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Sweet fruit o' mony à merry dint,
My funny toil is now a' tint,
Sin thou came to the warl asklent,

Which fools may scoff at; In my last plack thy part's be in't,

The better ha'f o't.
An' if thou be what I wad hae thee,
An' tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
A lovin' father I'll be to thee,

If thou be spard ;
Thro' a' thy childish years l'll e'e thee,

An' think’t weel war'd. Gude grant that thou 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.

POEM,
ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL.

Collector of Excise, Dumfries, 1796.

FRIEND of the poet, tried and leal,
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal,
Alake, alake the meikle deil

Wi' a' his witches
Are at it, skelpin! jig and reel

In my poor pouches.
I modestiy fu fain wad hint it,
That one pound one, I sairly want it;
If wi'the hizzie down ye sent it,

It would be kind :
And while my heart's wi’ life-blood dunted,

I'd bear't in mind.

Şe may the auld year gang out moaning
To see the new come laden groaning,
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin

To thee and thine;
Domestic peace and comfort crowning

The hail design.

POSTCRIPT.
Ye've heard this while how I've been licket.
And by fell death was nearly nicket;
Grim loon! he gať me by the fecket,

And sair me sheuk;
But by gude luek I lap a wicket,

And turn'd a neuk.
But by that health, I've got a share o't,
And by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't,
My hale and weel, i'll take a care o'tg

A tentier way:
Then farewell, folly, hide and hair o't

For ance and ay.

COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS

TO

MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'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 ;
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh,

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal.
My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne;

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 gentry,
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine

Their title's avow'd by my country.
But why of that epocha make such a fuss,

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.
I send you a trifle, a head of a bard,

A trifle scarce worthy your care ;
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regards

Sincere as a saint's dying pray’r.
Now life's chilly ev'ning dim shades on your eye,

And ushers the long dreary night; But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright.

ON THE

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?
Or ware ye at the Sherra-muir,

And did the battle see, man?'
I saw the battle, sair and tough,
And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh,
My heart for fear gae sough for sough,

To hear the thuds, and see the cluds,
O'clans frae woods, in tartan duds,

Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
The red-coat lads wi' black cockades,

To meet them were na slaw, inan; They rush'd and push’d, and blude outgush'd,

And iony 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.
But had you seen the philibegs,

And skyrin tartan trews, man,
When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs,

And covenant true-blues, mau:
In lines extended lang and large,
When bayonets oppos'd the targe,
And thousands hasten'd to the charge,
Wi' highland wrath they frae the sheath
Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath

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 huntit poor red-coat

For fear amaist did swarf, man.'
My sister Kate cam up the gate

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ;
She swoor she saw some rebels run

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man;
Their left-hand general had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae good will
That day their neebor's blood to spill;

For fear, by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o' brose ; all crying woes,

And so it goes, you see, man,
They've lost some gallant gentlemen,

Amang the Highland clans, mad;
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain,

Or fall’n in whiggish hands, man
Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right ;
But mony bade the world gude-night;
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,
By red claymores, and muskets”knell,
Wi' dying yell the tories fell,

And whigs to bell did flee, man,

LINES

WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF THE

CELEBRATED
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 OF• FERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENCE.

KIND Sir, I've read your paper through,
And faith, to me, 'twas really new!
How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted ?
This mony a day I've grain'd and grunted,

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