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TO A HAGGIS.

161 The widows, wives, and a' may bless him, And when you read the simple artless rhymes, Wi tearfu' e'e;

One friendly sigh for him--he asks no more, For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, That's owre the sea !

Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar." Oh fortune, they ha'e room to grumble! Had'st thou taen aff some drowsy bumble, Wha can do uought but fyke and fumble, 'Twad been nae plea ;

The Farrwell, But he was gleg as ony wumble,

"The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer That's owre the sea !

Or what does he regard his single woes?

But when, alas ! he inultiplies himself, Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear

To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair, And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ;

To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon "Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,

him, In flinders flee;

To helpless children!--then, oh then ! he feels

The point of misery fest'ring in his heart, He was her laureat mony a year,

And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. That's owre the sea !

Such, such am I! undone!” He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west;

THOMSON's Edward and Eleanora. Lang mustering up a bitter blast;

FAREWELL, old Scotia’s bleak domains, A jillet brak his heart at last,

Far dearer than the torrid plains
Ill may she be !

Where rich ananas blow!
So, took a berth afore the mast,

Farewell, a mother's blessing dear!
And owre the sea.

A brother's sigh! a sister's tear !
To tremble under fortune's cummock,

My Jean's heart-rending throe! On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,

Farewell, my Bess! tho' thou’rt bereft Wi' his proud, independent stomach,

Of my parental care;
Could ill agree;

A faithful brother I have left,
So row't his hurdies in a hammock,

My part in him thou'lt share!
And owre the sea.

Adieu too, to you too,

My Smith, my bosom frien'; He ne'er was gien to great misguiding,

When kindly you mind me,
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;

Oh then befriend my Jean!
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding-
He dealt it free:

What bursting anguish tears my heart! The muse was a' that he took pride in,

From thee, my Jeany, must I part!
That's owre the sea.

Thou, weeping, answ'rest “No!"

Alas! misfortune stares my face, Jamaica bodies, use him weel,

And points to ruin and disgrace, And hap him in a cozie biel :

I for thy sake must go!
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel,

Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear,
And fou' o' glee;

A grateful, warm adieu !
He wad na wrang'd the vera deil,

I, with a much indebted tear,
That's owre the sea.

Shall still remember you?
Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!

All-hail then, the gale then, Your native soil was right ill-willie;

Wafts me from thee, dear shore ! But may ye flourish like a lily,

It rustles, and whistles-
Now bonnilie!

I'll never see thee more!
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie,
Tho' owre the sea !

Ti a Baggis. (191)
Written

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF THE Great chieftain o' the ruddin'-race!
POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEET-

AN OLD SWEET- Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
HEART, THEN MARRIED.

Painch, tripe, or thairm

| Weel are ye wordy of a grace ONCE fondly lov'd and still remembered dear; 1 Sweet early object of my youthful vows!

As lang's my arm. Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere, The groaning trencher there ye fill, Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows. Your hurdies like a distant hill,

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(195)

Your pin wad help to mend a mill

Grtempore in the Court of bresion.
In time o' need,

TUNE-Clicrankie.
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

LORD ADVOCATE. (193)
His knife see rustic labour dight,

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist, And cut you up wi' ready slight,

He quoted and he hinted,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright

Till in a declamation-mist,
Like ony ditch;

His argument he tint it:
And then, oh what a glorious sight,

He gaped for't, he graiped for't,
Warm-reekin', rich!

He fand it was awa, man;

But what his common sense came short, Then horn for horn they stretch and strive, Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,

He eked out wi' law, man.
Till a' their weel-swall’d kytes belyve

MR. ERSKINE. (194)
Are bent like drums;

Collected Harry stood a wee,
Then auld guid man, maist like to rive,

Then opend out his arm, man:
Bethankit hums.

