You think I'm glad; oh, I pay weel

For a' the joy I borrow,

In solitude - then, then I feel
I canna to mysel' conceal
My deeply-ranklin' sorrow.

Farewell! within thy bosom free
A sigh may whiles awaken;

A tear may wet thy laughin' e'e,

For Scotia's son

―ance gay like thee – Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken !

THE CALF.

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN,

On his Text, Malachi iv. 2. -"And ye shall go forth, and grow up as CALVES of the stall."

RIGHT, sir! your text I'll prove it true,
Though heretics may laugh;

For instance, there's yoursel' just now,
God knows, an unco calf!

And should some patron be so kind,
As bless you wi' a kirk,

I doubt na, sir, but then we'll find
Ye're still as great a stirk.

But if the lover's raptured hour
Shall ever be your lot,

Forbid it, every heavenly power,
You e'er should be a stot!

Though, when some kind, connubial dear,

Your but-and-ben adorns,

The like has been that you may wear

A noble head of horns.

And in your lug, most reverend James,
To hear you roar and rowte,

Few men o' sense will doubt your claims
To rank amang the nowte.

And when ye 're numbered wi' the dead, Below a grassy hillock,

Wi' justice they may mark your head "Here lies a famous bullock!"

WILLIE CHALMERS.

WI' braw new branks in mickle pride,

And eke a braw new brechan,

My Pegasus I'm got astride,

And up Parnassus pechin';

Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush,
The doited beastie stammers;
Then up he gets, and off he sets,
For sake o' Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na, lass, that weel-kenned name May cost a pair o' blushes;

I am nae stranger to your fame,

Nor his warm urgèd wishes.

Your bonny face sae mild and sweet,
His honest heart enamours,

And faith ye 'll no be lost a whit,
Though waired on Willie Chalmers.

Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye 're fair,
And Honour safely back her,
And Modesty assume your air,
And ne'er a ane mistak' her:
And sic twa love-inspiring een
Might fire even holy palmers;
Nae wonder, then, they've fatal been
To honest Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na fortune may you shore
Some mim-mou'd pouthered priestie,
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore,
And band upon his breastie :
But oh! what signifies to you
His lexicons and grammars;
The feeling heart's the royal blue,
And that's wi' Willie Chalmers.

Some gapin' glowrin' country laird
May warsle for your favour;
May claw his lug, and straik his beard,

And hoast up some palaver.
My bonny maid, before ye wed

Sic clumsy-witted hammers,

Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers.

Forgive the Bard! my fond regard
For ane that shares my bosom,
Inspires my Muse to gie 'm his dues,

For deil a hair I roose him.
May powers aboon unite you soon,
And fructify your amours,
And every year come in mair dear
To you and Willie Chalmers.

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY.

"An honest man 's the noblest work of God."- POPE.

HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? Or great M'Kinlay thrawn his heel? Or Robertson again grown weel

To preach and read?

66 Na, waur than a'!" cries ilka chiel Tam Samson's dead!

Kilmarnock lang may grunt and grane,
And sigh, and sob, and greet her lane,
And cleed her bairns, man, wife, and wean,
In mourning weed;

To Death she's dearly paid the kane
Tam Samson's dead!

The brethren o' the mystic level
May hing their head in woefu' bevel,
While by their nose the tears will revel,
Like ony bead;

Death 's gien the lodge an unco devel
Tam Samson's dead!

When Winter muffles up his cloak,

And binds the mire like a rock;

When to the loch the curlers flock,
Wi' gleesome speed,

Wha will they station at the cock?

Tam Samson's dead!

He was the king o' a' the core,
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,
Or up the rink like Jehu roar

In time o' need;

But now he lags on Death's hog-score ·
Tam Samson's dead!

Now safe the stately sawmont sail,
And trouts be-dropped wi' crimson hail,
And eels weel kenned for souple tail,
And geds for greed,

Since dark in Death's fish-creel we wail
Tam Samson dead!

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a';
Ye cootie moorcocks crously craw;
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw,
Withouten dread;

Your mortal fae is now awa'

Tam Samson's dead!

That woefu' morn be ever mourned
Saw him in shootin' graith adorned,
While pointers round impatient burned,
Frae couples freed;

But, och he gaed, and ne'er returned!
Tam Samson's dead!