But, L-d, remember me and mine
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine,
Excell'd by nane,

An' a' the glory shall be thine :

Amen, amen.

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE.

HERE Holy Willie's sair-worn clay
Tak's up its last abode;

His saul has ta'en some other way,
I fear the left-hand road.

Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun,
Poor silly body, see him!

Nae wonder he's as black's the grun',
Observe wha's standin' wi' him.

Your brunstane devilship I see,
Has got him there before ye;
But haud your nine-tail cat a wee,
Till ance you've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye ha'e nane;
Justice, alas! has gi'en him e'er,
And mercy's day is gane:

But hear me, sir, de'il as you are,

Look something to your credit;

A coof like him would stain your name,
If it were ken'd you did it.

LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS,

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green,
On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white

Out o'er the grassy lea:

Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,

And glads the azure skies;

But nocht can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
Make woodland echoes ring;
The mavis mild, wi' many a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest;
In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae:
The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their sweets amang;
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang.

I was the Queen o' bonnie France,
Where happy I ha'e been;
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn,
As blythe lay down at e'en:
And I'm the Sov'reign of Scotland,

And monie a traitor there:
Yet here I lie in foreign band
And never-ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman!
My sister and my fae,

Grim Vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword
That through thy soul shall gae:

The weeping blood in woman's breast
Was never known to thee;

Nor th' balm that drops on wounds of woe

Frae woman's pitying e'e.

My son my son, may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine;

And may those pleasures gild thy reign,

That ne'er wad blink on mine;

God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,
Or turn their hearts to thee;

And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,
Remember him for me!

Oh! soon, to me, may summer suns
Nae mair light up the morn!

Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds

Wave o'er the yellow corn!

And in the narrow house of death
Let winter round me rave;

And the next flowers that deck the spring,
Bloom on my peaceful grave!

THE HOLY FAIR*,

A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty Observation;

And secret hung, with poison'd crust,
The Dirk of Defamation;
A mask that like the gorget show'd
Dye-varying on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion.

HYPOCRISY A-LA-MODE.

UPON a simmer Sunday morn,

When Nature's face was fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
And snuff the caller air?
The rising sun owre Galston muirs,
Wi' glorious light was glintin';
The hares were hirpling down the furs,
The lav'rocks they were chantin'

Fu' sweet that day.

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,
To see a scene sae gay,

Three hizzies, early at the road,
Cam' skelpin' up the way:
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,

But ane wi' lyart lining;

The third that gaed a-wee aback,

Was in the fashion shining,

Fu' gay that day.

The twa appear'd like sisters twin,
In feature, form, and claes;
Their visage wither'd, lang, and thin,
And sour as ony slaes;

The third cam up, hap-stap-an'-loup,

As light as any lambie,

And wi' a curchie low did stoop,

As soon as e'er she saw me,

Fu' kind that day.

* Holy Fair is a common phrase in the West of Scotland for a

sacramental occasion.

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, "Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face,
But yet I canna name ye.'

Quo' she, and laughing as she spak',
An' tak's me by the hands,

"Ye for my sake, ha'e gi'en the feck

Of a' the Ten Commands

A screed some day.

"My name is Fun-your crony dear,
The nearest friend ye ha'e;

And this is Superstition here,.
And that's Hypocrisy.

I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,
To spend an hour in daffin':

Gin ye'll gae there, yon runkled pair,
We will get famous laughing'

At them this day."

Quoth I, "Wi' a' my heart I'll do't;
I'll get my Sunday's sark on,
And meet you on the holy spot;
Faith, we'se ha'e fine remarkin!"
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,
And soon I made me ready;

For roads were clad, frae side to side,
Wi' mony a weary body,

In droves that day.

Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith,

Gaed hoddin by their cotters;

There, swankies young, in braw braid-claita,

Are sprinin' o'er the gutters.

The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,

In silks and scarlet glitter,

Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang,

And farls baked wi' butter,

Fu' crump that day.

When by the plate we set our nose,
Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws,
And we maun draw our tippence.

Then in we go to see the show:
On every side they're gatherin',

Some carrying dails, some chairs and tools,
And some are busy blethrin'

Right loud that day.

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs,
An' screen our countra gentry,
There Racer Jess, an' twa-three whores,
Are blinkin at the entry.

Here sits a row of tittlin' jades,

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck,
And there a batch o' wabster lads,
Blackguardin' frae Kilma nock
For fun this day.

Here some are thinkin' on their sins.
An' some upon their claes;
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins,
Anither sighs and prays:

On this hand sits a chosen swatch,
Wi' screwed-up grace-proud faces;
On that a set o' chaps at watch,
Thrang winkin' on the lasses

To chairs that day.

O happy is that man and blest!
Nae wonder that it pride him!
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best,
Comes clinkin' down beside him.
Wi' arm reposed on the chair back,
He sweetly does compose him,

Which, by degrees, slips round her neck,
An's loof upon her bosom,

Unkenn'd that day.

Now a' the congregation o'er
Is silent expectation;

For Moodie speeds the holy door,
Wi' tidings o' damnation.
Should Hornie, as in ancient days,
'Mang sons o' God present him,
The vera sight o' Moodie's face
To 's ain het hame had sent him
Wi' fright that day.

Hear how he clears the points o' faith,
Wi' rattlin' and wi' thumpin'!
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,
He's stampin' and he's jumpin'!
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout,
His eldritch squeel and gestures,
Oh! how they fire the heart devout,
Like cantharidian plasters,

On sic a day.