The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant-echoing glens reply:
The stream adown its hazelly path
Was rushing by the ruin'd was,
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's:
The cauld blue north was streaming forth,
Her lights, wi' hizzing eerie din;
Athort the lift they start and shift,
Like fortune's favours, tint as win:
By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,
And, by the moon-beam, shook, to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,

Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.

Had I a statue been o' stane,

His darin look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain The sacred posy-Libertie!

And frae his harp sic strains did flow,

Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear; But oh! it was a tale of woe,

As ever met a Briton's ear!

He sang wi' joy his former day,

He, weeping, wail'd his latter times; But what he said it was nae play,

I winna ventur't in my rhymes.

SONG.

ADDRESS TO A LADY.

OH, wert thou in the cauld blast,

On yonder lea, on yonder lea; My plaidie to the angry airt,

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee.

Or did misfortune's bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around the blaw,

Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a', to share it a

Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there.

O were I monarch o' the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

Written on the 25th of January, 1793,

ON THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR.

ON HEARING ATHRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK.

SING

on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain; See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow.

So in lone poverty's dominion drear,

Sits meek Content, with light unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this op'ning day!

Thou, whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies, Riches denied, thy boon of purer joys,

What wealth could never give nor take

away !

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,

The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee

I'll share.

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER.

THOU, wha in the heav'ns dost dwell,

Wha, as it pleases best thysel',

Sends ane to heav'n, and ten to bell,

A' for thy glory,

And no' for any guid or ill

They've done afore thee !*

I bless and praise thy matchless might,
Whan thousands thou hast left in night
That I am here afore thy sight,

For gifts an' grace,

A burnin' an' a shinin' light,

To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get such exaltation,
I wha desarve sic just damnation,

For broken laws,

Five thousand years 'fore my creation,

Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might hae plung'd me into hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,

In burnin' lake,
Whare damned devils roar and yell,

Chain'd to a stake.

• This is highly characteristic of the sentiments and disposi tions of many ignorant Bigots, who have a zeal for God, (as they imagine,) but not according to knowledge;' and the author here, as also in his Holy Fair, and several other pieces, exercises his ingenious talent of satire to expose their ignorance and hypocrisy.

Farther to confirm the reality of this pharisaical character, it may be worthy of observation, in this place, that the Rev. George Whitfield, in one of his visits to Scotland, was solemnly reprobated by the Seceders, because he refused to confine his itinerant labours wholly to them. The reason assigned for this monopoly was, that they were EXCLUSIVELY God's peo. le! Mr. Whitfield smartly replied, that they had, therefore, the less need of his services; for his aim was to turn sinners from the error and wickedness of their ways, by preaching among them glad tidings of great joy.

Yet I am here a chosen sample,
To show thy grace is great. an' ample;
I'm here a pillar in thy temple,

Strong as a rock,

A guide, a buckler, an' example,

To a' thy flock.

O L-d, thou kens what zeal I bear,
When drinkers drink, and swearers swear,
And singin' here, an' dancin' there,

Wi' great an' sma' ;

For I am keepit by the fear,

Frae frae them a'.

But yet, Ó L-d! confess I must,
At times I'm sash'd wi' fleshly lust,
An' sometimes too, wi' warldly trust,

Vile self gets in;

But thou remembers we are dust,

Defil'd in sin.

OL-d! yestreen, thou kens, wi' Meg,
Thy pardon 1 sincerely beg,

O! may't ne'er be a livin' plague

To my dishonour,

And I'll ne'er lift a lawless l-g

Again upon her.

Besides, I farther maun avow,
Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times, I trow;
But, L-d, that Friday I was sow,

When I came near her,

Or else thou kens thy servant true

Wad ne'er hae steer'd her.

May be thou lets this fleshy thorn
Beset thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest he owre high and proud shou'd turn,

Cause he's sae gifted ;

If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne

Until thou lift it.

L-d, bless thy chosen in this place,
For here thou hast a chosen race;
But God confound their stubborn face,

And blast their name,

Wha bring thy elders to disgrace

An' public shame.

L-d, mind G-v-n H—m—n's deserts,
He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at carts,
Yet has sae mony takin' arts,

Wi' grit an sma',

Frae Gd's ain priest the people's hearts

He steals awa.'

An' whan we chasten'd him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
As sat the world fu' in a roar

O' laughin' at us;

Curse thou his basket and his store,

Kail an' potatoes.

L-d, hear my earnest cry an' pray'r,

Against that presbyt'ry o' Ayr;

Thy strong right hand, L-d, make it bare,

Upo' their heads;

L-d, weigh it down, and dinna spare,

For their misdeeds.

O L-d my G―d, that glib-tongu'd A-k-n, My vera heart and saul are quakin',

To think how we sat sweetin', shakin',

An' p-d wi' dread, While he wi' hangin' lip and snakin',

Held up his head.

Ld, in the day of vengeance try him,
L-d, visit them wha did employ him,
An' pass not in thy mercy by 'em,

Nor hear their pray'r;

Bu for thy people's sake destroy 'em,

And dinna sparc.

But, L-d, remember me and mine;
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine,

Excell'd by nane,

Amen.

An' a'the glory shall be thine,
Amen,