Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's fon, take heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,

Or cutty-farks run in your mind,
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

ON

ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT.

INHUMAN
NHUMAN man! curfe on thy barb'rous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity foothe thee with a figh,
Nor never 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 ver

dant plains

To thee shall home, or food, or paftime yield.

Seek, mangled wretch, fome place of wonted

reft,

No more of reft, but now thy dying bed!
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy

head,

The cold earth with thy bloody bofom preft,

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait

The fober eve, or hail the chearful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curfe the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.

ADDRESS

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 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 Year,

Shall bloom that wreath thou well haft won;

While Scotia, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that Thomfon was her fon.

EPITAPHS.