Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch O' sour disdain, Out owre a glass o' whisky punch Oh whisky! soul o' plays and pranks! Thou comes- -they rattle i' their ranks Thee, Ferintosh! oh sadly lost! (99) For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast, Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, And bake them up in brunstane pies Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still And deal't about as thy blind skill Address to the Aura Gnid, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. The cleanest corn that e'er was dight Oн ye wha are sae guid yoursel, Sae pious and sae holy, Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd. And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop: Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; Oh would they stay to calculate Or your more dreaded hell to state, Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Ye're aiblins nae temptation. One point must still be greatly dark, How far perhaps they rue it. He knows each chord-its various tone, Tam Samson's Elrgy. "An honest man's the noblest work of God.” Pope. HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? "Na, waur than a'!" cries ilka chiel Tam Samson's dead! grane, Kilmarnock lang may grunt and To death, she's dearly paid the kane- The brethren o' the mystic level Death's gi'en the lodge an unco devel→ When winter muffles up his cloak, Wi' gleesome speed, Wha will they station at the cock ?— He was the king o' a' the core, Now safe the stately sawmont sail, And geds for creed, Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a'; Your mortal fae is now awa'- But, och! he gaed and ne'er return'd!— In vain auld age his body batters; Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, Owre many a weary hag he limpit, Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, When at his heart he felt the dagger, But yet he drew the mortal trigger Wi' weel-aim'd heed; "L-d, five!" he cried, and owre did stagger Tam Samson's dead! Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, There now he lies, in lasting rest; Alas! nae mair he'll them molest! O' pouther and lead, Till echoe answer frae her cave, Ae social, honest man want we: Tam Samson's dead! EPITAPH. Tam Samson's weel worn clay here lies, PER CONTRA. Go, Fame, and canter like a filly To cease his grievin', For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, Tam Samson's livin' (103)! Despondency. AN ODE. OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care, A burden more than I can bear, Still caring, despairing, Must be my bitter doom; No other view regard ! Find every prospect vain. Within his humble cell, The cavern wild with tangling roots, Or haply to his ev'ning thought, The ways of men are distant brought, While praising and raising His thoughts to heav'n on high, He views the solemn sky. But, ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys, The solitary can despise, Can want, and yet be blest! At perfidy ingrate! Oh! enviable, early days, When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, To care, to guilt unknown! Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, That active man engage! The native feelings strong, the guileless What Aitken in a cottage would have [there, I ween. Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier November chill blaws loud wi' angry [close; The short'ning winter-day is near a The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; [repose: The black'ning trains o' craws to their The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his [spend, hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Th' expectant wee things toddlin, stacher To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, [his toil. And makes him quite forget his labour and Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, At service out amang the farmers roun', Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 133 I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare[spare, "If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure One cordial in this melancholy vale, "Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, [the ev'ning gale.” Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!- That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? [smooth! Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? [traction wild? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their disBut now the supper crowns their simple board, [food; The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's The soupe their only hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: [mood, The dame brings forth, in complimental To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd keb luck, fell, And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid; The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion gfide, He wales a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship GOD!" he says, with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; [aim: They tune their hearts, by far the noblest Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures [name, rise, Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame; [raise; The tickl'd ear no heart-felt raptures unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred For them and for their little ones provide; But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. page[high; How Abram was the friend of GOD on Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme(shed; How guiltless blood for guilty man was How He, who bore in Heaven the second [head: Had not on earth whereon to lay his How his first followers and servants sped, The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: name, How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. Then kneeling down to HEAVEN'S ETERNAL KING, [prays : The saint, the father, and the husband Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," (106) [days: That thus they all shall meet in future There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear ; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide, Devotion's ev'ry grace, excent the heart! The pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will de sert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But, haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; [enrol. And in his book of life the inmates poor Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest: The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, [nest, That HE, who stills the raven's clam'rous And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, |