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It's no through terror of d-mn-tion ; It's just a carnal inclination.

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He'll mak it whissle ;
An' legs, an'arms, an' heads will sned,

Like taps o' thrissle. Ye powers, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,

Gie ber a haggis !

Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice !

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A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.

EXPECT na, sir, in this narration,
A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication,
To roose you up, an'ca' you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,
Because ye're surnamed like his grace,
Perhaps related to the race;
Then when I'm tired and sae are ye,
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu’lie,
Set up a face, how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do—maun do, sir, wi' them wha
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou;
For me ! sae laigh I need na bow,
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;
And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg ;
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatterin,
It's just sic poet, an' sic patron.

The poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him,
He may do weel for a' he's done yet,
But only he's no just begun yet.

O ye wha leave the springs of C-lv-n,
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin !
Ye sons of heresy and error,
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror!
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath,
And in the fire throws the sheath;
When ruin, with his sweeping besom,
Just frets till Heaven commission gies him:
While o'er the harp pale misery moans,
And strikes the ever deepening tones,
Still louder shrieks, and hcavier groans !

Your pardon, sir, for this digression,
I maist forgat my dedication ;
But when divinity comes cross me,
My readers still are sure to lose me.

The patron, (sir, ye maun forgie me, I winna lie, come what will o'me,) On every hand it will allow'd be, He's just-nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant, He downa see a poor man want; What's no his ain he winna tak it, What ance he says, he winna break it; Aught he can lend he'll no refuse't, Till aft his guidness is abused: And rascals whyles that do him wrang, E'en that, he does na mind it lang: As master, landlord, husband, father, He does na fail his part in either.

But then, na thanks to him for a' that; Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that; It's naething but a milder feature Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature ! Ye'll get the best o’moral works 'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks. Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, Wha never heard of orthodoxy. That he's the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman in word and deed,

So, sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour,
But I maturely thought it proper,
When a' my work I did review,
To dedicate them, sir, to you:
Because (ye need na tak it ill)
I thought them something like yoursel.

Then patronize them wi’ your favour,
And your petitioner shall ever-
I had amaist said, ever pray,
But that's a word I need na say:
For prayin I hae little skill o't;
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't;
But I'se repeat each poor man's prayer,
That kens or hears about you, sir-

“May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark Howl through the dwelling o' the clerk! May ne'er his generous, honest heart, For that same generous spirit smart! May K******'s far honour'd name Lang beet his hymeneal flame, Till H*******s, at least a dizen, Are frae their nuptial labours risen : Five bonnie lasses round their table, And seven braw fellows, stout an' able

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To serve their king and country weel,
By word, or pen, or pointed steel !
May health and peace, with mutual rays,
Shine on the evening o' his days;
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe,
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow !”

I will not wind a lang conclusion,
Wi' complimentary effusion :
But whilst your wishes and endeavours
Are blest with fortune's smiles and favours,
I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent,
Your much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which powers above prevent!) That iron-hearted carl, want, Attended in his grim advances By sad mistakes, and black mischances, While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, Make you as poor a dog as I am, Your humble servant then no more; For who would humbly serve the poor? But by a poor man's hopes in heaven! While recollection's power is given, If, in the vale of humble life, The victim sad of fortune's strife, I, through the tender gushing tear, Should recognise my master dear, If friendless, low, we meet together, Then, sir, your hand-my friend and brother!

O wad some power the giftie gie us,
To see oursels as others see us !
It wad frae monie a blunder free us

And foolish notion ; What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us,

And e'en devotion !

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.

I.
EDINA ! Scotia's darling seat!"

All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet

Sat legislation's sovereign powers! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers,

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours,

I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

TO A LOUSE.
ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY’S BONNET AT CHURCH.

HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?
Your impudence protects you sairly :
I canna say but ye strunt rarely

Owre gauze and lace;
Though faith, I fear ye dine but sparely

On sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn'd by saunt and sinner,
How dare ye set your fit upon her,

Sae fine a lady?
Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner,

On some poor body.
Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle ;
Where ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle
Wi'ither kindred, jumpin cattle,

In shoals and nations ;
Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle

Your thick plantations.
Now haud ye there, ye're out o’ sight,
Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right

Till ye've got on it,
The vera tapmost, towering height

O'miss's bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump and gray as onie grozet ;
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,

Or fell, red smeddum,
I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't,

Wad dress your droddum!

II. Here wealth still swells the golden tide,

As busy trade his labours plies; There architecture's noble pride

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; Here justice, from her native skies,

High wields her balance and her rod; There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode.

III.
Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail ; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind,

Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail,

Or modest merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail!

And never envy blot their name !

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Like some bold veteran, gray in arms,

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And mark'd with many a seamy scar; And sae about him there I spier't ; The ponderous walls and massy bar,

Then a’ that ken’t him round declared Grim rising o'er the rugged rock;

He had ingine,
Have oft withstood assailing war,

That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,
And oft repellid th’invader's shock.

It was sae fine.
VI.

That set him to a pint of ale,
With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, An' either douce or merry tale,
I view that noble, stately dome,

Or rhymes an’sangs he'd made himsel, Where Scotia's kings of other years,

Or witty catches, Famed heroes ! had their royal home: "Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, Alas ! how changed the times to come!

He had few matches.
Their royal name low in the dust!
Their hapless race wild-wandering roam!

Then up I gat, an' swoor an' aith,
Though rigid law cries out, 'Twas just!

Though I should pawn my pleugh and graith,

Or die a cadger pownie's death,
VII.