His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e,
Is there that o'er his French ragout

And ey'd the gathering storm, man; Or Olio that wad staw a sow,

Like wind-driv'n hail, it did assail,
Or fricassee wad make her spew

Or torrents owre a linn, man;
Wi' perfect scunner,

The bench sae wise lift up their eyes,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view

Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man.
On sic a dinner!
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

To the Guidwife of Wanrhape Bunse.
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,

“My cantie, witty, rhyming ploughman, His nieve a nit;

I hafflins doubt it is na' true, inan, Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,

| That ye between the stilts was bred,

Wi' ploughmen schooled, wi' ploughmen fed Oh how unfit!

I doubt it sair, ye’ve drawn your knowledge But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,

Kither frae grammar-school or college. The trembling earth resounds his tread,

Guid troth, your saul and body baith Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

War better fed, I'd gie my aith,

Than theirs who sup sour milk and parritch, He'll mak it whissle;

And bummil through the single Carritch.
And legs, and arms, and heads will sned,

Whaerer heard the ploughman speak,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Could tell gif Homer was a Greek ?
Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,

He'd fee as soon upon a cudgel,

As get a single line of Virgil.
And dish them out their bill o' fare,

And then sae slee ye crack your jokes
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware O' Willie Pitt and Charlie Fox:
That jaups in luggies;

Our great men a' sae weel descrive,
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r,

And how to gar the nation thrive,
Gie her a Haggis !

Ane maist vad swear ye dwelt amang them.
And as ye saw them sae ye sang them.
But be ye ploughman, be ye peer,

Ye are a funny blade, I swear ;
Ti Miss Eugan, with Brattie's Poriis,

And though the cauld I ill can bide,

Yet twenty miles and mair I'd ride AS A NEW YEAR'S GIFT, JAN. 1. 1787. O'er moss and moor, and never grumble, (192)

Though my auld yad should gie a stumble,

To crack a winter night wi' thee, AGAIN the silent wheels of time

And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee.
Their annual round have driv'n,

Oh gif I kenn'd but where ye baide,
And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, I'd send to you a marled plaid ;
Are so much nearer Heav'n.

'Twad houd your shouthers warm and bray,

And douce at kirk or market shaw; No gifts have I from Indian coasts

Fra’ soutlı as weel as norti, my lad, The infant year to hail ;

A' honest Scotsmen loe the inaud." I send you more than India boasts

I MIND it weel in early date, In Edwin's simple tale.

When I was beardless young, and blate, Our sex with guile and faithless love

And first could thresh the barn; Is charg'd, perhaps, too true;

Or haud a yokin' at the pleugh; But may, dear maid, each lover prove

And tho' forfoughten sair eneug An Edwin still to you!

Yet unco proud to learn :

War beheirs who suh the singine

PROLOGUE.

163

I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,

Douce hingin' owre my curple, Than ony ermine ever lap,

When first amang the yellow corn

A man I reckon'd was,
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass,
Still shearing, and clearing,

The tither stooked raw,
Wi' claivers, and haivers,

Wearing the day awa.

Fareweel then, lang heal then,

And plenty be your fa', May losses and crosses

Ne'er at your hallan ca'.

E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'rA wish that to my latest hour

Shall strongly heave my breastThat I, for poor auld Scotland's sake, Some usefu' plan or beuk could make

Or sing a sang at least
The rough burr-thissle, spreading wide

Amang the bearded bear,
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside,
And spar'd the symbol dear :
No nation, no station,

My envy e'er could raise,
A Scot still, but blot still,

I knew nae higher praise.

Urrses WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSON,

THE POET, IN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS PRESENTED TO A YOUNG LADY IN

EDINBURCH, MARCH 19, 1787. CURSE on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd,

[pleasure ! And yet can starve the author of the Oh thou, my elder brother in misfortune, By far my elder brother in the muses, With tears I pity tly unhappy fate! Why is the hard unpitied by the world, Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ?

Now envy, etut blot stonise.

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Inscription
ON THE HEADSTONE OF FERGUSSON.

