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To ken what French mischief was brewin ! Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin : That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, If Venus yet had got his nose off; Or how the collieshangie works Atween the Russians and the Turks ; Or if the Swede, before he halt, Would play anither Charles the twalt : If Denmark, any body spak o't; Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't; How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin; How libbet Italy was singin; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, Were sayin or takin aught amiss : Or how our merry lads at hame, In Britain's court kept up the game: How Royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him ! Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in; How daddie Burke the plea was cookin; If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin; How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, Or if bare a-s yet were tax’d; The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls; If that daft buckie, Geordie W***s, Was threshin still at hizzies' tails, Or if he was grown outline douser, And no a perfect kintra cooser: A'this and mair I never heard of, And but for you I might despair’d of. So gratefu', hack your news I send you, And pray a' gude things may attend you! Ellişland, 1790.


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HAIL, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'a !
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swervid
Frae common sense, or sunk enery'd

'Mang heaps o'clavers ; And och! owre aft thy joes har starvid,

'Mid a' thy favours !
Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,
While loud the trumps heroic clang,
And sock or buskin skelp alang

To death or marriage, Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang

But wi' miscarriage?
Iu Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives;
Wee Pope, the kaurlin, till him rives

Horatian fame;
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld survives

Even Sappho's fame. Eut thee, Theocritus, who matches ? They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches; Squire Pope but busks his skinkling patches

O' heathen tatters : I pass by hundreds, nameless wretches,

That ape their betters, In this braw age o' wit and lear, Will nane the shepherd's whistle mair Blaw sweetly in its native air

And native grace ; And wi’ the far-fam'a Grecian share

A rival place ? Yes! there is ane ; a Scotish callan ! There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,

A chiel sae clever ; The teeth o' time may knaw Tamtallan,

But thou's for ever,

Thou paints auld nature to the nines,
Io thy sweet Caledonian lines;
Nae gowden stream thro’ myrtle twines,

Where Philomel,
While nightly breezes sweep the vines,

Her griefs will tell! In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,

Wi' hawthorps gray,
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays

At close o' day.
Thy rural loves are nature's sel;
Nae bombast spates o nonsense swell;
Nae sap conceits, but that sweet spelt

0' witchin love, That charm, that can the strongest quell,

The sterbest move.



This day, Time winds th’ exhausted-chain,
To run the twelvemonth's length again :
See the old -bald-pated fallow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the upimpair'd machine,
To wheel the equal dull routine.
The absent lover, minor heir,
In vaio assail him with their pray'r,
Deaf as my Friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's with the hounds,
The happy tegants share his rounds :

Coila's fair Rachel's care to day, *
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray :)
From house wife cares a minute borrow-
That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow
And join with me a moralizing,
This day propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver ?
• Another year is gone for ever.'
Ard what is this day's strong suggestion ?
• The passing moment's all we rest on!'
Rest on-for what? what do we hear?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to your date one minute more?
A few days may-a few years must
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then is it wise to damp our bliss ?
Yes-all such reasonings are amiss.
The voice of nature loudly cries,
And many a message from tbe skies,
That something in us never dies ;
That on this frail uncertain state,
Hangs matters of eternal weight:
That future-life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether as heav'nly glory bright,
Or dark as mis'ry's woefu' night
Since then my honour'd, first of friends,
On this poor being all depends,
Let us th' important now employ,
And live as those who never die.
Tho' you, with days and honours crowo'd,
Witness that filial circle round,
(A sight life's sorrows to repulse,
A sight pale envy to convulse,)
Others now claiin your chief regard,
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

• This young lady was drawing a picture of Coila, from the Vision



THOU, who kindly dost provide
For ever creature's want,
We bless thee, God of nature wide,

For this thy goodness lent:
And if it please thee, Heav'nly Guide,

May never worse be sent ;
But whether granted or denied,

Lord, bless us with content.




How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately

glisten'd, How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tird,

How dúll is that ear which to flatt'ry so listen'd! If sorrow and anguish their exit awake,

From friendship and dearest affection remov'd; How doubly severe, Eliza, thy fate,

Thou diedst unwept as thou lived'st unlov'd. Loves, graces, and virtues, I call not on you ;

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear; But come, all ye offspring of folly so true,

And flow'rs let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. We'll search through the garden for each silly flow'r,

We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed, But chiefly the nettle, so topical, show'r, For pone e'er approach'd her but rued the raske


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