Sweet fruit o monie a merry dint,
My funny tiel is now a' tint,
Sin' thou came to the warl asklent,

Which fools may scoff at;

In my last plack thy part's be in't-
The better half o't.

An' if thou be what I wad hae thee,
An' tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
A lovin father I'll be to thee,

If thou be spar'd;

Thro' a' thy childish years I'll e'e thee,
An' think't weel war'd.

Gude grant that thou may ay inherit
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,
An' thy poor, worthless daddy's spirit,
Without his failins;

"Twill please me mair to hear an' see't,
Than stocket mailins.

TO A TAILOR,

IN ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE WHICH HE HAD SENT THE

AUTHOR.

WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie b―h,
To thresh my back at sic a pitch?
Losh man! hae mercy wi' your natch,
Your bodkin's bauld,

I did na suffer half sae much

Frae daddy Auld.

What tho' at times, wher. I grow crouse, I gie their wames a random pouse,

Is that enough for you to souse

Your servant sae?

Gae, mind your seam, ye prick the louse An' jag the flae.

King David, o' poetic brief,

Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief
As fill'd his after life wi' grief
An' bloody rants;

An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief
O'lang syne saunts.

And, may be, Tam, for a' my cants,
My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants;
I'll gie auld cloven Clooty's haunts
An unco slip yet;

An' snugly sit amang the saunts,
At Davie's hip yet.

But fegs, the session says I maun
Gae fa' upo' anither plan,

Than garren lasses cowp the cran,
Clean heels owre body,
And sairly thole their mithers' ban
Afore the howdy.

This leads me on to tell, for sport
How I did with the session sort
Auld Clinkum at the inner port

Cried three times, "Robin!

Come hither, lad, an' answer for't,
Ye're blam'd for jobbin."

Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on,
An' snoov'd awa' before the session;
I made an open, fair confession,
I scorn'd to lie;

An' syne Mess John, beyond expression,
Fell foul o' me.

A fornicator loun he call'd me,
An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me;
I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me,
"But what the matter?"
Quo' I, "I fear, unless ye geld me,
I'll ne'er be better."

"Geld you!" quo' he, “and whatfore no,
If that your right hand, leg, or toe,
Should ever prove your spir'tual foe,
You should remember
To cut it aff, and whatfore no

Your dearest member."

"Na, na," quo' I, "I'm no for that: Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't. I'd rather suffer for my faut,

A hearty flewit,

As sair owre hip as ye can draw't!
Tho' I should rue it.

"Or gin ye like to end the bother,
To please us a' I've just ae ither;
When next wi' yon lass I forgather,
Whate'er betide it,

I'll frankly gie her't a' thegither,

An' let her guide it."

But sir, this pleas'd them warst ava,
An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw,
I said “Guid night," and cam awa',
An' left the session;
I saw they were resolved a'

On my oppression.

TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER,

WITH A PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR.

REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,
Of Stuart, a name once respected,

A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart
But now 'tis despised and neglected.

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal;

A

poor, friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal.

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne;
My fathers have fallen to right it;

Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,
That name should he scoffingly slight it.

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join

The Queen, and the rest of the gentry,

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; Their title's avow'd by my country.

But why of that epocha make such a fuss?

But loyalty, trice! we're on dangerous ground;
Who knows how the fashions may alter?
The doctrine to-day that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring us a halter!

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard,
A trifle scarce worthy your care;

But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard,
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, And ushers the long, dreary night;

But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright.

EPISTLE

TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ., Of Fintra.

WHEN Nature her great masterpiece design'd, And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind.

Her eye intent on all the mazy plan,

She form'd of various parts the various man.

Then first she calls the useful many forth Plain, plodding industry, and sober worth