Tho' here they scrape, an' fqueeze, an' growl,

Their worthlefs nievefu' of a foul

May in fome future carcafe howl,

The foreft's fright;

Or in fome day-detesting owl

May fhun the light.

Then may L*****k and B**** arise, To reach their native, kindred skies,

And fing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys,

In fome mild fphere,

Still clofer knit in friendship's ties

Each paffing year!

ΤΟ

то

W. S*****N, Ochiltree.

May 1785.

IGAT your letter, winfome Willie ;

Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;
Tho' I maun fay't, I wad be filly,

An' unco vain,

Should I believe, my coaxin billie,

Your flatterin ftrain.

But I'fe believe ye kindly meant it, I fud be laith to think ye hinted Ironic fatire, fidelins sklented

On my poor Mufie;

Tho' in fic phraifin terms ye've penn'd it,
I fcarce excufe ye.

My fenfes wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to fpeel,

Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfield,

The braes o' fame;

Or Ferguson, the writer-chiel,

A deathlefs name.

(O Ferguson! thy glorious parts

Ill fuited law's dry, mufty arts!

My curfe upon your whunftane hearts,

Ye Enbrugh Gentry!

The tythe o' what ye wafte at cartes

Wad ftow'd his pantry!)

Yet

Yet when a tale comes i' my head,

Or laffes gie my heart a fcreed,

As whiles they're like to be my deed,

(O fad disease !)

I kittle up my ruftic reed;

It gies me ease.

Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain,

She's gotten Poets o' her ain,

Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,

But tune their lays,

Till echoes a' refound again

Her weel-fung praise.

Nae Poet thought her worth his while, To fet her name in measur'd ftile;

She lay like fome unkend-of ifle

Befide New-Holland,

Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil

Befouth Magellan.

G 3

Ramfay

Ramfay an' famous Fergufon Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon;

Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune,

Owre Scotland rings,

While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon,
Naebody fings.

Th' Illiffus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, Glide fweet in monie a tunefu' line!

But, Willie, fet your fit to mine,

An' cock your crest,

We'll gar our ftreams an' burnies fhine
Up wi' the best.

We'll fing auld Coila's plains an' fells, Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells,

Where glorious Wallace

Aft bure the gree, as ftory tells,

Frae Southron billies.

At