An' honest Lucky; no to roose you,

Ye may be proud,

That sic a couple fate allows ye
To grace your blood.

Nae mair at present can I measure,
An' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure;
But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure,
Be't light, be't dark,

Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure
To call at Park.

Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786.

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains,

To you I sing my grief-inspired strains :
Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign,
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings
mine,

To mourn the woes my country must endure,
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.

ON

Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly;
Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.

O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,
Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her rod;
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow
She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe.

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men:
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise,
And throw on poverty his cruel eyes;
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:

Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes,
Rousing elate in these degenerate times;
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:
While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue .*
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and
Wrong:

Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale,

And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied wail!

EPISTLE

TO HUGH PARKER.

In this strange land, this uncouth clime,
A land unknown to prose or rhyme;
Where words ne'er crost the muse's heckles,
Nor limpet in poetic shackles ;
A land that prose did never view it,
Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it;
Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek,
Hid in an atmosphere of reek,

I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk,
I hear it-for in vain I leuk.—
The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel,
Enhusked by a fog infernal:

Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures,
1 sit and count my sins by chapters;
For life and spunk like ither Christians,
I'm dwindled down to mere existence,
Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies,
Wi' nae kend face but Jenny Geddes.*
Jenny, my Pegasean pride!

Dowie she saunters down Nithside,
And ay a westlin leuk she throws,
While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose!
Was it for this, wi' canny care,
Thou bure the Bard through many a shire?
At howes or hillocks never stumbled,
And late or early never grumbled ?—
O, had I power like inclination,
I'd heeze thee up a constellation,
To canter with the Sagitarre,
Or loup the ecliptic like a bar;
Or turn the pole like any arrow;
Or, when auld Phebus bids good-morrow
Down the zodiac urge the race,
And cast dirt on his godship's face;
For I could lay my bread and kail
He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail.—
Wi' a' this care and a' this grief,
And sma', sma' prospect of relief,
And nought but peat reek i' my head,
How can I write what ye can read?—
Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June,
Ye'll find me in a better tune;
But till we meet and weet our whistle,
Tak this excuse for nae epistle.

His mare.

TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.

O, COULD I give thee India's wealth
As I this trifle send!
Because thy joy in both would be
To share them with a friend.

But golden sands did never grace

The Heliconian stream;

Then take what gold could never buyAn honest Bard's esteem.

EPISTLE

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esa.

OF FINTRAY:

ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN SIR JAMES JOHNSTON AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS.

FINTRAY, my stay in worldly strife, Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life, Are ye as idle's I am? Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg, O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg,

And ye shall see me try him.

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears
Who left the all-important cares

Of princes and their darlings; And, bent on winning borough towns, Came shaking hands wi' wabster lowns, And kissing barefit carlins.

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode
Whistling his roaring pack abroad

Of mad unmuzzled lions;
As Queensberry buff and blue unfurled,
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurled
To every Whig defiance.

But cautious Queensberry left the war,
Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star;
Besides, he hated bleeding:

But left behind him heroes bright,
Heroes in Cæsarean fight,

Or Ciceronian pleading.

O! for a throat like huge Mons-meg,
To muster o'er each ardent Whig
Beneath Drumlanrig's banner;

Heroes and heroines commix,
All in the field of politics,

To win immortal honour

M'Murdo and his lovely spouse, (Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows!) Led on the loves and graces:

She won each gaping burgess' heart, While he, all-conquering, play'd his part Among their wives and lasses.

(Forgive, forgive, much wrong'd Montrose! Now death and hell engulph thy foes,

Thou liv'st on high for ever!)

Still o'er the field the combat burns,
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;
But Fate the word has spoken:
For woman's wit, and strength o' man,
Alas! can do but what they can!

The Tory ranks are broken.

O that my een were flowing burns,
My voice a lioness that mourns

Her darling cubs' undoing!
That I might greet, that I might cry,
While Tories fall, while Tories fly,

And furious Whigs pursuing!

What Whig but melts for good Sir James ? Dear to his country by the names

Friend, patron, benefactor!

Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save! And Hopeton falls, the generous brave! And Stewart bold as Hector.

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow;
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe;
And Melville melt in wailing!
How Fox and Sheridan rejoice!
And Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise,
Thy power is all-prevailing!

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar
He only hears and sees the war,

A cool spectator purely :
So, when the storm the forest rends,
The robin in the hedge descends,
And sober chirps securely.

ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB

TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY.

LONG life, my Lord, an' health be yours,
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors;
Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar,
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o' a life
She likes-as lambkins like a knife.
Faith, you and A- -s were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight.
I doubt na'! they wad bid nae better
Than let them ance out owre the water;
Then up amang thae lakes and seas
They'll mak' what rules and laws they
please;

Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin,
May set their Highland bluid a ranklin';

* Stewart of Hillside.

Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery fearless lead them,
Till God knows what may be effected
When by such heads and hearts directed—
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to Patrician rights aspire!

Nae sage North, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile,
An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance,
To cowe the rebel generation,

An' save the honour o' the nation?
They an' be dd! what right hae they
To meat or sleep, or light o' day?
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them?

But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna' say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
An' tirl the hallions to the birses;
Yet while they're only poind't and herriet,
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit
But smash them! crash them a' to spails!
An' rot the dyvors i' the jails!

The young dogs, swinge them to the labour.
Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober!
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!
An' if the wives an' dirty brats
E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts
Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas',
Frightin' away your deucks an' geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An gar the tattered gypsies pack
Wi' a' their bastarts on their back!
Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,
An' in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han' assigned your seat
"Tween Herod's hip and Polycrate,—
Or if you on your station tarrow,
Between Almagro and Pizarro,
A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't;
An' till ye come-Your humble servant,
BEELZEBUB,

June 1st, Anno Mundi, 5790.

TO JOHN TAYLOR. 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.

THE LEAGUE AND COVENANT.

THE Solemn League and Covenant

Cost Scotland blood-cost Scotland tears: But it sealed freedom's sacred causeIf thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers.

ON

INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET.

The man and the wine sae bewitching!

IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER.

SWEET naïveté of feature,

Simple, wild, enchanting elf, Not to thee, but thanks to nature, Thou art acting but thyself.

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, Spurning nature, torturing art; Loves and graces all rejected,

Then indeed thou'd'st act a part.

THE TOAD-EATER.

WHAT of earls with whom you have supt, And of dukes that you dined with yestreen?

Lord a louse, Sir, is still but a louse, Though it crawl on the curls of a queen.