The fox was howling on the hill, 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, Or were I in the wildest waste, Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, If thou wert there, if thou wert there. O were I monarch o' the globe, 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, For gifts an' grace, A burnin' an' a shinin' light, To a' this place. What was I, or my generation, For broken laws, Five thousand years 'fore my creation, Thro' Adam's cause. When frae my mither's womb I fell, In burnin' lake, 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, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an' example, To a' thy flock. O L-d, thou kens what zeal I bear, Wi' great an' sma' ; For I am keepit by the fear, Frae frae them a'. But yet, Ó L-d! confess I must, Vile self gets in; But thou remembers we are dust, Defil'd in sin. OL-d! yestreen, thou kens, wi' Meg, 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, 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 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, And blast their name, Wha bring thy elders to disgrace An' public shame. L-d, mind G-v-n H—m—n's deserts, Wi' grit an sma', Frae Gd's ain priest the people's hearts He steals awa.' An' whan we chasten'd him therefore, 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, Nor hear their pray'r; Bu for thy people's sake destroy 'em, And dinna sparc. But, L-d, remember me and mine; Excell'd by nane, Amen. An' a'the glory shall be thine, |