuckoo bird with two, Tuning sweet their mellow throats,

Bid the setting sun adieu.

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Pass'd Sawney with his budget, The peer was in a car of state,

The tinker forced to trudge it.

But Sawney shall receive the praise

His lordship would parade for ; One's debtor for his dapple greys,

And t'other's shoes are paid for.


A Pastoral.

O'ER moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, and

bare, As wilder'd and weary'd I roam, A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair,

And leads me-o'er lawns-to her home:

I roand, despair,

Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had

crown'd, Green rushes were strew'd on her floor, Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly

round, And deck'd the sod seats at her door.

We sate ourselves down to a cooling repast,

Fresh fruits! and she culld me the best ; While thrown from my guard by some glances she

cast, Love slily stole into my breast.

I told my soft wishes: she sweetly reply'd,

(Ye virgins, her voice was divine!) I've rich ones rejected, and great ones deny'd,

But take me fond shepherd I'm thine.

Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek,

So simple, yet sweet, were her charms, I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,

And lock'd the dear maid in my arms.

Now jocund together we tend a few sheep,

And if, on the banks of the stream, Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep,

Her image still softens my dream.

Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills,

Delighted with pastoral views, Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils,

And point out new themes for my Muse.

To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,

. The damsel's of humble descent; The cottager, Peace, is well known for her sire,

And the shepherds have named her Content.

The Sheep and the Bramble Bush. A Fable. A thick twisted brake, in the time of a storm,

Seem'd kindly to cover a sheep : So snug, for a while, he lay shelter'd and warm,

It quietly soothed him asleep.

The clouds are now scatter'd—the winds are at

peace; The sheep to his pasture inclined : But alı! the fell thicket lays hold of his fleece,

His coat is left forfeit behind.

My friend, who the thicket of law never try'd,

Consider before you get in;
Though judgment and sentence are passid on your

. side,
By Jove you'll be fleeced to your skin.

Verses by the Author,
Written about three Weeks before his death.
Dear lad, as you run o'er my rhyme,

And see my long name at the end,
You'll cry and has Cunningham time

“ To give so much verse to his friend?"

'Tis true, the reproof, though severe,

Is just, from the letters I owe; But blameless I still may appear,

For nonsense is all I bestow,

However for better for worse,

As Damons their Chloes receive, Even take the dull lines I rehearse

They are all a poor friend has to give.

The drama and I have shook hands,
We have parted, no more to engage;
Submissive I met her commands

For nothing can cure me of age.

My sunshine of youth is no more!

My mornings of pleasure are fled ! 'Tis painful my fate to endure

A pension supplies me with bread !

Dependant at length on the man

Whose fortunes I struggled to raise ! I conquer my pride as I can

His charity merits my praise !

His bounty proceeds from his heart;

'Tis principle prompts the supplyHis kindness exceeds my desert,

And often suppresses a sigh,

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