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He swoor by a' was swearing worth,

To speet him like a pliver,
Unless he wad from that time forth

Relinquish her for ever.
Wi' ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee

Upon his hunkers bended,
And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face,

And sae the quarrel ended.
But tho' his little heart did grieve

When round the tinkler prest her, He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve,

When thus the caird addressid her:

AIR.
TUNE-Clout the Caudron.
My bonny lass, I work in brass,

A tinkler is my station :
I've travell’d round all Christian ground

In this my occupation :
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd

In many a noble squadron :
But vain they search’d, when off I march'd
To go and clout the caudron,

I've tae'n the gold, &c. Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp,

Wi' a' his noise and caprin,'
And tak a share wi' those that bear

The budget and the apron.
And by that stoup, my faith and houp,

And by that dear Kilbagie (61), If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, May I ne'er weet my craigie.

And by that stoup, &c.

He had nae wish but to be glad,

Nor want but when he thirsted;
He had nought but-to be sad,
And thus the Muse suggested

His sang that night.

AIR.
TUNE-For a that, and a' that.
I am a bard of no regard,

Wi' gentle folks, and a' that:
But Homer-like, the glowrin' byke,
Frae town to town I draw that.

CHORUS
For a' that, and a' that,

And twice as muckle's a' that:
I've lost but ane, I've twa behin,'

I've wife eneugh for a' that.
I never drank the Muses' stank,
| Castalia's burn and a' that;
But there it streams, and richly reams,
My Helicon I ca’ that,

For a' that, &c.
Great love I bear to a’ the fair,

Their humble slave, and a' that;
But lordly will, I hold it still
A mortal sin to thraw that.

For a' that, &c.
In raptures sweet, this hour we meet,

Wi mutual love and a' that:
But for how lang the flee may stang,
Let inclination law that.

For a' that, &c.
Their tricks and craft have put me daft,

They've ta'en me in, and a' that;
But clear your decks, and here's the sex
I like the jads for a' that.

CHORUS.
For a’ that, and a’ that,

And twice as muckle's a' that;
My dearest bluid, to do them guid,
They're welcome till’t for a' that.

RECITATIVO.
So sang the bard-and Nansie's wa's
Shook with a wonder of applause,

Re-echo'd from each mouth :
They toom' their pocks, and pawnd their

duds. They scarcely left to co'er their fuds,

To quench their lowin' drougth.
Then owre again, the jovial thrang,

The poet did request,
To loose his pack and wale a sang,
A ballad o' the best;
He rising, rejoicing,

Between his twa Deborahs,
Looks round him, and found them

Impatient for the chorus.

RECITATIVO,
The caird prevail'd—the unblushing fair

In his embraces sunk,
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair,

And partly she was drunk.
Sir Violino, with an air

That show'd a man of spunk, Wish'd unison between the pair, And made the bottle clunk

To their health that night. But hurchin Cupid slot a shaft,

That play'd a dame a shavie,
The fiddler raked her fore and aft,

Ahint the chicken cavie.
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft,

Tho' limping wi' the spavie,
He hirpld up, and lap like daft,
And shor'd them Dainty Davie

O'boot that night He was a care-defying blade

As ever Bacchus listed,
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid,

His heart she ever miss'd it.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

123

AIR.

Or haply, prest with cares and woes, TUNE-Jolly Mortals, fill your Glasses.

Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn
Sve! the smoking bowl before us,

The miseries of man.
Mark our jovial ragged ring!
Round and round take up the chorus, The sun that overhangs yon moors,
And in raptures let us sing.

Out-spreading far and wide,

Where hundreds labour to support
CHORUS.

A haughty lordling's pride:
A fig for those by law protected! I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Liberty's a glorious feast!

Twice forty times return,
Courts for cowards were erected, And ev'ry time has added proofs
Churches built to please the priest.

That man was made to mourn. What is title ? what is treasure ?

Oh man, while in thy early years, What is reputation's care ?

How prodigal of time! If we lead a life of pleasure,

Misspending all thy precious hours, "Tis no matter how or where!

Thy glorious youthful prime!
A fig, &c.

Alternate follies take the sway;

Licentious passions burn;
With the ready trick and fable,

Which tenfold force gives nature's law,
Round we wander all the day;
And at night in barn or stable,

That man was made to mourn.
Hug our doxies on the hay.

Look not alone on youthful prime,
A fiy, &c.

Or manhood's active might;
Does the train-attended carriage

Man then is useful to his kind, Through the country lighter rove ?

Supported is his right; Does the sober bed of marriage

But see him on the edge of life.
Witness brighter scenes of love!

With cares and sorrows worn;
A fig, &c.

