For now I'm grown so cursed douce,

I

pray and ponder butt the house,

My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin',
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston;
Till by and by, if I haud on,
I'll grunt a real gospel-groan :
Already I begin to try it,
To cast my e'en up like a pyet,
When by the gun she tumbles o'er,
Flutt'ring and gasping in her gore :
Sae shortly you shall see me bright,
A burning and a shining light.

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,
The ace and wale of honest men:
When bending down wi' auld gray hairs,
Beneath the load of years and cares,
May He who made him still support him,
And views beyond the grave comfort him;
His worthy family far and near,

God bless them a' wi' grace and gear!

My auld school-fellow, Preacher Willie,
The manly tar, my mason billie,
And Auchenbay, I wish him joy!
If he's a parent, lass or boy,

May he be dad, and Mag the mither,
Just five-and-forty years thegither!
And not forgetting wabster Charlie,
I'm tauld he offers very fairly.

And, Lord, remember singing Sannock,
Wi' hale-breeks, saxpence, and a bannock ;
And next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy,
Since she is fitted to her fancy;

And her kind stars hae airted till her

A good chiel wi' a pickle siller,

!

19

30

40

50

My kindest, best respects I sen' it,
To cousin Kate and sister Janet;

53

Tell them frae me, wi' chiels be cautious,
For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious:
To grant a heart is fairly civil,

But to grant a maidenhead's the devil.
And lastly Jamie, for yoursel',
May guardian angels tak a spell,

And steer you seven miles south o' hell:
But first, before you see heaven's glory,
May ye get mony a merry story,
Mony a laugh, and mony a drink,
And aye eneugh o' needfu' clink!
Now fare ye weel, and joy be wi' you;
For my sake this I beg it o' you,
Assist poor Simpson a' ye can,
Ye'll fin' him just an honest man ;
Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter.
Yours, saint or sinner,

ROB THE RANTER.

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70

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CHILD.

1 Он, sweet be thy sleep in the land of the grave,
My dear little angel, for ever;

For ever-oh no! let not man be a slave,
His hopes from existence to sever.

2 Though cold be the clay, where thou pillow'st thy head, In the dark silent mansions of sorrow,

The spring shall return to thy low narrow bed,
Like the beam of the Day-star to-morrow.

3 The flower-stem shall bloom like thy sweet seraph form, Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom,

When thou shrunk frae the scowl of the loud winter storm, And nestled thee close to that bosom.

4 Oh! still I behold thee, all lovely in death, Reclined on the lap of thy mother,

When the tear trickled bright, when the short stifled breath Told how dear ye were aye to each other.

5 My child, thou art gone to the home of thy rest, Where suffering no longer can harm ye,

Where the songs of the good, where the hymns of the blest, Through an endless existence shall charm

ye.

6 While he, thy fond parent, must sighing sojourn,
Through the dire desert regions of sorrow,
O'er the hope and misfortune of being to mourn,
And sigh for this life's latest morrow.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL
OF BREADALBANE,

President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23d of May last, at the Shakspeare, Covent-Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr M'Kenzie of Applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters, whose property they are, by emigrating from the lands of Mr Macdonell of Glengarry to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing-Liberty !-B.

LONG life, my lord, and health be yours,
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors!
Lord, grant nae duddie, desperate beggar,
Wi' durk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o' a life
She likes-as lambkins like a knife!

Faith, you and Applecross were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight:
I doubtna, they would bid nae better
Than, let them ance out owre the water,
Then up amang thae lakes and seas

They'll mak what rules and laws they please!
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin,
May set their Highland bluid a ranklin';
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them!
Till God knows what may be effected,
When by such heads and hearts directed;
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire,
May to patrician rights aspire!

Nae sage North now, or sager Sackville,

To watch and premier owre the pack vile!
And where will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance,
To cowe the rebel generation,

And save the honour o' the nation?

They! and be d! what right hae they
To meat, or sleep, or light o' day?
Far less to riches, power, or freedom,
But what your lordships please to gi'e them!
But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear:
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
And tirl the hallions to the birses ;

Yet, while they're only poind't and herriet,
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit:
But smash them! crash them a' to spails!
And rot the dyvours i' the jails!

The young dogs, swinge them to the labour; 41
Let wark and hunger mak them sober!
The hizzies, if they 're oughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury Lane be lesson'd!
And if the wives and dirty brats
Come thiggin' at your doors and yetts,
Flaffan wi' duds and gray wi' beas',
Frightin' awa' your deucks and geese,
Get out a horse-whip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
And gar the tatter'd gipsies pack
Wi' a' their bastards on their back!

Go on, my lord! I lang to meet you,
And in my house at hame to greet you!
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle ;
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right hand assign'd your seat,
"Tween Herod's hip and Polycrate-
Or if ye on your station tarrow,
Between Almagro and Pizarro ;

A seat I'm sure ye 're weel deservin't ;
And till ye come-Your humble servant,
June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790. [A. D. 1786.]

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60

BEELZEBUB.

ON THE DEATH OF THE LATE LORD
PRESIDENT.1

LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks
Shun the fierce storms among the shelt'ring rocks;
Down foam the riv'lets, red with dashing rains;
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains;
Beneath the blast the leafless forests groan,
The hollow caves return a sullen moan.

Lord President:' Dundas.