So Maggie runs the witches follow, Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane* of the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The frent a tail she had to shake! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle— Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain grey tail: The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, It is a well-known fact, that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any farther than the middle of the next running stream. It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back. Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, Which a fellow had just shot at. INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art, Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. Seek, mangled wretch, some place, of wonted rest, Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing wait The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, While Summer with a matron grace While Autumn, benefactor kind, While maniac Winter rages o'er The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows-; So long, sweet Poet of the year, Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won: While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that THOMSON was her son, EPITAPHS. ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER, HERE Souter **** in death does sleep; To h-ll, if he's gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,He'll haud it weel thegither. ON A NOISY POLEMIC. BELOW thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : ON WEE JOHNNY. Hic jacet wee Johnnie. WHOE'ER thou art, O reader, know, That death has murder'd Johnnie! An' here his body lies fu' low-a For saul he ne'er had ony. FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. OYE whose cheek the tear of pity stains, The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. FOR R. A. Esq. KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame FOR G. H. Esq. THE poor man weeps here Gn sleeps, But with such as he, where'er hẹ be, most |