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Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an'

growl, Their worthlefs neivefu' of a foul May in some future carcase howl,

The foreft's fright; Or in some day.detefting owl

May Thun the light.

Then may L*****k and B**** arise, To reach their native, kindred skies, And fing their pleasures, hopes an' joys,

In some mild sphere, Still closer knit in friendship’s ties

Each passing year!


W. S *

* N,


May 1785.

I GAT your letter, winfome Willie;
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be filly,

An' unco vain,
Should I believe, my coaxin billie,

Your flatterin strain.

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But l’se believe ye kindly meant it, I sud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic satire, sidelins sklented

On my poor Mufie; Thoʻin sic phraisin terms ye've penn'd it,

I scarce excuse ye.

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My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel, Wi' Allan, or wiGilbertfield,

The braes o' fame; Or Ferguson, the writer-chiel,

A deathless name:

(O Ferguson! thy glorious parts Ill suited law's dry, musty arts ! My curse upon your whunstane hearts,

Ye Enbrugh Gentry! The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes Wad ftow'd his pantry!


Yet when a tale comes i' my head,
Or laffes gie my heart a screed,
As whiles they're like to be my dead,

(O fad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed;

It gies me ease.



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Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain,
She's gotten Poets o' her ain,
Chiels wha their chanters, winna hain,

But tune their lays,
Till echoes a' resound again

Her weel-sung praise,

Nae Poet thought her worth his while,
To set her name in measur'd stile;
She lay like some unkend-of isle

Beside New Holland,
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil

Besouth Magellan.


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Ramsay an' famous Ferguson
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon;
Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune,

Owre Scotland rings,
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon,

Naebody fings.

ThIllisus, Tiber, I bames, an' Seine,

Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line!

But, Willie, set your fit to mine,

An' cock your crest, We'll gar our streams an'burnies shine

Up wi' the best.

We'll fing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells,

Where glorious Wallace Aft bure the gree, as story tells,

Frae Southron billies.


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