A feraph wad our Aikman paint,
Or draw a lively wit?

The features of a happy faint,
Say, art thou fond to hit?
Or a madona compliment,
With lineaments maist fit?
Fair copies thou need'st never want,
If bright Califta fit.

Mella the heaviest heart can heeze,
And foureft thoughts expel,

Her station grants her rowth and ease,
Yet is the sprightly belle

As active as the eydent bees,
Wha rear the waxen cell;

And place her in what light you please,
She still appears herfell.

Beauties on beauties come in view

Sae thick, that I 'm afraid
I fhall not pay to ilk their due,

Till Phœbus lend mair aid:

But this in gen'ral will had true,
And may be fafely said,

There's ay a fomething fhining new
In ilk delicious maid.

Sic as against th' Affembly speak,
The rudeft fauls betray,

When matrons, noble, wife, and meek,
Conduct the healthfu' play:

Where they appear, nae vice dare keek,
But to what's good gives way,
Like night, foon as the morning creek
Has ufher'd in the day..

Dear Edinburgh fhaw thy gratitude,
And of fic friends make sure,
Wha ftrive to mak our minds lefs rude,
And help our wants to cure;
Acting a gen❜rous part and good,
In bounty to the poor;

Sic virtues, if right understood,
Should ev'ry heart allure.

ON THE ROYAL ARCHERS

SHOOTING FOR THE BOWL,

The 6th of July 1724.

AGAIN the year returns the day,
That's dedicat to joy and play,
To bonnets, bows, and wine.
Let all who wear a fullen face,
This day meet with a due disgrace,
And in their fournefs pine;
Be fhunn'd as ferpents that wad ftang
The hand that gies them food:

Sic we debar frae lasting sang,
And all their grumbling brood.

While to gain fport and halesome air,
The blythsome spirit draps dull care,
And ftarts frae bus'nefs free:
Now to the fields the Archers bend,
With friendly minds the day to spend,
In manly game and glee;

First striving wha fhall win the bowl,
And then gar 't flow with wine:
Sic manly fport refresh'd the foul
Of stalwart men lang fyne.

Ere

Ere parties thrawn, and int'rest vile,
Debauch'd the grandeur of our isle,
And made e'en brethren faes:
Syne truth frae friendship was exil'd,
And fause the honeft hearts beguil'd,
And led them in a maze

Of politics. With cunning craft,

The Iffachars of state,

Frae haly drums firft dang us daft,

Then drown'd us in debate.

Drap this unpleafing thought, dear mufe;
Come view the men thou likes to roofe;
To Bruntsfield-green let 's hie,
And see the royal Bowmen strive,
Wha far the feather'd arrows drive,
All foughing thro' the sky:
Ilk etling with his utmost skill,
With artfu' draft and ftark,
Extending nerves with hearty will,
In hopes to hit the mark.

See Hamilton, wha moves with grace,
Chief of the Caledonian race

Of

peers, to whom is due All honours, and a fair renown; Wha lays afide his ducal crown,

Sometimes to fhade his brow

Beneath

Beneath St. Andrew's bonnet blue,

And joins to gain the prize;
Which fhaws true merit match'd by few,
Great, affable, and wife.

This day, with univerfal voice,

The Archers him their chieftain chofe :

Confenting powers divine,
They bless the day with general joy,
By giving him a princely boy,
To beautify his line;

Whose birth-day in immortal fang

Shall ftand in fair record,

While bended ftrings the Archers twang,

And beauty is ador❜d.

Next Drummond view, who gives their law, It glades our hearts to fee him draw

The bow, and guide the band;

He, like the faul of a' the lave,

Does with fic honour ftill behave,

As merits to command.

Blyth be his hours, hale be his heart,

And lang may he prefide;

Lang the juft fame of his defert

Shall unborn Archers read:

How