Fair B-strikes th' adoring eye,

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine; I see the sire of love on high,

And own his work indeed divine !

V.

There, watching high the least alarms,

Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar; Like some bold vet’ran, gray in arms,

, And mark'd with many a seamy scar: The pond'rous wall and massy bar,

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock; Have oft withstood assailing war,

And oft repell’d the invader's shock.

VI.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,

I view that noble, stately dome, Where Scotia's kings of other years,

Fam'd heroes, had their royal home: Alas, how chang'd the times to come!

Their royal name low in the dust! Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam!

Tho'rigid law cries out, 'twas just !

VII.

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors in days of yore,

, Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd

gaps Old Scotia's bloody lion bore: Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore,

Haply my sires have left their shed, And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar,

Bold-following where your fathers led !

VIII.

a

EDINA! Scotia's darling seat !

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs,

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling’ring hours,

I shelter'd in thy honour'd shade.

EPISTLE EPISTLE

TO

J. LAPRAIK,

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.

April 1st, 1785.

!

While briers an’ woodbines budding green,
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,
An' morning poussie whidden seen,

Inspire my muse,
This freedom in an unknown frien'

I pray excuse.

On

On fasten-een we had a rockin,

a To ca’ the crack and weave our stockin; And there was muckle fun an' jokin,

Ye need na doubt ;
At length we had a hearty yokin

At
sang

about.

There was ae sang amang the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,
That some kind husband had addrest

To some sweet wife:
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,

A' to the life.

6

I've scarce heard ought describes sae weel,
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel;
Thought I, Can this be Pope, or Steele,

Or Beattie's wark!'
They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel

About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't,
And sae about him there I spier't,
Then a' that ken't him round declar'd

He had ingine,
That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,

It was sae fine.

That

That set him to a pint of ale,
An' either douce or merry tale,
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel,

Or witty catches, 'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale,

He had few matches.

Then up I gat, an' swoor an' aith,
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith,
Or die a cadger pownie's death,

At some dyke back,
A pint an’ gill I'd gie them baith

To hear your crack,

But, first an' foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle fell,

Tho' rude an' rough,
Yet crooning to a body's sel,

Does weel eneugh.

I am nae poet, in a sense,
But just a rhymer, like, by chance,
An' hae to learning nae pretence,

Yet, what the matter?
Whene'er my muse does on me glance,

I jingle at her.

Your