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I wat she was a sheep o' sense, An' could behave hersel wi' mense : I'll say't, she never brak a fence,

Thro' thievish greed. Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence

Sin' Mailie's dead.

Or, if he wanders up the howe,
Her living image in her yowe,
Comes bleating to him owre the knowe,

For bits o' bread;
An' down the briny pearls rowe

For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorland tips,
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips ;
For her forbears were brought in ships

Frae yont the Tweed :
A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips

Than Mailie dead.

Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile, wanchancie thing—a rape !
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape,

Wi' chokin dread;
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape,

For Mailie dead.


0, a' 0, a' ye bards on bonie Doon! An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune! Come, join the melancholious croon TO

O' Robin's reed ! His heart will never get aboon

His Mailie dead.

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J. S *

Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul !
Sweetner of life, and solder of society!
I owe thee much!-


Dear S****, the sleest, paukie thief,
That e'er attempted stealth or rief,
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef

Owre human hearts;
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief

Against your arts.


For me, I swear by sun an' moon, And every star that blinks aboon, Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon,

Just gaun to see you; And ev'ry ither pair that's done,

Mair taen I'm wi' you.

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She's turn'd you aff, a human creature


On her first plan, And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature,

She's wrote, the Man.

Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, My barmie noddle's working prime, My fancy yerkit up sublime

Wi' hasty summon: Hae ye a leisure moment's time

To hear what's comin?

Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash; Some rhyme to court the countra clash,

An' raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash;

I rhyme for fun.



The star that rules my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,
An' damn'd my fortune to the groat;

But in requit,
Has blest me wi' a random shot

O countra wit.

This while my notion's taen a sklent, To try my fate in guid, black prent ; But still the mair I'm that way bent,

Something cries, · Hoolie!

tak tent!
· Ye'll shaw your folly.

"I red you,

honest man,

• There's ither poets, much your betters, , Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, · Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors,

· A' future ages; Now moths deform in shapeless tetters,

• Their unknown pages,

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Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs,
To garland my poetic brows!
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs

Are whistling thrang,
An' teach the lanely heights an' howes

My rustic sang,

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