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Or down Italian vista startles,
W-re hunting amang groves o' myrtles ;
Then bouses drumly German water,
To mak himsel' look fair and fatter,
And clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain's guid !-for her destruction!
Wi' dissipation, feud, and faction.


Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
They're aye in less or mair provided ;
And tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment,
A blink o'rest's sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o' their lives,
Their grushie weans and faithfu' wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a' their fire-side;
And whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy
Can make the bodies unco happy ;
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk and State affairs :
They'll talk o' patronage and priests,
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts.
Or tell what new taxation's comin',
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.
As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns,
They get the jovial, ranting kirns,
When rural life, o' ev'ry station,
Unite in common recreation ;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.
That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty win's;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin pipe, and sneeshin mill,
Are handed round wi' right guid will;
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse,
The young anes rantin' thro' the house-
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wit' them.
Still it's owre true that ye hae said,

game is now owre aften play'd.
There's monie a creditable stock
O'decent, honest, fawsont fo'k,
Are riven out baith root and branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi' some gentle master,
Wha' aiblins thrang a parliamentin',
For Britain's guid his saul indentin'

Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sae mony a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten and harass'd
For gear to gang that gate at last !
Oh would they stay aback frae courts,
And please themselves wi' countra sports,
It wad for ev'ry ane be better,
The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter!
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies,
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breakin' o' their timmer,
Or speakin' lightly o’ their limmer,
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock,
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk.
But will ye tell me, Master Cæsar,
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ?
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them,
The vera thought o't need na fear then,



L-d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am,
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em.
It's true, they needna starve or sweat,
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat ;
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes,
And fill auld age wi' grips and granes;
But human bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow theniselves to vex them;

the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion less will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acre's tillid, he's right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel:
But Gentlemen, and Ladies warst,
Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst,
They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy;
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ;
Their days insipid, dull, and tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless;
And e'en their sports, their balls and races,
Their gallopping thro' public places,
There's sic parade, sic pomp, and art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party matches,
Then sawther a' in deep debauches;

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it
For Britain's guid! guid faith, I doubt it.
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him,
And saying ay or no's they bid him:
At operas and plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading:
Or may be, in a frolic daft,
To Hague or Calais takes a waft,
To mak a tour and tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton, and see the worl'.
There' at Vienna or Versailles,
He rives his father's auld entails;
Or hy Madrid he takes the route,
To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowte;


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Ae night they're mad wi' drink and wh-ring, | How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, Niest day their life is past enduring.

For her dear sake, and her's alone! The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,

And must I think it is she

gone, As great and gracious a' as sisters ;

My secret heart's exulting boast? But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,

And does she heedless hear my groan? They're a' run deils and jads thegither. And is she ever, ever lost? Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup and platie,

Oh! can she bear so base a heart, They sip the scandal potion pretty;

So lost to honour, lost to truth,
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks,

As from the fondest lover part,
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,

The plighted husband of her youth! And cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard.

Alas! life's path may be unsmooth! There's some exception, man and woman;

Her way may lie thro' rough distress!

Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe, But this is Gentry's life in common.

Her sorrows share, and make them less? By this, the sun was out o sight And darker gloaming brought the night:

Ye winged hours that o'er us past, The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone;

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd,

Your dear remembrance in my breast, The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan;

My fondly treasur'd thoughts employ'd. When up they gat, and shook their lugs,

That breast, how dreary now, and void, Rejoic'd they were na men, but dogs;

For her too scanty once of room! And each took off his several way,

Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, Resolv'd to meet some ither day.

And not a wish to guild the gloom!
The morn that warns th' approaching day,

Awakes me up to toil and woe:

I see the hours in long array,

That I must suffer, lingering, slow.

Full many a pany, and many a throe, ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR. (121)

Keen recollection's direful train, “Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself!

Must wring my soul, ere Phæbus, low, And sweet affection prove the spring of woe!

Shall kiss the distant, western main. Home!

And when my nightly couch I try, Oh thou pale orb, that silent shines,

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, While care-untroubled mortals sleep!

My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, Thou seest a wretch who inly pines, And wanders here to wail and weep!

Keep watchings with the nightly thief :

Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, With woe I nightly vigils keep,

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright: Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam;

Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, And mourn, in lamentation deep,

From such a horror-breathing night. How life and love are all a dream.

Oh! thou bright queen, who, o'er th’exI joyless view thy rays adorn

pause, The faintly marked distant hill:


Now highest reign'st, with boundless I joyless view thy trembling horn, Reflected in the gurgling rill :

Oft has thy silent-marking glance My fondly-fluttering heart, be still!

Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray !

The time, unheeded, sped away, Thou busy pow'r, remembrance, cease!

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, Ah! must the agonizing thrill

Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray,
For ever bar returning peace!

To mark the mutual kindling eye.
Noidly-feign'd poetic pains,
My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim;

Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set ! No shepherd's pipe-Arcadian strains;

Scenes never, never to return! No fabled tortures, quaint and tame:

Scenes, if in stupor I forget, The plighted faith; the mutual flame;

Again I feel, again I burn! The oft-attested Pow'rs above;

From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, The promis'd father's tender name;

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro'; These were the pledges of my love!

And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn

A faithless woman's broken vow. Encircled in her clasping arms,

How have the raptur'd moments flown

Edina! Scottia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'ra,

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,

I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

The Brigs uf Ayr.

Sidress fo Edinburgh. EDINA! Scotia’s darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and towr'rs. Where once beneath a monarch's feet

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs,

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,

I shelter in thy honour'd shade.
Here wealth still swells the golden tide,

As busy Trade his labour plies;
There Architecture's noble pride

Bids elegance and splendour rise; Here Justice, froin her native skies,

High wields her balance and her rod; There learning, with his eagle eyes,

Seeks Science in her coy ahode. Thy sons, Edina! social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail ; Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind,

Above the narrow, rural vale ; Attentive still to sorrow's wail,

Or modest merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail !

And never envy blot their name! Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,

Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy! Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye,

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine; I see the Sire of Love on high,

And own his work indeed divine (122)! There, watching high the least alarms.

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar: Like some bold vet’ran, grey in arms,

And mark'd with inany a seaming scar: The pondrous wall and massy bar,

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock; Have oft withstood assailing war,

And oft repell’d th' invader's shock, With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,

I view that noble, stately dome, Where Scotia's kings of other years,

Fam'd heroes! had their royal home: Alas, how chang'd the times to come!

Their royal name low in the dust! Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam,

Tho'rigid law cries out, 'twas just! Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,

Whose ancestors, in days of yore, Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore,

Haply, my sires have left their shed, And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar,

Bold-following where your fathers led !


AYR. The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush;

(shrill, The soaring lark, the perching red-breast Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling

D'er the hill; Shall he, uurst in the peasant's lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred, By early poverty to hardship steel’d, And train'd to arms in stern misfortune's

fieldShall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? Or labour hard the panegyric close, With all the venal soul of dedicating prose ? No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,

(strings, And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear re

ward! Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace, Skill'd in the secret to bestow with grace; When Ballantyne befriends his humble

name, And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom

swells, The god-like bliss, to give, alone excels.

'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap,

[crap ; And thack and rape secure the toil-won Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming Il'inter's biting, frosty breath; The bees, rejoicing o'er their suinmer toils, Unnumber'd buds and flow'rs' delicious spoils,

[piles, Seal'd


with frugal care in massive waxen Are dooni'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak,

[reek: The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone

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