WITH Pegasus upon a day,
Apollo weary flying,
Through frosty hills the journey lay,
On foot the way was plying.
Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus
Was but a sorry walker;
To Vulcan then Apollo goes,
To get a frosty calker.
Obliging Vulcan fell to work,
Threw by his coat and bonnet,
And did Sol's business in a crack;
Sol paid him with a sonnet.
Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead,
Pity my sad disaster;
My Pegasus is poorly shod-
I'll pay you like my master.
LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE.
WAE worth thy power, thou cursed leaf!
Fell source o' a' my woe and grief!
For lack o' thee I've lost my lass!
For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass!
I see the children of affliction
Unaided, thro' thy curs'd restriction.
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile,
Amid his hapless victim's spoil.
For lack o' thee I leave this much-lov'd shore,
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.
THE LOYAL NATIVES' VERSES.
YE sons of sedition, give ear to my song,
Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell pervade every throng,
With Crackn the attorney, and Mundell the quack,
Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack.
These verses were handed over the table to Burns at a convivial meeting, and he endorsed the subjoined reply:
BURNS-EXTEMPORE.
YE true Loyal Natives,' attend to my song,
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long;
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt;
But where is your shield from the darts of contempt?
Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,
Beyond comparison the worst are those
That to our folly or our guilt we owe.
In every other circumstance, the mind
Has this to say-'It was no deed of mine;'
But when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added-' Blame thy foolish self!'
Or worser far, the pangs of keen Remorse;
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt-
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others;
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us,
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!
O burning hell! in all thy store of torments,
There's not a keener lash!
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,
Can reason down its agonizing throbs;
And, after proper purpose of amendment,
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?
O, happy! happy! enviable man!
O glorious magnanimity of soul!
'I BURN, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd corn
By driving winds the crackling flames are borne,'
Now maddening, wild, I curse that fatal night;
Now bless the hour which charm'd my guilty sight.
In vain the laws their feeble force oppose:
Chain'd at his feet they groan, Love's vanquish'd foes;
In vain religion meets my sinking eye;
I dare not combat-but I turn and fly;
Conscience in vain upbraids th' unhallow'd fire;
Love grasps his scorpions-stifled they expire!
Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne,
Your dear idea reigns and reigns alone:
Each thought intoxicated homage yields,
And riots wanton in forbidden fields!
By all on high adoring mortals know!
By all the conscious villain fears below!
By your dear self!—the last great oath I swear;
Nor life nor soul were ever half so dear!
EPIGRAM ON A NOTED COXCOMB.
LIGHT lay the earth on Billy's breast,
His chicken heart so tender;
But build a castle on his head,
His skull will prop it under.
As Tam the Chapman on a day
Wi' Death forgather'd by the way,
Weel pleas'd, he greets a wight sae famous,
And Death was nae less pleased wi' Thomas,
Wha cheerfully lays down the pack,
And there blaws up a hearty crack;
His social, friendly, honest heart,
Sae tickled Death they could na part :
Sae after viewing knives and garters,
Death takes him hame to gie him quarters.
SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS, ON HIS BENEFIT-NIGHT, MONDAY, APRIL 16, 1787.
WHEN by a generous public's kind acclaim,
That dearest meed is granted-honest fame;
When here your favour is the actor's lot,
Nor even the mah in private life forgot;
What breast so dead to heav'nly virtue's glow,
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe?
Poor is the task to please a barb'rous throng,
It needs no Siddons' power in Southern's song:
But here an ancient nation, fam'd afar
For genius, learning high, as great in war—
Hail, Caledonia! name for ever dear!
Before whose sons I'm honour'd to appear!
Where every science, every nobler art—
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart,
Is known; as grateful nations oft have found,
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound.
Philosophy, no idle, pedant dream,
Here holds her search, by heaven-taught Reason's beam;
Here History paints with elegance and force,
The tide of Empire's fluctuating course;
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