There at them thou thy tail may tofs, A running ftream they dare na cross. But ere the key ftane fhe could make, The fient a tail fhe had to shake! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie preft, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wift fhe Maggie's mettle- Ae fpring brought off her mafter hale, But left behind her ain grey tail : The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a ftump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth fhall read, Ilk man and mother's fon, take heed : Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Or cutty-íarks run in your mind, Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear, Remember Tam o'Shanter's mare.
Seeing a WOUNDED HARE Limp by me, which a Fellow had just shot at.
NHUMAN man curfe on thy barb'rous art, And blafted be thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity foothe thee with a figh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!
Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, The bitter little that of life remains:
No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains
To thee fhall home, or food, or paftime yield, Seek, mangled wretch, fome place of wonted reft,
No more of reft, but now thy dying bed! The fheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy bloody bofom preft.
Oft as by winding Nith I mufing, wait
The fober eve, or hail the chearful dawn,
I'll miss thee fporting o'er the de vy lawn, And curfe the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.
To the SHADE of THOMSON, on crowning his BusT, at Ednam, Roxbourgh-fhire, with BAYS.
WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green,
Or pranks the fod in frolic mood, Or tunes Eolian ftrains between.
While Summer with a matron grace Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling fhade,
Yet oft, delighted, ftops to trace 'The progrefs of the spiky blade.
While Autumn, benefactor kind, By Tweed erects his aged head, And fees, with felf-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty fed
While maniac Winter rages o'er The hills whence claffic Yarrow flows, Roufing the turbid torrent's roar,
Or fweeping, wild, a waste of fnows,
So long, fweet Poet of the
Shall bloom that wreath thou well haft won,
While Scotia, with exulting tear,
Proclaims that Thomson was her fon.
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