But by the L-d, tho' I fhould beg

Wi' lyart pow,

I'll laugh, an' fing, an' fhake my leg,
As lang's I dow!

Now comes the fax an' twentieth simmer, I've seen the bud upo' the timmer,

Still perfecuted by the limmer

Frae year to year;

But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,

I, Rob, am here.

Do ye envy the city-gent,

Behint a kift to lie an' fklent,

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent per cent,

An' muckle wame,

In fome bit Brugh to represent

A Baillie's name?

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, Wi' ruffl'd fark an' glancin cane,

Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,

But lordly stalks,

While caps an' bonnets aff are taen,

As by he walks?

O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift,

Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift,

'Thro' Scotland wide;

'Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna fhift,

In a' their pride!'

Were this the charter of our state, 'On pain o' hell be rich an' great,' Damnation then would be our fate,

Beyond remead;

But, thanks to Heav'n, that's no the gate

We learn our creed.

For thus the royal Mandate ran, When first the human race began, The focial, friendly, honeft man,

'Whate'er he be,

"Tis be fulfils great Nature's plan,

And none but he'

O Mandate, glorious and divine! The followers o' the ragged Nine,

Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may fhine

In glorious light,

While fordid fons o' Mammon's line

Are dark as night!

Tho' here they fcrape, an' fqueeze, an'

growl,

Their worthlefs nievefu' of a foul,

May in fome future carcafe howl,

The forest's fright;

May shun the light.

Or in fome day-detefting owl

Then L*****K and B**** arife,

may

To reach their native, kindred skies,

And fing their pleasures, hopes an' joys,

In fome mild sphere,

Still closer knit in friendship's ties

Each paffing year!

Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,

But tune their lays,

Till echoes a' refound again

Her weel-fung praise.

Nae Poet thought her worth his while, To fet her name in measur'd style;

She lay like fome unkend-of ifle

Befide New Holland,

Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil

Befouth Magellan.

Ramfay an' famous Ferguson Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon;

Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune,

Owre Scotland rings,

While Irwin, Lugar, Aire an' Doon,

Naebody fings.

Th' Illiffus, Tiber, Thames an' Seine, Glide fweet in monie a tunefu' line;

But Willie fet your fit to mine,

An' cock your crest,

We'll gar our ftreams an' burnies shine

Up wi' the best.

We'll fing auld COILA'S plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells,

Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells,

Where glorious WALLACE

Aft bure the gree, as story tells,

Frae Suthron billies.

At WALLACE' name, what Scottish blood,

But boils up in a spring-tide flood!

Oft have our fearless fathers ftrode

By WALLACE' side,

Still preffing onward, red-wat-shod,

Or glorious dy❜d!

O fweet are COILA'S haughs an' woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds,

And jinkin hares, in amorous whids,

Their loves enjoy,

While thro' the braes the cufhat croods

With wailfu' cry!