How many, and of various natures, Are on this globe the crowd of creatures! In Mexiconian forests fly

Thousands that never wing'd our sky;
'Mangst them there's ane of feathers fair,
That in the mufic bears nae skair,
Only an imitating ranter,

For whilk he bears the name of taunter;
Soon as the fun fprings frae the east,
Upon the branch he cocks his crest,
Attentive, when frae bough and spray
The tunefu' throats falute the day:
The brainless beau attacks them a',
No ane escapes him great or sma';
Frae fome he takes the tone and manner,
Frae this a bass, frae that a tenor,
Turns love's faft plaint to a dull bustle,
And sprightly airs to a vile whistle;
Still labouring thus to counterfeit,
He shaws the poorness of his wit.
Anes, when with echo loud the taunter
Tret with contempt ilk native chanter,
Ane of them says,-" We own 'tis true,
"Few praises to our fangs are due;
"But pray, Sir, let's have ane frae you."

1721.

TARTANA; OR, THE PLAID.

YE Caledonian beauties! who have long
Been both the mufe and fubject of my fong,
Affift your bard, who, in harmonious lays,
Designs the glory of your plaid to raise.
How my fond breast with blazing ardor glows,
Whene'er my fong on you just praise bestows!

Phoebus and his imaginary nine

With me have loft the title of divine;
To no fuch fhadows will I homage pay,
These to my real mufes fhall give way;
My muses who, on smooth meand'ring Tweed,
Stray thro' the groves, or grace the clover mead;
Or these who bathe themselves where haughty Clyde
Does roaring o'er his lofty catʼracts ride

Or you who, on the banks of gentle Tay,
Drain from the flow'rs the early dews of May,
To varnish on your cheek the crimson dye,
Or make the white the falling fnow outvy;
And you who, on Edina's streets, difplay
Millions of matchlefs beauties every day;
Infpir'd by you, what poet can defire
To warm his genius at a brighter fire?

I fing the plaid, and fing with all my skill;
Mount then, O Fancy! ftandard to my will;
Be ftrong each thought, run foft each happy line,
That gracefulness and harmony may shine,
Adapted to the beautiful defign.

Great is the subject, vaft th' exalted theme,
And fhall ftand fair in endless rolls of fame.

The plaid's antiquity comes first in view,
Precedence to antiquity is due :
Antiquity contains a certain spell,

To make e'en things of little worth excel;
To smallest subjects gives a glaring dash,
Protecting high-born idiots from the lash;
Much more 'tis valu'd when, with merit plac'd,
It graces merit, and by merit's grac❜d.

O, firft of garbs! garment of happy fate! So long employ'd, of fuch an antique date;

Look