He swoor by a' was swearing worth,
To speet him like a pliver,
Unless he wad from that time forth
Relinquish her for ever.
Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee
Upon his hunkers bended,
And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face,
And sae the quarrel ended.
But tho' his little heart did grieve
When round the tinkler prest her,
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve,
When thus the caird address'd her:

AIR.

TUNE-Clout the Caudron.

My bonny lass, I work in brass,
A tinkler is my station:

I've travell❜d round all Christian ground
In this my occupation :

I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd
In many a noble squadron:

But vain they search'd, when off I march'd
To go and clout the caudron,

I've tae'n the gold, &c.

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp,
Wi' a' his noise and caprin,'
And tak a share wi' those that bear
The budget and the apron.

And by that stoup, my faith and houp,
And by that dear Kilbagie (61),
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant,
May I ne'er weet my craigie.
And by that stoup, &c.

RECITATIVO.

The caird prevail'd-the unblushing fair In his embraces sunk,

Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair,

And partly she was drunk.

Sir Violino, with an air

That show'd a man of spunk, Wish'd unison between the pair, And made the bottle clunk

To their health that night. But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft, That play'd a dame a shavie, The fiddler raked her fore and aft, Ahint the chicken cavie. Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, Tho' limping wi' the spavie, He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft, And shor'd them Dainty Davie O' boot that night

He was a care-defying blade

As ever Bacchus listed,

Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid,

His heart she ever miss'd it.

He had nae wish but-to be glad,
Nor want but-when he thirsted;
He had nought but-to be sad,
And thus the Muse suggested

His sang that night.

AIR.

TUNE-For a' that, and a' that.

I am a bard of no regard,

Wi' gentle folks, and a' that: But Homer-like, the glowrin' byke, Frae town to town I draw that. CHORUS.

For a' that, and a' that,

And twice as muckle's a' that;
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin,
I've wife eneugh for a' that.

I never drank the Muses' stank,
Castalia's burn and a' that;
But there it streams, and richly reams,
My Helicon I ca' that,

For a' that, &c.

Great love I bear to a' the fair,

Their humble slave, and a' that;
But lordly will, I hold it still

A mortal sin to thraw that.
For a' that, &c.

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet,
Wi' mutual love and a' that:
But for how lang the flee may stang,
Let inclination law that.
For a' that, &c.

Their tricks and craft have put me daft,
They've ta'en me in, and a' that;
But clear your decks, and here's the sex
I like the jads for a' that.

AIR.

TUNE-Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses. See! the smoking bowl before us,

Mark our jovial ragged ring! Round and round take up the chorus, And in raptures let us sing.

CHORUS.

A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty's a glorious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.
What is title? what is treasure?
What is reputation's care?
If we lead a life of pleasure,

"Tis no matter how or where!
A fig, &c.
With the ready trick and fable,
Round we wander all the day;
And at night in barn or stable,
Hug our doxies on the hay.
A fig, &c.

Does the train-attended carriage
Through the country lighter rove?
Does the sober bed of marriage
Witness brighter scenes of love!
A fig, &c.

Life is all a variorum,

We regard not how it goes;
Let them cant about decorum
Who have characters to lose.
A fig, &c.

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets!
Here's to all the wandering train!
IIere's our ragged brats and callets!
One and all cry out-Amen!

A fig for those by law protected!
Liberty's a glarious feast!
Courts for cowards were erected,
Churches built to please the priest.

Man was Made to Mourn. (62)

A DIRGE.

WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev❜ning, as I wandered forth

Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man whose aged step

Seem'd weary, worn with care;

His face was furrow'd o'er with years,

And hoary was his hair.

Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man.

The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride:
I've seen you weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return,
And ev'ry time has added proofs
That man was made to mourn.

Oh man, while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Misspending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force gives nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.

Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,

Supported is his right;

But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn; Then age and want-oh! ill-match'd pair!— Show man was made to mouin.

A few seem favourites of fate,

In pleasure's lap carest;

Yet, think not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly blest.

But, oh! what crowds in every land,
All wretched and forlorn!

Thro' weary life this lesson learn-
That man was made to mourn.

Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves
Regret, remorse, and shame;
And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

See yonder poor, o'e-labour'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,

Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;

And see his lordly fellow-worm

The poor petition spurn,

Unmindful, though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

Began the rev'rend sage:

"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

Or youthful pleasure's rage?

By Nature's law designed

Why was an independent wish

E'er planted in my mind?

If not, why am I subject to His cruelty or scorn?

Or why has man the will and power
To make his fellow mourn?

Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last!
The poor, oppressed, honest man
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

Oh Death! the poor man's dearest friend-
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour, my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn!
But, oh! a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn!"

To a Mouse,

ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH,

November 1785. (63.)

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin and chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorrow man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
And fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
And cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice and men,
Gang aft a-gley,

And lea'e us nought but grief and pain,
For promis'd joy.

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee :
But, och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
And forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess and fear.

The Vision.

DUAN FIRST. (64)

THE sun had clos'd the winter day,
The curlers quat their roaring play (65),
And hunger'd maukin ta’en her way
To kail-yards green,

While faithless snaws ilk step betray
Whare she has been.

The thresher's weary flingin'-tree
The lee-lang day had tired me;
And when the day had clos'd his e'e,
Fari' the west,

Ben i' the spence (66), right pensivelie,
I gaed to rest.

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek,
That fill'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek,
The auld clay biggin';

And heard the restless rattons squeak
About the riggin'.

