The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him; The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him O fortune, they hae room to grumble! Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bummle, Wha can do naught but fyke and fumble, "Twad been nae plea; But: he was gleg as ony wumble, That's owre the sea. He was her laureate monie a year, He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west A jillet brak his heart at last, So took a birth afore the mast, To tremble under fortune's cummock, On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, Wi' his proud, independent stomacn So row't his hurdies in a hammock, He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, The muse was a' that he took pride in, Jamaica bodies, use him weel, He wad na wrang'd the vera diel, That's owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! Your native soil was right ill-willie; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonnilie! I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Though owre the sea. TO A HAGGIS. FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o' need, While through your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic labour dight, An' cut you up with ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive Is there that o'er his French ragout, Poor devil! see him owre his trash, But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, Ye powers, wha mak mankind your care, But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. EXPECT na, sir, in this narration, A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, Then when I'm tired-and sae are ye, This may do-maun do, sir, wi' them wha The poet, some guid angel help him, The patron, (sir, ye maun forgie me, I winna lie, come what will o' me,) On every hand it will allow'd be, He's just-nae better than he should be. I readily and freely grant, He dow a see a poor man want; What's his ain he winna tak it, What ance he says, he winna break it; Aught he can lend he'll no refuse't, Till aft his guidness is abused: And rascals whyles that do him wrang, E'en that, he does na mind it lang: As master, landlord, husband, father, He does na fail his part in either. But then, na thanks to him for a' that; Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that; It's naething but a milder feature Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature! Ye'll get the best o' moral works 'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks. Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, Wha never heard of orthodoxy. That he's the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman in word and deed, It's no through terror of d-mn-tion; It's just a carnal inclination. Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice! No-stretch a point to catch a plack; Abuse a brother to his back; Steal through a winnock frae a wh-re, Learn three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces, Wi' we spread looves, an' lang wry faces; O ye wha leave the springs of C-lv-n, Your pardon, sir, for this digression, So, sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, I thought them something like yoursel. Then patronize them wi' your favour, I had amaist said, ever pray, For prayin I hae little skill o't; I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't "May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark To serve their king and country weel, But if (which powers above prevent!) By sad mistakes, and black mischances, TO A LO USE. CY SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH. HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? I canna say but ye strunt rarely Owre gauze and lace; Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; Where ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumpin cattle, In shoals and nations; Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight, My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, Wad dress your droddum! Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name! IV. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn! Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptured thrill of joy! Fair B strikes th' adoring eye, Heaven'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 veteran, gray in arms, And mark'd with many a seamy scar; The ponderous walls and massy bar, Grim rising o'er the rugged rock; Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. VI. With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, Famed heroes! had their royal home: Alas! how changed the times to come! Their royal name low in the dust! Their hapless race wild-wandering roam! Though rigid law cries out, 'Twas just! VII. Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Haply my sires have left their shed, And faced grim danger's loudest roar, Bold following where your fathers led! VIII. Edina! Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign powers! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.-APRIL 1st, 1785. On fasten-een we had a rockin, There was ae sang, amang the rest, It thrill'd the heart-strings through the breast, I've scarce heard aught describes sae weel, What generous, manly bosoms feel; Thought I, "Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattie's wark !" They tauld 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 declared He had ingine, That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, It was sae fine. That set him to a pint of ale, Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' swoor an' aith, Though 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, Though rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's eel, Does well eneugh. I am nae poet, in a sense, Yet, what the matter? Your critic folk may cock their nose, But, by your leaves, my learned foes, What's a' your jargon o' your schools, What sairs your grammars A set o' dull conceited hashes, An' syne they think to climb Parnassu; Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire, That's a' the learning I desire; Then though I drudge through dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart. O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, |