At some dyke-back,
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, A pint an’ gill I'd gie them baith
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,

To hear your crack.
Through hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore :

But, first an’ foremost, I should tell,
E'en I who sing in rustic lore,

Amaist as soon as I could spell, Haply my sires have left their shed,

I to the crambo-jingle fell, And faced grim danger's loudest roar,

Though rude an' rough, Bold following where your fathers led ! Yet crooning to a body's sel,

Does well eneugh.
VIII.
Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

I am nae poet, in a sense,
All hail thy palaces and towers,

But just a rhymer, like, by chance, Where once beneath a monarch's feet

An' hae to learning nae pretence, Sat legislation's sovereign powers !

Yet, what the matter? From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers,

Whene'er my muse does on me glance, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,

I jingle at her. And singing, lone, the lingering hours,

Your critic folk may cock their nose,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

And say, “How can you e'er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,

To mak a sang ?”
EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK,

But, by your leaves, my learned foes,

Ye're may be wrang. AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.-APRIL 1st, 1785.

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, WHILE briers and woodbines budding green,

Your Latin names for horns an' stools; An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,

If honest nature made you fools, An' morning poussie whiddin seen,

What sairs your grammars : Inspire my muse,

Ye'd better ta’en up spades and shools, This freedom in an unknown frien',

Or knappin hammers. I pray excuse. On fasten-een we had a rockin,

A set o' dull conceited hashes,

Confuse their brains in college classes ! To ca' the crack and weave our stockin;

They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
And there was muckle fun an' jokin,

Plain truth to speak;
Ye need na doubt;

An’syne they think to climb Parnassu;
At length we had a hearty yokin

By dint o' Greek!
At sang about.
There was ae sang, amang the rest,

Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire,
Aboon them a' it pleased me best,

That's a' the learning I desire ; That some kind husband had addrest

Then though I drudge through dub an' mire To some sweet wife:

At pleugh or cart,
It thrill'd the heart-strings through the breast,

My muse, though hamely in attire,
A’ to the life.

May touch the heart.
I've scarce heard aught describes sae weel, O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
What generous, manly bosoms feel;

Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee,
Thought I, “ Can this be Pope, or Steele,

Or bright Lapraik's my friend to be,
Or Beattie's wark !”

If I can hit it!
They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel

That would be lear eneugh for me,
About Muirkirk,

If I could get it.

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But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, I should be proud to meet you there; We’se gie ae night's discharge to care,

If we forgather, An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware

Wi' ane anither.

The four-gill chap, we'se gar himn clatter, An’kirsen him wi' reekin water ; Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter,

To cheer our heart; An' faith we'se be acquainted better

Before we part.

“ Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o'hearts, Though mankind were a pack o' cartes, Roose you sae weel for your deserts,

In terms so friendly ; Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts,

An' thank him kindly!” Sae I gat paper in a blink, An' down gaed stumpie in the ink : Quoth I, “ Before I sleep a wink,

I vow I'll close it; An' if ye winna mak it clink,

By Jove I'll prose it !" Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither, Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither,

Let time mak proof; But I shall scribble down some blether

Just clean aff-loof,

Awa, ye selfish warly race, Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, E'en love an’ friendship, should give place

To catch-the-plack ! I dinna like to see your face,

Nor hear you crack.

But ye whom social pleasure charms, Whose heart the tide of kindness warms, Who hold your being on the terms,

Each aid the others', Come to my bowl, come to my arms,

My friends, my brothers ! But to conclude my lang epistle, As my auld pen's worn to the grissle Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,

Who am, most fervent, While I can either sing or whissle,

Your friend and servant.

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My senses wad be in a creel Should I but dare a hope to speel Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield,

The braes o' fame; Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel,

A deathless name.

Or is't the paughty, feudal thane,
Wi' ruffled sark an' glancin'cane,
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,

But lordly stalks,
While caps and bonnets aff are ta’en,

As by he walks ?
« Thou wha gies us each guid gift!
Gie me owit an' sense a lift,
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift,

Through Scotland wide; Wi'cits nor lairds I wadna shift,

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 heaven! that's no the gate

We learn our creed.

(0 Fergusson ! thy glorious parts Ill suited law's dry, musty arts ! My curse upon your whunstane hearts,

Ye Enbrugh gentry! The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes,

Wad stow'd his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head, Or lasses gie my heart a screed, As whyles they're like to be my deed,

(O sad disease !) I kittle up my rustic reed;

It gies me ease.

Auld Coila now may fidge fu’fain,
She's gotten poets o' her ain,
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,

But tune their lays,
Till echoes a' resound again

Her weel-sung praise. Nae poet thought her worth his while, To set her name in measured style; She lay like some unkenn'd-of isle

Beside New Holland, Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil

Besouth Magellan.

For thus the royal mandate ran, When first the human race began, “ The social, friendly, honest man,

Whate'er he be, 'Tis he fulfils great nature's plan,

An' none but he !"
O mandate glorious and divine !
The ragged followers of the nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shine

In glorious light,
While sordid sons of Mammon's line

Are dark as night.
Though here they scrape, an' squeeze, an'

growl,
Their worthless nievefu’ of a soul
May in some future carcass howl,

The forest's fright;
Or in some day-detesting owl

May shun the light.
Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,
To reach their native, kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an'joys,

In some mild sphere,
Still closer knit in friendship’s tie

Each passing year.

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At Wallace' name what Scottish blood But boils up in a spring-tide food! Oft have our fearless fathers strode

By Wallace'side, Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod,

Or glorious dyed.

0, sweet are Coila's haughs an’ woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin hares, in amo: pus whids,

Their loves enjoy, While through the braes the cushat croods

With wailfu'cry!

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