Written on a pane of Glass on the occasion of a

National Thanksgiving for a Naval Victory 574

Accept the gift a friend sincere

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace
Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl.
Again the silent wheels of time

A guid new year, I wish thee, Maggie!
A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight
All devil as I am, a damned wretch

All hail! inexorable lord!

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As cauld a wind as ever blew

An honest man here lies at rest

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods

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As father Adam first was fool'd
Ask why God made the gem so small
As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither
As on the banks o' wandering Nith
Auld chuckie Reekie 's sair distrest
Auld comrade dear and brither sinner
A' ye wha live by soups o' drink

Beauteous rose-bud, young and say
Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes
Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day!
Bright ran thy line, () G

But rarely seen since Nature's birth

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing
Collected Harry stood awee

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd
Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life

Dear Smith, the sleest, pawkie thief
Dweller in yon dungeon dark

Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell
Edina, Scotia's darling seat
Expect na, Sir, in this narration

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Fair empress of the Poet's soul
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face
False flatterer, Hope, away!
Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains
Fill me with the rosy wine
Fintray, my stay in worldly strife
For lords or kings I dinna mourn
Friend of the Poet, tried and leal
From those drear solitudes and frowzy cells

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live
Guid-mornin' to your Majesty!

Guid speed an' furder to you, Johnie

Hail, Poesie! thou nymph reserv'd!
Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!
Ha, whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie?
Has auld K********* seen the Deil?
Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran chief
Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots
Heard ye o' the tree o' France
He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist
Here Brewer Gabriel's fire 's extinct
Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay

Here lies J-y B-y, honest man!

Here lie Willie M-hie's banes

Here souter Will in death does sleep
Here Stuarts once in glory reign'd

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How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd
How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace
How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite
Humid seal of soft affections

Here where the Scottish Muse immortal lives
He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead
Honest Will 's to Heaven gane

I am a keeper of the law

I call no goddess to inspire my strains

I gat your letter, winsome Willie
I hold it, Sir, my bounden duty

I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend
I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor
I mind it weel, in early date

I murder hate by field or flood
Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art
In politics if thou would'st mix
Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast
In this strange land, this uncouth clime
In wood and wild, ye warbling throng
Is there a whim-inspired fool
Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief.
Kilmarnock wabsters, fidge an' claw
Kind Sir, I've read your paper through
Know thou, O stranger to the fame
Lament him Mauchline husbands a'
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose
Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg
Let other poets raise a fracas
Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks
Long life, my Lord, an' health be your's

Maxwell, if merit here you crave
My curse upon the venom'd stang
My honour'd Colonel, deep I feel
My Lord, I know your noble ear
My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend.
No more of your guests, be they titled or not
No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more
No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay
No song nor dance I bring from yon great city
No Stuart art thou, G-

Now Nature hangs her mantle green
Now Robin lies in his last lair

O a' ye pious godly flocks

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O, could I give thee India's wealth

O Death! hadst thou but spar'd his life

O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!

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O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone moun-

tain straying

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace
O Goudie! terror o' the Whigs

Oh! had each Scot of ancient times
Oh! sweet be thy sleep in the land of the grave 569
O, had the malt thy strength of mind
Old Winter with his frosty beard

Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear
One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell
Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care
O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine

Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox 240
Orthodox, Orthodox, (second version)

O Thou! dread Power who reign'st above.
O Thou, great Being! what thou art
O Thou, in whom we live and move
O thou pale orb, that silent shines
O Thou, the first, the greatest Friend.
O Thou, unknown, Almighty cause
O Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell
O thou! whatever title suit thee
O Thou, who kindly dost provide
O Thou whom Poetry abhors

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel'

O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare.

Rash mortal and slanderous Poet, thy name
Rest gently, turf, upon his breast
Revered defender of beauteous Stuart
Right, Sir! your text I'll prove it true

572

Sad thy tale, thou idle page.

Say, sages, what's the charm on earth
Searching auld wives' barrels
Sensibility, how charming

Sic a reptile was Wat

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough
Sir, as your mandate did request
Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card

Some books are lies frae end to end
Some hae meat, and canna eat
Spare me thy vengeance, G—,

Still auxious to secure your partial favour
Stop, passenger! my story's brief

Stop thief! dame Nature cried to Death
Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love
Sweet naïveté of feature

Talk not to me of savages

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies
That there is falsehood in his looks

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The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying
The friend whom wild from wisdom's way
The grey-beard, old Wisdom, may boast of his

treasures

The king's most humble servant, I

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare
The man in lite, wherever placed

269

The sun had clos'd the winter day
The wintry west extends his blast

The poor man weeps-here Gavin sleeps
There's death in the cup-sae beware!
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough
The Solemn League and Covenant