Then age and want--oh! ill-match'd pair! Life is all a variorum,

Show man was made to mouin. We regard not how it goes ;

A few seem favourites of fate, Let them cant about decorum

In pleasure's lap carest;
Who have characters to lose.

Yet, think not all the rich and great
A tig, &c.

Are likewise truly blest.
Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets!

But, oh! what crowds in every land, Here's to all the wandering train!

All wretched and forlorn! IIere's our ragged brats and callets !

Thro' weary life this lesson learn

That man was made to mourn.
One and all cry out~Amen!
A fig for those by law protected! Many and sharp the num'rous ills
Liberty's a glarious feast !

Inwoven with our frame!
Courts for cowards were erected, More pointed still we make ourselves
Churches built to please the priest. Regret, remorse, and shame;

, whose heaven-erected face

The smiles of love adorn, 3#lan was made to Mourn. (62) Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!
A DIRGE.
WHEN chill November's surly blast

See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight,
Made fields and forests bare,

So abject, mean, and vile, One ev'ning, as I wandered forth

Who begs a brother of the earth Along the banks of Ayr,

To give him leave to toil ; I spied a man whose aged step

And see his lordly fellow-worm Seem'd weary, worii with care;

The poor petitionl spurn, His face was furrow'd o'er with years,

Unmindful, though a weeping wife And hoary was his hair.

And helpless offspring mourn. “Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ?” | If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave Began the rev'rend sage:

| By Nature's law designed Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Why was an independent wish Or youthful pleasure's rage?

1 E'er planted in my mind ?

That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble !
Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble,

But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

And cranreuch cauld!

If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty or scorn?
Or why has man the will and power

To make his fellow niourn ?
Yet, let not this too much, my son,

Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human-kind

Is surely not the last!
The poor, oppressed, honest man

Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense

To comfort those that mourn!
Oh Death! the poor man's dearest friend

The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour, my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,

From pomp and pleasure torn!
But, oh! a blest relief to those

That weary-laden mourn!”

In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o mice and men,

Gang aft a-gley,
And lea’e us nought but grief and pain,

For promis'd joy.
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, och! I backward cast my e'e,

On prospects drear!
And forward, tho' I canna see,

I guess and fear.

The Vision.

To a Monsr,

November 1785. (63.) Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin and chase thee,

Wi murdoring pattle!
I'm truly sorrow man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

And fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thirave

's a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi’ the laive,

And never miss't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'!
And naething, now, to big a new ane,

O’foggage green
And bleak December's winds ensuin',

Baith snell and keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste,
And weary winter comin' fast,
And cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,
Till, crash! the cruel coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.

DUAN FIRST. (64) The sun had clos'd the winter day, The curlers quat their roaring play (65), And hunger'd maukin ta’en her way

To kail-yards green,
While faithless snaws ilk step betray

Whare she has been.
The thresher's weary flingin'-tree
The lee-lang day had tired me;
And when the day had clos'd his e'e,

Far i' the west,
Ben i' the spence (66), right pensivelie,

Igaed to rest.
There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek,
| That fill'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek,

The auld clay biggin';
And heard the restless rattons squeak

About the riggin'.
All in this mottie, misty clime,
I backward mus’d on wasted time,
How I had spent my youthfu' prime,

And done nae thing,
But stringin' blethers up in rhyme,

For fools to sing. | Had I to guid advice but harkit,

I might, by this, hae led a market,
Or strutted in a bank, and clarkit

My cash-account:
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit,

Is a' th' amount.

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I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! coof! Still, as in Scottish story read,
And heav'd on high my waukit loof,

She boasts a race,
To swear by a' yon starry roof,

To ev'ry nobler virtue bred,
Or some rash aith,

And polish'd grace.
That I henceforth would be rhyme-proof
Till my last breath-

By stately tow'r or palace fair,

Or ruins pendent in the air, When, click! the string the snick dirt draw;

Bold stems of heroes, here and there, And, jee! the door gaed to the wa';

I could discern; And by my ingle-lowe I saw,

Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare,
Now bleezin' bright,

With feature stern,
A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw,
Come full in sight.

My heart did glowing transport feel,
Ye needna doubt, I held my whisht;

To see a race (68) heroic wheel,

And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht;

In sturdy blows;
I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht

While back-recoiling seem'd to reel
In some wild ylen;

Their suthiron foes.
When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht,
And stepped ben.

His Country's Saviour (69), mark him well!

Bold Richardton's (70) heroic swell;
Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs
Were turisted gracefu'round her brows;

The chief on Sark (71) who glorious fell I took her for some Scottish Muse,

In high command ;

And he whom ruthless fates expel
By that samne token,
And come to stop those reckless vows,

His native land.
Wou'd soon been broken. There, where a sceptr’d Pictish shade (72)
A “hair-brain’d, sentimental trace"

Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, Was strongly marked in her face;

I mark'd a martial race, portray'd A wildıy-witty, rustic grace

In colours strong;

Bold, soldier-featur’d, undismayed
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space,

They strode along.
Beam'd keen with honour.

Tlıro' many a wild romantic yrove (73), Down flow'd her robe a tartan sheen,

Near many a liermit-fancy'd cove Till half a leg was scrimply seen;

(Fit haunts for friendship or for love), And such a leg! my bonnie Jean

In musing mood.
Could only peer it;

An aged judge, I saw him rove,
Sae thought, sae taper, tight and clean,

Dispensing good.
Nane else came near it.

With deep-struck reverential awe (74),
Her mantle large, of greenish hue,

The learneri sire and son I saw (75), My gazing wonder chiefly drew;

To Nature's God and Nature's law
Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw

They gave their lore,
A lustre grand;

This, all its source and end to draw;
And seem’d, to my astonish'd view,

That, to adore.
A well-known land.
Here, rivers in the sea were lost;

Brydone's brave ward (76) I well could spy
There, mouutains to the skies were tost: Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye;
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast

Who callid on Fane, low standing by,
With surging foam

To hand him on,
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, Where many a patriot-name on high
The lordly dome.

And hero shone.
Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods;
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds :

DUAN SECOND.
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods,

With musing-deep, astonish'd stare,
On to the shore,

I view'd the heav'nly-seeming fair;
And many a lesser torrent scuds,

A whisp’ring throb did witness bear
Vith se

Of kindred sweet,
Low in a sandy valley spread,

When with an elder sisters's air An ancient borough rear'd her head (67); }

She did me greet.

Shone full upon

TA

“All hail! my own inspired bard! In me thy native Muse regard ! Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard,

Thus poorly low! I come to give thee such regard

As we bestow. Know, the great genius of this land Has many a light, aërial band,

Harmoniously,
As arts or arms they understand,

Their labours ply.
They Scotia's race among them share;
Some fire the soldier on to dare;
Some raise the patriot on to bare

Corruption's heart:
Some teach the hard, a darling care,

The tuneful art.
'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore,
They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour;
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar,

They, sightless, stand,
To mund the honest patriot-lore,

And grace the hand.
And when the bard, or hoary sage,
Charm or instruct the future age,
They bind the wild, poetic rage

In energy,
Or point the inconclusive page

Full on the eye.
Hence Fullarton, the brave and young;
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue;
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung

His - Minstrel lays ;'
Or tore, with nobler ardour stung,

The sceptic's bays.
To lower orders are assign'd
The humbler ranks of human-kind,
The rustic bard, the lab’ring hind,

The artizan ;
All choose, as various they're inclin'd,

The various man.
When yellow waves the heavy grain,
The threat'ning storm some, strongly, rein:
Some teach to meliorate the plain,

With tillage-skill;
And some instruct the shepherd-train,

Blythe o'er the hill.
Some hint the lover's harmless wile;
Some grace the maiden's artless smile;
Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil,

For humble gains, And make his cottage-scenes beguile

His cares and pains. Some, bounded to a district-space, Explore at large man's infant race,

To mark the embryotic trace

Of rustic hard ;
And careful note each op’ning grace,

A guide and guard.
Of these am 1-Coila my name (77);
And this district as mine I claim. [fame,
Where once the Campbells (78), chiefs of

Held ruling pow'r:
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame,

Thy natal hour.
With future hope, I oft would gaze,
Fond, on thy little early ways,
Thy rudely caroll’d, chiming phrase,

In uncouth rhymes,
Fir'd at the simple, artless lays,

Of other times.
I saw thee seek the sounding shore,
Delighted with the dashing roar;
Or when the north his fleecy store

Drove through the sky,
I saw grim nature's visage boar

Struck thy young eye.
Or when the deep green-mantled earth
Varm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth,
And joy and music pouring forth

In ev'ry grove,
I saw thee eye the general mirth

With boundless love.
When ripen'd fields, and azure skies,
Called forth the reaper's rustling noise,
I saw thee leave their erening joys,

And lonely stalk,
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise

In pensive walk.
When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong,
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along,
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue,

Th' adored Name,
I taught thee how to pour in song,

To soothe thy flame.
I saw thy pulse's maddening play,
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way,
Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray,

By passion driven;
But yet the light that led astray

Was light from Heaven.
I taught thy manners-painting strains,
The loves, the ways of simple swains,
Till now, o'er all my wide domains

Thy fame extends ;
And some, the pride of Coila's plains,

Become thy friends.
Thou canst not learn, nor can I show,
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow;
Or wake the bosom-meltiny throe,

With Shenstone's art;
Or pour, with Gray, the moving fiow

Warm on the heart.

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