That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride,
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride:
An' sweet and gracefu' she did ride,

Wi' maiden air!

Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide,
For sic a pair.

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hobble, An' wintle like a saumont-coble,

That day ye was a jinker noble,

For heels an' win'!

An' ran them till they a' did wauble,

Far, far behin.'

When thou an' I were young and skeigh, An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh,

How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh,

An' tak the road!

Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh,

An' ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,
We took the road ay like a swallow:
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,

For pith an' speed;

But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow,

Whare'er thou gaed.

The

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle,
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;

But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle,
An' gart them whaizle:

Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle

O' saugh or hazle.

Thou was a noble fittie-lan',
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun,

On guid March-weather,

Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',

For days thegither.

Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, Wi' pith and pow'r,

'Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, An' slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labor back to keep,

I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap

Aboon the timmer;

I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep

For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit,
Then stood to blaw ;.

But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa,

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a'; Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa,

That thou hast nurst:

They drew me thretteen pund an' twa,

The vera warst.

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, An' wi' the weary warl' fought! An' monie an anxious day, I thought

We wad be beat!

Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
Wi' something yet.

And think na, my auld, trusty servan', That now perhaps thou's less deservin, An' thy auld days may end in starvin, For my last fou, A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane

Laid by for you.

We've worn to crazy years thegither;
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether,

To some hain'd rig,

Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,

Wi' sma' fatigue.

VOL. III.

L

ΤΟ

ΤΟ

A MOUSE,

On turning her up in her Nest with the Plough,
November, 1785.

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,

Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union,

An' justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

An' fellow-mortal!

5

I doubt