The widows, wives, and a' may bless him, For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him Oh fortune, they ha'e room to grumble! But he was gleg as ony wumble, Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear He was her laureat mony a year, He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west; III may she be ! So, took a berth afore the mast, To tremble under fortune's cummock, So row't his hurdies in a hammock, ; He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding-He dealt it free: The muse was a' that he took pride in, Jamaica bodies, use him weel, Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, He wad na wrang'd the vera deil, Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! Now bonnilie! I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Tho' owre the sea! Written ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF THE POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED. ONCE fondly lov'd and still remembered dear; Sweet early object of my youthful vows! Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere, Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows. M To helpless children!-then, oh then! he feels THOMSON'S Edward and Eleanora. FAREWELL, old Scotia's bleak domains, My Jean's heart-rending throe! A faithful brother I have left, My Smith, my bosom frien'; Oh then befriend my Jean! Thou, weeping, answ'rest "No!” Wafts me from thee, dear shore! It rustles, and whistles I'll never see thee more! Your pin wad help to mend a mill While thro' your pores the dews distil His knife see rustic labour dight, And then, oh what a glorious sight, Then horn for horn they stretch and strive, ; Then auld guid man, maist like to rive, Is there that o'er his French ragout Wi' perfect scunner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view Poor devil! see him owre his trash, Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, He'll mak it whissle; And legs, and arms, and heads will sned, Like taps o' thrissle. Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, Gie her a Haggis ! Gxtempore in the Court of Session. TUNE-Cillicrankie. LORD ADVOCATE. (193) His argument he tint it: But what his common sense came short, MR. ERSKINE. (194) Collected Harry stood a wee, Then open'd out his arm, man: Or torrents owre a linn, man; To the Guidwife of Wanrhope Bonse. (195) "My cantie, witty, rhyming ploughman, Wi' ploughmen schooled, wi' ploughmen fed I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge Than theirs who sup sour milk and parritch, And then sae slee ye crack your jokes O' Willie Pitt and Charlie Fox: Our great men a' sae weel descrive, And how to gar the nation thrive, Ane maist wad 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; And though the cauld I ill can bide, Tu Miss Logan, with Brattie's Porms, Yet twenty miles and mair I'd ride AS A NEW YEAR'S GIFT, Jan. 1. 1787. (192) AGAIN the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driv'n, No gifts have I from Indian coasts I send you more than India boasts O'er moss and moor, and never grumble, Though my auld yad should gie a stumble, To crack a winter night wi' thee, And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee. Oh gif I kenn'd but where ye baide, I'd send to you a marled plaid; 'T'wad houd your shouthers warm and braw, And douce at kirk or market shaw ; Fra' south as weel as north, my lad, I MIND it weel in early date, When I was beardless young, and blate, 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. E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r— A 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 I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, My envy e'er could raise, But still the elements o' sang She rous'd the forming strain: At every kindling keek, I feared aye to speak. Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, Wi' merry dance in winter days, And we to share in common: Ye're wae men, ye're nae men Ilk honest birkie swears. For you, no bred to barn and byre, SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT. Monday, 16th April, 1787. (196) WHEN by a generous Public's kind acclaim, That dearest meed 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 the grateful 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! Where every science-every nobler art-- Here history paints with elegance and force, And Harley (197) rouses all the god in man, When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite With manly lore, or female beauty bright (Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace, Can only charm us in the second place), Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear As on this night, I've met these judges here! But still the hope Experience taught to live, Equal to judge-you're candid to forgive. Oh thou dread Power; whose empiregiving hand [land! Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire! May every son be worthy of his sire! The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd; We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd- Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, He wha could brush them down to mools, The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer (200) May morn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour; I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer- Nae mair we see his levee door Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, As Rome ne'er saw; He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken, Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin 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! Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum, And Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him; And self-conceited critic skellum His quill may draw ; He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, May I be slander's common speech; |