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• Waes me for Johnny Ged's Hole* now,'
• Sae white and bonie,
• They'll ruin Johnie!"
The creature grain’d an eldritch laugh,
· Ye need na yoke the pleugh, • Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh,
ye nae fear: They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh
• In twa-three year.
• Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death,
By loss o' blood or want of breath, · This night I'm free to tak my aith,
• That Hornbook's skill * Has clad a score i' their last claith,
By drap an' pill.
• An honest Wabster to his trade, • Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred, · Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,
· When it was sair; • The wife slade cannie to her bed,
• But ne'er spak mair.
• A countra Laird had ta'en the batts
• An' pays him well. • The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,
Was laird himsel.
• A bonie lass, ye kend her name,
• In Hornbook's care; · Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,
6 To hide it there.
• That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way; • Thus goes
he on from day to day, • Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay,
• An's weel paid for't; • Yet stops me o my
• But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot,
• As dead's a herrin: Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat,
· He gets his fairin!'
But just as he began to tell,
Which rais'd uş baith: :
And sae did Death.
BRIGS OF AYR,
IRSCRIBED TO J. B*********, Esg. Ayr.
HE simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er
the hill; Shall he, nurst in the Peasarit's lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred, By early Poverty to hardship steel'd, And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field, Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ?
Or labour hard the panegyric close,
'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; Potatoe-bings are snugged up fra skaith Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath; The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, Unnumber'd buds an' flow'rs' delicious spoils, Seal’d up with frugal care in massive waxen piles, Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek: The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie: