Or, if he wanders up the howe, Her living image in her yowe,

Comes bleating to him ow're the knowe,

For bits o' bread;

An' down the briny pearls rowe

For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorland tips, Wi' tawit ket, an' hairy hips;

For her forbears were brought in fhips,

A bonier fleef ne'er crofs'd the clips

Than Mailie's 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 weave wi' crape

For Mailie's dead.

O, a' ye Bards an bonie Doon! An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune! Come, join the melancholious croon

O Robin s reed!

His heart will never get aboon!

His Mailie's dead.

J. S S* *

Friendship! myfterious cement of the foul!
Sweet'ner of Life, and folder of Society!
I owe thee much-

DEAR

BLAIR.

EAR S****, the fleeeft, paukie thief, That e'er attempted stealth or rief,

Ye furely hae fome warlock-breef

For ne'er a bofom yet was prief

Owre human hearts

Against your arts.

For me, I fwear by fun an' moon, And every ftar that blinks aboon,

Ye've coft me twenty pair o' fhoon

Juft

gaun

to see you;

And every ither pair that's done,

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for fcrimpet ftature, She's turn'd you off, a human creature

On her first plan,

And in her freaks, on every feature,

She's wrote, the Man.

VOL. .I

E

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, My barmie noddle's working prime,

My fancy yerket up sublime

Wi' hafty fummon :

Hac ye a leifure moment's time

To hear what's comin?

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

An' raise a din;

For me, an aim I never fafh;

I rhyme for fun.

The ftar that rules my lucklefs lot,

Has fated me the ruffet coat,

An' damn'd my fortune to the groat;

But in requit,

Has bleft me with a random fhot

O' countra wit.

This while my notion's ta'en afklent, To try my fate in guid black prent; But ftill the mair I'm that way bent,

6

There's ither Poets, much your betters, Far feen in Greek, deep men o' letters,

Hae thought they had enfur'd their debtors, 'A' future ages;

Now moths deform in fhapeless tatters

Their unknown pages,.'

Then farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs,

To garland my poetic brows!

Henceforth Ill rove where bufy ploughs,

Are whistling thrang,

An' teach the lanely heights an' howes

My ruftic fang.

I'll wander on with tentlefs heed, How never-halting moments fpeed, Till fate fhall fnap the brittle thread :

Then,all unknown,

I'll lay me with the inglorious dead,

Forgot and gone!

But why, o' death, begin a tale? Juft now we're living found an hale ! Then top and maintop croud the fail,

Heave Care o'erfide!

And large, before enjoyment's gale,

Let's tak the tide.

This life, fae far's I underfland,

Is a' inchanted fairy-land,

Where pleasure is the magic wand,

That, wielded right,

Maks Hours like Minutes, hand in hand,

Dance by fu' light.

The magic-wand then let us wield; For, ance that five-an'-forty's fpeeld,

See, crazy, weary, joyless Eild,

Wi' wrinkl'd face,

Comes hoftin, hirplin owre the field,

Wi' creeping pace.

When ence life's day draws near the gloamin, Then fareweel vacant, careless roamin;

An' fareweel chear fu' tankards foamin,

An' focial noife;

An' fairweel dear, deluding woman,

The joy of joys!

O Life! how pleafant is thy morning, Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! Cold-paufing Caution's leffon fcorning,

We frisk away,

Like fchool-boys, at th' expected warning,

To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here,

We eye

the rofe upon the brier,

Unmindful that the thorn is near,

Among the leaves;