That auld, capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She's turn'd you aff, a human creature On her first plan, And in her freaks, on every feature, She's wrote, the Man. Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, My barmie noddle's working prime, My fancy yerkit up sublime Wi' hasty summon : Hae ye a leisure-moment's time To hear what's comin? Some rhyme, a neebor's name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought !) for needfu' cash: Some rhyme to court the kintra clash, An' raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash; I rhyme for fun. The star that rules my luckless lot, Has bless'd me wi' a random shot This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, Something cries, "Hoolie !" I red you, honest man, tak tent! Ye'll shaw your folly. "There's ither poets, much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, Hae thought they had ensured their debtors, A' future ages; Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, Their unknown pages." Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, To garland my poetic brows! Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang, An' teach the lanely heights an' howes My rustic sang. I'll wander on, with tentless heed How never-halting moments speed, Till fate shall snap the brittle thread, Then, all unknown, I'll lay me with the inglorious dead, Forgot and gone! But why o' death begin a tale? And large, before enjoyment's gale, This life, sae far's I understand, Is a' enchanted, fairy land, The magic-wand then let us wield; For ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd, See crazy, weary, joyless eild, Wi' wrinkled face, Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, Wi' crepin pace. When ance life's day draws near the gloamin, An' fareweel, dear, deluding woman, O life! how pleasant in thy morning, Like school-boys, at th' expected warning, We wander there, we wander here, "A title, Dempster merits it; A garter gie to Willie Pitt; Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, In cent. per cent. But gie me real, sterling wit, And I'm content. "While ye are pleased to keep me hale I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, Wi' cheerful face, As lang's the muses dinna fail To say the grace." An anxious e'e I never throws O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, Compared wi' you-O fool! fool! fool! How much unlike! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives, a dyke! Hae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces In your unletter'd, nameless faces! In arioso trills and graces Ye never stray, But, gravissimo, solemn basses Ye hum away. Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; Nae ferly though ye do despise The hairum-scarum, ram-stam boys, The rattlin squad: I see you upward cast your eyes -Ye ken the road. Whilst I-but I shall haud me thereWi' you I'll scarce gang onywhereThen, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, But quat my sang, Content wi' you to mak a pair, Whare'er I gang. A DREAM. Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason; But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason. [On reading, in the public papers, the Laureat's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropped asleep, than he imagined himself to the birthday levee; and in his dreaming fancy made the following address.] I. GUID-MORNING to your majesty! May heaven augment your blisses, On every new birth-day ye see, An humble poet wishes! My bardship here, at your levee, Is sure an uncouth sight to see, II. I see ye're complimented thrang, By monie a lord and lady; "God save the king!"'s a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said aye; The poets, too, a venal gang, Wi' rhymes weel turn'd and ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But aye unerring steady, On sic a day. III. For me, before a monarch's face, Your kingship to bespatter; IV. 'Tis very true, my sovereign king, Your royal nest, beneath your wing, Far be't frae me that I aspire To blame your legislation, Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, To rule this mighty nation! But, faith, I muckle doubt, my sire, Ye've trusted ministration To chaps wha in a barn or byre Wad better fill their station Than courts yon day. VI. And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, Your sair taxation does her fleece, thank God, my life's a lease, Or, faith! I fear, that wi' the geese, I' the craft some day. VII. I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, All in this mottie, misty clime, I backward mused on wasted time, How I had spent my youthfu' time, And done naething, But stringin blethers up in rhyme, For fools to sing. Had I to guid advice but harkit, While here, half mad, half fed, half sarkit, I started, muttering, blockhead! coof! And heaved on high my waukit loof, To swear by a' yon starry roof, Or some rash aith, That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof Till my last breath When click! the strink the snick did draw; And jee! the door gaed to the wa'; An' by my ingle-lowe I saw, Now bleezin bright, A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw, Come full in sight. Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht; The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht; I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht In some wild glen; When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, And stepped ben. Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows; I took her for some Scottish muse, By that same token; An' come to stop those reckless vows, Wou'd soon been broken. A "hair-brain'd, sentimental trace," Shone full upon her; Her eye, e'en turn'd on empty space, Beam'd keen with honour. Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen; Till half a leg was scrimply seen; And such a leg! my bonnie Jean Could only peer it; Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, Nane else came near it. Her mantle large, of greenish hue, And seem'd, to my astonish'd view, Here, rivers in the sea were lost; There, mountains to the skies were tost: Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, With surging foam; There, distant shone art's lofty boast, The lordly dome. § Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in command, under Douglas Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct, and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action. Coilus, King of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the family-seat of the Montgomeries of Coil'sfield, where his burial-place is still shown. Barskimming the seat of the Lord Justice Clerk. ** Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor and present Professor Stewart. "Some hint the lover's harmless wile; Some grace the maiden's artless smile; Some soothe the labourer's weary toil, For humble gains, And make his cottage scenes beguile "Some, bounded to a district space, Explore at large man's infant race, To mark the embryotic trace Of rustic bard; "Of these am I-Coila my name; I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame, |