All in this mottie, misty clime,
I backward mus'd on wasted time,
How I had spent my youthfu' prime,
And done nae thing,
But stringin' blethers up in rhyme,
For fools to sing.

Had I to guid advice but harkit,
I might, by this, hae led a market,
Or strutted in a bank, and clarkit
My cash-account:
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit,
Is a' th' amount.

Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space,
Beam'd keen with honour.

Down flow'd her robe a tartan sheen,
Till half a leg was scrimply seen;

And such a leg! my bonnie Jean

Could only peer it;

Sae thought, sae taper, tight and clean,
Nane else came near it.

Her mantle large, of greenish hue,
My gazing wonder chiefly drew;
Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw
A lustre grand;

And seem'd, to my astonish'd view,
A well-known land.

Here, rivers in the sea were lost;
There, mountains to the skies were tost:
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast
With surging foam

There, distant shone Art's lofty boast,
The lordly dome.

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods;
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds :
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods,

On to the shore,

And many a lesser torrent scuds,

With seeming roar.

Low in a sandy valley spread,

An ancient borough rear'd her head (67);

Still, as in Scottish story read,

She boasts a race,

To ev'ry nobler virtue bred,
And polish'd grace,

By stately tow'r or palace fair,
Or ruins pendent in the air,
Bold stems of heroes, here and there,
I could discern ;

Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, With feature stern,

My heart did glowing transport feel,
To see a race (68) heroic wheel,

And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel
In sturdy blows;

While back-recoiling seem'd to reel
Their suthron foes.

His Country's Saviour (69), mark him well!
Bold Richardton's (70) heroic swell;
The chief on Sark (71) who glorious fell
In high command;

And he whom ruthless fates expel
His native land.

There, where a sceptr❜d Pictish shade (72)
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid,

I mark'd a martial race, portray'd
In colours strong;

Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismayed
They strode along.

Thro' many a wild romantic grove (73),
Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love),
In musing mood.

An aged judge, I saw him rove,
Dispensing good.

With deep-struck reverential awe (74),
The learned sire and son I saw (75),
To Nature's God and Nature's law
They gave their lore,
This, all its source and end to draw;
That, to adore.

Brydone's brave ward (76) I well could
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye;
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by,
To hand him on,

Where many a patriot-name on high
And hero shone.

DUAN SECOND.

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare,
I view'd the heav'nly-seeming fair ;
A whisp'ring throb did witness bear
Of kindred sweet,
When with an elder sisters's air
She did me greet.

spy

"All hail! my own inspired bard!
In me thy native Muse regard!
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard,
Thus poorly low!

I come to give thee such regard
As we bestow.

Know, the great genius of this land
Has many a light, aërial band,
Who, all beneath his high command,
Harmoniously,

As arts or arms they understand,
Their labours ply.

;

They Scotia's race among them share;
Some fire the soldier on to dare
Some raise the patriot on to bare
Corruption's heart:
Some teach the hard, a darling care,
The tuneful art.

'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour; Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar,

They, sightless, stand,
To mend the honest patriot-lore,
And grace the hand.

And when the bard, or hoary sage,
Charm or instruct the future age,
They bind the wild, poetic rage
In energy,

Or point the inconclusive page
Full on the eye.

Hence Fullarton, the brave and young;
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue;
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung
His Minstrel lays ;
Or tore, with nobler ardour stung,
The sceptic's bays.

To lower orders are assign'd
The humbler ranks of human-kind,
The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind,

The artizan;

All choose, as various they're inclin'd,
The various man.

When yellow waves the heavy grain,
The threat'ning storm some, strongly, rein:
Some teach to meliorate the plain,

With tillage-skill;

And some instruct the shepherd-train, Blythe o'er the hill.

Some hint the lover's harmless wile; Some grace the maiden's artless smile; Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil,

To mark the embryotic trace

Of rustic hard ;
And careful note each op'ning grace,
A guide and guard.

Of these am I-Coila my name (77);
And this district as mine I claim. [fame,
Where once the Campbells (78), chiefs of
Held ruling pow'r :

I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame,
Thy natal hour.

With future hope, I oft would gaze,
Fond, on thy little early ways,
Thy rudely caroll'd, chiming phrase,
In uncouth rhymes,

Fir'd at the simple. artless lays,
Of other times.

I saw thee seek the sounding shore,
Delighted with the dashing roar;
Or when the north his fleecy store
Drove through the sky,

I saw grim nature's visage hoar

Struck thy young eye.

Or when the deep green-mantled earth
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth,
And joy and music pouring forth
In ev'ry grove,

I saw thee eye the general mirth
With boundless love.

When ripen'd fields, and azure skies,
Called forth the reaper's rustling noise,
I saw thee leave their evening joys,
And lonely stalk,

To vent thy bosom's swelling rise
In pensive walk.

When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong,
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along,
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue,
Th' adored Name,

I taught thee how to pour in song,
To soothe thy flame.

I saw thy pulse's maddening play,
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way,
Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray,
By passion driven;

But yet the light that led astray

Was light from Heaven.

I taught thy manners-painting strains,
The loves, the ways of simple swains,
Till now, o'er all my wide domains
Thy fame extends;
And some, the pride of Coila's plains,
Become thy friends.

Thou canst not learn, nor can I show,
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow;
Or wake the bosom-melting throe,

With Shenstone's art;
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow
Warm on the heart.