His witty fang, wi' jokes fae fu', Slides juift awa like weel-teas'd woo, Sae tight and easy, faith there's few Now in our day, Can chauut fae blithe, or fing fae true To Ramfay's lay. As I had got ye'r Magazine, And blefs'd the lad Syne hy'd me to our herds bedeen, Wi' tidings glad. How pleas'd was I fae eith to trace A cheerfu'nefs in ilka face; Sae fuin's I fhawn them a' the cafe, They wish'd the callant meikle grace, How happily ilk fhepherd reads Sic tales, clad in plain Scottish weeds; E'en bony laffies, wi' hiegh heads, Do gladly hear Sangs tun'd upo' their native reeds, To them fae dear: They now expect ye'll fing fae rare, And oft defcribe a Whitfun' Fair, That, for themfels, nae coft they'll spare To mak them braw; Than maun ye tell, wi wit and care, They're bony a': They'll a' be there, the kintry 'round Our Efkdale laffies fay they're bound. -Ye'd need to be a wylie loon, Like ye❜r ain lays, Or, trowth, I dread they will ye drown Lang may ye fing, weel may ye phraze, And I fall gar a' our green braes Ken weel ye'r name; I'm fure ye ftill fall ha'e the praise Langholm. Of ESKDALE TAM. LAMENT FOR JAMES EARL OF GLENCAIRN. THE HE wind blew hollow frae the hills, Look'd on the fading yellow woods Laden with years and meikle pain, Whom death had all untimely ta’en. He lean'd him to an ancient aik, Whofe trunk was mould'ring down with years; His locks were bleached white with time, His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears; Ye fcatter'd birds that faintly fing A few fhort months, and glad and gay, Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e; But nocht in all-revolving time Can gladness bring again to me. I am a bending aged tree, "That long has stood the wind and rain; gane: • And my laft hald of earth is I've seen fae mony changefu' years, Akke unknowing and unknown: Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, I bear alane my lade o' care, And laft, (the fum of a' my griefs!) His country's pride, his country's stay : In weary being now I pine, For all the life of life is dead, And hope has left my aged ken, • On forward wing for ever fled. Awake thy laft fad voice, my harp; The voice of woe and wild defpair! Accept this tribute from the Bard Thou brought from fortune's mirkeft gloom. In Poverty's low barren vale, Thick mifts, obfcure, involv'd me round; Though oft I turned the wiflful eye, Nae ray of fame was to be found: • Thou found'st me, like the morning fun That melts the fogs in limpid air, The friendless Bard and ruftic fong, Became alike thy fostering care. |