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Sweet fruit o' mony à merry dint,
Which fools may scoff at; In my last plack thy part's be in't,
The better ha'f o't.
If thou be spard ;
An' think't weel war'd. Gude grant that thon may ay inherit Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit, And thy poor worthless daddy's spirit,
Without his failins, 'Twill please me mair to hear an' see't,
Than stocket mailens.
Collector of Excise, Dumfries, 1796.
FRIEND of the poet, tried and leal,
Wi' a' his witches
In my poor pouches.
It would be kind:
I'd bear't in mind.
$o may the auld year gang out moaning
To thee and thine;
The hail design.
And sair me sheuk;
And turn'd a neuk.
A tentier way:
For ance and ay.
COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS
TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BIRD'S PICTURE. REVER’D defender of beauteous Stuart,
Of Stuart, a name once respected, A name which to love was the mark of a true heart,
But now 'tis despis’d and neglected : Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye,
Let no one misdeem me disloyal ;
Still more, if that wand'rer were royal.
My fathers have fallen to right it ;
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son
That pame should he scoffingly slight it. till in prayers for K-G- I most heartily join,
The Q- and the rest of the geotry,
Their title's avow'd by my country.
But loyalty truce! we're on dangerous ground,
Who knows how the fashions may alter; The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring us a halter.
A trifle scarce worthy your care;
Sincere as a saint's dying pray’r.
And ushers the long dreary night; But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky
Your course to the latest is bright.
BATTLE OF SHERIFF.MUIR,
BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND TBE
EARL OF MAR.
O CAM ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?
And did the battle see, man?
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds,
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
To meet them were na slaw, inan; They rush'd and push’d, and blude outgush'd,
And igony a bouk did fa', man: The great Argyle led on his files, I wat they glanced twenty miles : They hack'd and hash'd, while broad swords
clash’d, And thro’ they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd,
Till fey men died awa, man.
And skyrin tartan trews, man,
And covenant true-blues, inau:
They fled like frighted doos, man. "O how deil Tam can that be true ?
The chace gaed frae the north, man : I saw mysel, they did pursue
The horsemen back to Forth, man; And at Donblane in my ain sight, They took the brig wi' a'their might, And straught to Sterling wing'd their flight: But cursed lot! the gates were shut ; And
mony a huotit poor red-coat For fear amaist did swarf, man.' My sister Kate cam up the gate
Wi' crowdie unto me, man ;
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man ;
For fear, by foes, that they should lose
And so it goes, you see, man.
Amang the Highland clans, man;
Or fall'n in whiggish hands, man
And whigs to bell did iee, man,
WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF THE
MISS BURNS. Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing,
Lovely Burns has charms-confess; True it is, she had one failing,
Had a woman ever less ?
THE FOLLOWING POEM
WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN
WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENCE.
KIND Sir, I've read your paper through,