Here lies
ROBERT FERGUSSOX, Poet,

Born, Sept. 5, 1751.

Died, Oct. 15, 1774. No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay,

“No storied urn nor animated bust;" This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way

To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust.

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, Wi' merry dance in winter days,

And we to share in common : The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, The saul o' life, the heaven below,

Is rapture-giving woman. Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,

Be mindfu' o your mither: She, honest woman, may think shame That ye're connected with her. Ye're wae men, ye're nae men

That slight the lovely dears; To shame ye, disclaim ye,

Ilk honest birkie swears.

Prologne, SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT

NIGHT. Monday, 16th April, 1787. (196) WHEN by a generous Public's kind acclaim, That dearest need is granted honest fame: When here your favour is the actor's lot, Nor even the man in private life forgot; What breast so dead to heav'nly Virtue's glow, But heaves impassion'd with thegrateful throe. Poor is the task to please a barb'rous throng,

(song, It needs no Siddons' powers in Southern's But here an ancient nation fam'd afar, For genius, learning high, as great in warHail, CALEDONIA, name for ever dear! Before whose sons I'm honour'd to appear :

For you, no bred to barn and byre, Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,

Thanks to you for your line: The marled plaid ye kindly spare, By me should gratefully be ware;

'Twad please me to the nine,

Where every science-every nobler art- / The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd;
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart, The bauldest othem a' he cow'd ;
Is known; as grateful nations oft have found | They durst nae mair than he allow'd,
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound.

That was a law :
Philosophy, no idle pedant dream,

We've lost a birkie weel worth gowdHere holds her search by heaven-taught

Willie's awa! Reason's beam;

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, Here history paints with elegance and force,

Frae colleges and boarding-schools, The tide of Empire's fluctuating course;

May sprout like simmer puddock-stools Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into

In glen or shaw; plan,

He wha could brush them down to mools, And Harley (197) rouses all the god in man,

Willie's awa! When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite

The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer With manly lore, or female beauty bright

(200) (Beauty, where faultless symmetry and May morn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour; grace,

He was a dictionar and grammar Can only charm us in the second place),

Amang them a'; Witness my heart, how oft with panting | | I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer fear

Willie's awa! As on this night, I've met these judges here!

Nae mair we see his levee door But still the hope Experience taught to live,

Philosophers and poets pour, Equal to judge-you're candid to forgive.

And toothy critics by the score, No hundred-headed Riot here we meet,

In bloody raw! With decency and law beneath his feet;

The adjutant o' a' the core,

Willie's awa!
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name;
Like CALEDONIANS, you applaud or blame. Now worthy Gregory's Latin face,

Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace; Oh thou dread Power; whose empire Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace giving hand

(land!

As Rome ne'er saw; Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd They a' maun meet some ither place, Strong may she glow with all lier ancient

Willie's awa! fire!

Poor Burns - e'en Scotch drink canna May every son be worthy of his sire! Firm may she rise with generous disdain

quicken,

He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken, At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain !

Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin Still self-dependent in her native shore,

By hoodie-craw ! Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest

Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin' roar,

(no more.

Willie's awa!
Till fate the curtain drop on world's to be

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum,
And Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him;

And self-conceited critic skellum
Epistle to William Crerch.

His quill may draw;

He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, (198)

Willie's awa!
Auld chuckie Reekie's (199) sair distrest, Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped,
Down droops her ance weel-burnish'd crest, | And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest,

And Ettrick banks now roaring red,
Can yield awa,

While tempests blaw;
Her darling bird that she lo'es best,

But every joy and pleasure's filed
Willie's ava!

Willie's awa!
Oh Willie was a witty wight,

May I be slander's common speech; And had o' things an unco slight;

A text for infamy to preach ;
Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight,

And lastly, streekit out to bleach
And trig and braw :

In winter snaw;
But now they'll busk her like a fright When I forget thee, Willie Creech,
Willie's awa!

Tho' far awa!

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