As hardly worth their while ? Alas! how aft, in haughty mood, God's creatures they oppress! Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, They riot in excess!

Baith careless and fearless

Of either heaven or hell!
Esteeming and deeming

It's a' an idle tale!

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce;
Nor make our scanty pleasures less,
By pining at our state;

And even should misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some,
An's thankfu' for them yet.
They gie the wit of age to youth;
They let us ken oursel';

They make us see the naked truth,
The real guid and ill.

Though losses and crosses

Be lessons right severe,

There's wit there, ye'll get there,
Ye'll find nae other where.

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts!

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,

And flatt'ry I detest),

This life has joys for you and I;

And joys that riches ne'er could buy:

And joys the very best.

There's a' the pleasures o' the heart,

The lover and the frien';

Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!

It warms me, it charms me,
To mention but her name:

It heats me, it beets me,

And sets me a' on flame!

Oh all ye Powers who rule above!
Oh Thou whose very self art love!
Thou know'st my words sincere!

The life-blood streaming through my heart,
Or my more dear immortal part,

Is not more fondly dear!

When heart-corroding care and grief

Deprive my soul of rest,

Her dear idea brings relief

And solace to my breast.

Thou Being, all-seeing,

Oh hear my fervent prayer!

Still take her, and make her
Thy most peculiar care!

oft

good

both

give know

attend to would wrong

adds fuel

B

"Sax thousand years are near hand fled
Sin' I was to the butching bred,
And mony a scheme in vain's been laid,
To stap or scaur me;

Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade,
And faith he'll waur me.

"Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the clachan,
I WISH his king's-hood in a spleuchan!
He's grown sae weel acquant wi' Buchan*
And ither chaps,

The weans haud out their fingers laughin',
And pouk my hips.

"See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart,
They hae pierced mony a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook wi' his art

And WELL-TRIED skill,

Has made them baith no worth A SCART,
NAE haet they'll kill.

""Twas but yestreen, nae further gaen,
I threw a noble throw at ane;
Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain;
But SPITE my care,

It just play'd dirl on the bane,
But did nae mair.

"Hornbook was by wi' ready art,
And had sae fortified the part,
That when I looked to my dart,

It was sae blunt,

NAE haet o't wad hae pierced the heart

O' a kail runt.

"I drew my scythe in sic a fury,
I nearhand cowpit wi' my hurry,
But yet the bauld apothecary
Withstood the shock;

I might as weel hae tried a quarry
O' hard whin rock.

"And then a' doctor's saws and whittles,
Of a' dimensions, shapes, and metals,

A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, and bottles,
He's sure to hae;

Their Latin names as fast he rattles
As A B C.

"Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees;
True sal-marinum o' the seas;
The farina of beans and peas,
He has❜t in plenty;

Aqua fontis, what you please,
He can content ye."

*Buchan's Domestic Medicine.

six, nearly killing

stop, scare taken

worst

know, village tobacco-pouch acquainted other

children hold

poke

have

both, scratch nothing yesterday, past

one

quivered, bone

more

00

cabbage-stem

such

nearly tumbled

bold

well

knives

"Waes me for Johnny Ged's* hole now,"
Quo' I; "If that thae news be true,
His braw calf-wardt where gowans grew,
Sae white and bonnie.

Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the pleugh;
They'll ruin Johnny!"

The creature grained an eldritch laugh,
And says, "Ye need na yoke the pleugh,
Kirkyards will soon be tilled eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear:

They'll a' be trenched wi' mony a sheugh

In twa-three year.

"Whare I killed ane a fair strae death,
By loss o' blocd or want o' breath,
This night, I'm free to tak my aith,
That Hornbook's skill

Has clad a score i' their last claith,
By drap and pill.

"An honest wabster to his trade,

alas

these

fine, daisies

tear

groaned, unearthly

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-bred,

Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,

When it was sair;

The wife slade cannie to her bed,

But ne'er spak mair.

"That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way;

Thus goes he on from day to day,

Thus does he poison, kill, and slay,

An's weel paid for't;

Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey
Wi' his PILL dirt:

"But hark! I'll tell you of a plot, Though dinna ye be speaking o't; I'll nail the self-conceited sot

As dead's a' herrin':

Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat,
He get's his fairin'!"

But just as he began to tell,

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell
Some wee short hour ayont the twal,
Which raised us baith:

I took the way that pleased mysel',
And sae did Death.

plough

enough

furrow

where, in bed

oath

clothes drop

weaver two fists

got twopence

sore

slid gently

spoke more

specimen

next, wager drubbing

beyond, twelve

both

The gravedigger.

+ Pasturage of the churchyard.

FIRST EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK,

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.

WHILE briers and woodbines budding green,
And paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en,
And morning poussie whiddin seen,
Inspire my muse,

This freedom in an unknown frien'
I pray excuse.

On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin',

To ca' the crack and weave our stockin';

And there was muckle fun and jokin',

Ye need na doubt;

At length we had a hearty yokin'
At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleased me best,
That some kind husband had addrest

To some sweet wife:

April 1, 1785.

partridges screaming hare scudding

shrovetide, meeting

chat

much

It thirled the heart-strings through the breast,

A' to the life.

I've scarce heard ought described sae weel
What generous manly bosoms feel;
Thought I," Can this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie's wark?"

They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel

About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't,
And sae about him there I spier't,
Then a' that ken't him round declared

He had ingine,

That nane excelled it, few cam near't,
It was sae fine.

That, set him to a pint of ale,

And either douce or merry tale,

Or rhymes and sangs he'd made himsel,

Or witty catches,

"Tween Inverness and Teviotdale,

He had few matches.

Then up I gat, and swore an aith,

song

one above

enthrall'd

told, fellow

put, excitedly eager inquired

Though I should pawn my pleugh and graith,

Or die a cadger pownie's death

At some dyke back,

To hear your crack.

knew genius

none

grave

got, oath harness

pedlar poney's

wall

both

chat

A pint and gill I'd gie them baith

But, first and foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,

almost

I to the crambo-jingle fell,

Though rude and rough,

Yet crooning to a body's sell,
Does weel eneugh.

doggerel verses

humming

enough

no

I am nae poet, in a sense,

But just a rhymer, like, by chance,
And hae to learning nae pretence,

Yet, what the matter!

Whene'er my Muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.

Your critic folk may cock their nose,
And say, "How can you e'er propose,
You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?"

But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye're maybe wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your schools,
Your Latin names for horns and stools;

If honest nature made

you fools,

What sairs your grammars?

Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,
Or knappin-hammers.

A set o' dull conceited hashes,

Confuse their brains in college classes!

They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;

And syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire!

That's a' the learning I desire;

Then though I drudge through dub and mire

At pleugh or cart,

My Muse, though hamely in attire,

May touch the heart.

Oh for a spunk o' Allan's glee,

Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee,

Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,

If I can hit it!

have

who know

serves

taken, shovels

stone-hammers

stupid fellows

young bullocks

then

give

plough

homely

spark

bold, sly

learning

enough

full

if

boast

faults