Address to the Shade of Thomson,

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS.

WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green,

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,

Or tunes Eolian strains between:

While Summer, with a matron grace,

Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace

The progress of the spiky blade :

While Autumn, benefactor kind,

By Tweed erects his agèd head,
And sees, with self-approving mind,
Each creature on his bounty fed:

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Address to the Shade of Thomson.

While maniac Winter rages o'er

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows;

So long, sweet Poet of the year!

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;

While Scotia, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that Thomson was her son!

Epistle to Davie,

A BROTHER POET.

WHILE winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw,

And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,

And hing us owre the ingle,

I set me down to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,

In hamely westlin jingle.

While frosty winds blaw in the drift

Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the great folks' gift,
That live sae bien and snug:

I tent less, and want less

Their roomy fire-side;

But hanker and canker

To see their cursèd pride.