The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; But who can with fate and quart bumpers con

tend? Though fate said,-a hero should perish in light; So uprose bright Phoebus—and down fell the

knight

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink :“ Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall

sink ! « But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, « Comeone bottle more-and have at the su

« blime !

Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with

“ BRUCE, “Shall heroes and patriots ever produce: “ So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; “ The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of

day!”

2

SECOND EPISTLE

TO

DAVIE,

A BROTHER POET*.

AULD NIBOR,
I'm three times, doubly, o'er your

debtor, For your auld-farrent, frien’ly letter ; Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter,

Ye speak sae fair; For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;
Lang may your elbuck jink an' diddle,
Tae cheer
you thro' the weary widdle

O’ warly cares,
Till bairns bairns kindly cudle

Your auld, gray hairs.

But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit;
I'm tauld the muse ye hae negleckit;
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket

Until
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit,

Be hain't wha like.

ye fyke;

For me, I'm on Parnassus brink,
Rivan the words tae gar them clink;
Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink,

Wi' jads or masons; An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think

Braw sober lessons.

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,
Commen' me to the bardie clan;
Except it be some idle plan

O'rhymin clink,

The devil-haet, that I sud ban,

They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin',
Nae cares tae gie us joy or grievin':
But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

An' while ought's there, Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrivin',

An' fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it's ay a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,
At hame, a-fiel, at wark or leisure,

The muse, poor hizzie ! Tho'rough an' raploch be her measure,

She's seldom lazy.

Haud tae the muse, my dainty Davie:
The warl’ may play you monie a shavie;
But for the muse, she'll never leave ye,

Tho' e'er sae puir,
Na, even tho' limpan wi' the spavie

Frae door tae door.

SONGS.