The widows, wives, and a' may bless him,
Wi tearfu' e'e;

For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him
That's owre the sea!

Oh fortune, they ha'e room to grumble!
Had'st thou taen aff some drowsy bumble,
Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble,
"Twad been nae plea ;

But he was gleg as ony wumble,
That's owre the sea!

Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear
And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;
"Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,
In flinders flee;

He was her laureat mony a year,
That's owre the sea!

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west;
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last,

III may she be !

So, took a berth afore the mast,
And owre the sea.

To tremble under fortune's cummock,
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,
Wi' his proud, independent stomach,
Could ill agree;

So row't his hurdies in a hammock,
And owre the sea.

;

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,
That's owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel,
And hap him in a cozie biel :

Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel,
And fou' o' glee;

He wad na wrang'd the vera deil,
That's owre the sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!
Your native soil was right ill-willie;
But may ye flourish like a lily,

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
The point of misery fest'ring in his heart,
And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward.
Such, such am I! undone !"

THOMSON'S Edward and Eleanora.

FAREWELL, old Scotia's bleak domains,
Far dearer than the torrid plains
Where rich ananas blow!
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear!
A brother's sigh! a sister's tear!

My Jean's heart-rending throe!
Farewell, my Bess! tho' thou'rt bereft
Of my parental care;

A faithful brother I have left,
My part in him thou'lt share!
Adieu too, to you too,

My Smith, my bosom frien';
When kindly you mind me,

Oh then befriend my Jean!
What bursting anguish tears my heart!
From thee, my Jeany, must I part!

Thou, weeping, answ'rest "No!”
Alas! misfortune stares my face,
And points to ruin and disgrace,
I for thy sake must go!
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear,
A grateful, warm adieu!
I, with a much indebted tear,
Shall still remember you?
All-hail then, the gale then,

Wafts me from thee, dear shore!

It rustles, and whistles

I'll never see thee more!

Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,

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

His knife see rustic labour dight,
And cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like ony ditch;

And then, oh what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin', rich!

Then horn for horn they stretch and strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums

;

Then auld guid man, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.

Is there that o'er his French ragout
Or Olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad make her spew

Wi' perfect scunner,

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner!

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;

Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
Oh how unfit!

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

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)
HE clench'd his pamphlets in his fist,
He quoted and he hinted,
Till in a declamation-mist,

His argument he tint it:
He gaped for't, he graiped for't,
He fand it was awa, man ;

But what his common sense came short,
He eked out wi' law, man.

MR. ERSKINE. (194)

Collected Harry stood a wee,

Then open'd out his arm, man:
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e,
And ey'd the gathering storm, man;
Like wind-driv'n hail, it did assail,

Or torrents owre a linn, man;
The bench sae wise lift up their eyes,
Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man.

To the Guidwife of Wanrhope Bonse.

(195)

"My cantie, witty, rhyming ploughman,
I hafflins doubt it is na' true, man,
That ye between the stilts was bred,

Wi' ploughmen schooled, wi' ploughmen fed

I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge
Either frae grammar-school or college.
Guid troth, your saul and body baith
War better fed, I'd gie my aith,

Than theirs who sup sour milk and parritch,
And bummil through the single Carritch.
Whaever heard the ploughman speak,
Could tell gif Homer was a Greek?
He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel,
As get a single line of Virgil.

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,

(192)

AGAIN the silent wheels of time

Their annual round have driv'n,
And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer Heav'n.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;

I send you more than India boasts
In Edwin's simple tale.
Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charg'd, perhaps, too true;
But may, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you!

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,
A' honest Scotsmen loe the maud.”

I MIND it weel in early date,

When I was beardless young, and blate,
And first could thresh the barn;
Or haud a yokin' at the pleugh;
And tho' forfoughten sair eneug
Yet unco proud to learn:

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
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.

But still the elements o' sang
In formless jumble, right and wrang,
Wild floated in my brain;
Till on that hur'st I said before,
My partner in the merry core,

She rous'd the forming strain:
I see her yet, the sonsie quean,
That lighted up her jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky een
That gart my heart-strings tingle:
I fired, inspired,

At every kindling keek,
But bashing and dashing

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:
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.

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.

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--
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart,
Is known; as grateful nations oft have found
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound.
Philosophy, no idle pedant dream,
Here holds her search by heaven-taught
Reason's beam;

Here history paints with elegance and force,
The tide of Empire's fluctuating course;
Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into
plan,

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.
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet,
With decency and law beneath his feet;
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name;
Like CALEDONIANS, you applaud or blame.

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!
Firm may she rise with generous disdain
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain!
Still self-dependent in her native shore,

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd;
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd;
They durst nae mair than he allow'd,
That was a law:

We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd-
Willie's awa!

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools,
Frae colleges and boarding-schools,
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools
In glen or shaw;

He wha could brush them down to mools,
Willie's awa!

The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer (200)

May morn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour;
He was a dictionar and grammar
Amang them a';

I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer-
Willie's awa!

Nae mair we see his levee door
Philosophers and poets pour,
And toothy critics by the score,
In bloody raw!
The adjutant o' a' the core,
Willie's awa!

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face,
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace;
Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace

As Rome ne'er saw;
They a' maun meet some ither place,
Willie's awa!

He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken, Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin By hoodie-craw!

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,
Willie's awa!

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped,
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,
And Ettrick banks now roaring red,
While tempests blaw;
But every joy and pleasure's fled—
Willie's awa!

May I be slander's common speech;
A text for infamy to preach ;
And lastly, streekit out to bleach
In winter snaw ;
When I forget thee, Willie Creech,
Tho' far awa!