It maks guid fellows girn an' gape,
Wi' chokin dread;

An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape

For Mailie dead.

a' ye bards on bonie Doon!
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon
O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon—

His Mailie's dead!

EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE.

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS.

O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin'!
There's mony godly folks are thinkin,
Your dreams and tricks

Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin
Straught to auld Nick's.

Ye hae sae mony cracks an' cants,
And in your wicked, drucken rants,
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,

An' fill them fou;

And then their failings, flaws, an' wants,
Are a' seen thro'.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!
That holy robe, O dinna tear it!
Spare't for their sakes, wha aften wear it—
The lads in black;

But

your curst wit, when it comes near it,
Rives 't aff their back.

The poet goes out poaching

Think, wicked Sinner, wha ye're skaithing:
It's just the Blue-gown badge and claithing
O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething
To ken them by

Frae ony unregenerate heathen,
Like you or I.

I've sent you here some rhyming ware,
A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair;
Sae, when you hae an hour to spare,
I will expect,

Yon sang ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care,
And no neglect.

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing;
I've play'd mysel a bonie spring,

An' danc'd my fill !

I'd better gaen an' sair't the king,
At Bunker's Hill.

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun,
I gaed a rovin wi' the gun,

An' brought a paitrick to the grun'—
A bonie hen ;

And, as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane wad ken.

The poor, wee thing was little hurt;
I straikit it a wee for sport,

Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't;
But, Deil-ma-care!

Somebody tells the poacher-court

The hale affair.

Some auld, us'd hands had taen a note,
That sic a hen had got a shot

I was suspected for the plot;

and, being caught,

Vows ven

geance

I scorn'd to lie;

So gat the whissle o' my groat,
An' pay't the fee.

But by my gun, o' guns the wale,
An' by my pouther an' my hail,
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,
I vow an' swear!

The game

shall pay, o'er muir an' dale,
For this, neist year.

As soon's the clockin-time is by,
An' the wee pouts begun to cry,
Lord, I'se hae sporting by an' by
For my gowd guinea,

Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye
For't in Virginia.

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame !
"Twas neither broken wing nor limb,
But twa-three draps about the wame,
Scarce thro' the feathers;
An' baith a yellow George to claim,
An' thole their blethers!

It pits me aye as mad's a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient:

Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,

Your most obedient.

The poet A POET'S WELCOME TO HIS LOVEBEGOTTEN DAUGHTER.

defies

public

opinion THE FIRST INSTANCE that entitled him to the

VENERABLE APPELLATION OF FATHER.

THOU's Welcome, wean; mishanter fa' me,
If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy mammie,
Shall ever daunton me or awe me,

My sweet wee lady,

Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me
Tyta or daddie.

Tho' now they ca' me fornicator,
An' tease my name in countra clatter,
The mair they talk, I'm kend the better,
E'en let them clash;

An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.

Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter,
Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for,
And tho' your comin' I hae fought for,
Baith kirk and queir;

Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for,
That I shall swear!

Tho' I should be the waur bestead,
Thou's be as braw and bienly clad,
And thy young years as nicely bred
Wi' education,

As onie brat o' wedlock's bed,

In a' thy station.

Wee image o' my bonie Betty,
As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,
As dear and near my heart I set thee
Wi' as gude will

As a' the priests had seen me get thee
That's out o' hell.

through affection for his child

Lord grant that thou

may aye inherit

Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,
An' thy poor, worthless daddy's spirit,
Without his failins,

'Twill please me mair to see thee heir it,
Than stockit mailens.

For if thou be what I wad hae thee,
And tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
I'll never rue my trouble wi' thee—

The cost nor shame o't,

But be a loving father to thee,

And brag the name o't.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN-
A DIRGE.

WHEN Chill November's surly blast

Made fields and forests bare,

One ev❜ning, as I wandered forth

Along the banks of Ayr,