Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch O' sour disdain,

Out owre a glass o' whisky punch
Wi' honest men!

Oh whisky! soul o' plays and pranks!
Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!

Thou comes- -they rattle i' their ranks
At ither's a—!

Thee, Ferintosh! oh sadly lost! (99)
Scotland lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic grips, and barkin' hoast,
May kill us a';

For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast,
Is ta'en awa!

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,
Wha mak the whisky stells their prize!
Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
There, seize the blinkers!

And bake them up in brunstane pies
For d-nd drinkers,
poor

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scone, and whisky gill,
And rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,
Tak a' the rest,

And deal't about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.

Address to the Aura Gnid,

OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS.
"My son, these maxims make a rule,
And lump them aye thegither;
The Rigid Righteous is a fool,
The Rigid Wise anither;

The cleanest corn that e'er was dight
May hae some pyles o' caff in;
So ne'er a fellow-creature slight
For random fits o' daffin."
SOLOMON-Eccles. vii, 16.

Oн ye wha are sae guid yoursel,
Он

Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell
Your neebour's fauts and folly!
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi' store o' water,
The heaped happer's ebbing still,
And still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core,

As counsel for poor mortals,
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door
For glaiket Folly's portals;

I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
Would here propone defences,
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd.
And shudder at the niffer,
But cast a moment's fair regard,
What maks the mighty differ?
Discount what scant occasion gave
That purity ye pride in,

And (what's aft mair than a' the lave)
Your better art o' hiding.

Think, when your castigated pulse

Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop:

Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,

Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o' baith to sail,
It maks an unco lee-way.
See social life and glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite transmugrified, they're grown
Debauchery and drinking:

Oh would they stay to calculate
Th' eternal consequences;

Or your more dreaded hell to state,
D-mnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Tied up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor frailty names,
Suppose a change o' cases;
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug,
A treacherous inclination-
But, let me whisper i' your lug,

Ye're aiblins nae temptation.
Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;
Though they may gang a keunin' wrang,
To step aside is human:

One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving why they do it :
And just as lamely can ye mark,

How far perhaps they rue it.
Who made the heart, 'tis He alone
Decidedly can try us,

He knows each chord-its various tone,
Each spring-its various bias :
Then at the balance let's be mute,
We never can adjust it;
What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted.

Tam Samson's Elrgy.

"An honest man's the noblest work of God.” Pope.

HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?
Or great M'Kinlay (100) thrawn his heel?
Or Robertson (101) again grown weel,
To preach and read?

"Na, waur than a'!" cries ilka chiel

Tam Samson's dead!

grane,

Kilmarnock lang may grunt and
And sigh, and sob, and greet her lane,
And cleed her bairns, man, wife, and wean,
In mourning weed;

To death, she's dearly paid the kane-
Tam Samson's dead!

The brethren o' the mystic level
May hing their head in woefu' bevel,
While by their nose the tears will revel,
Like ony head;

Death's gi'en the lodge an unco devel→
Tam Samson's dead!

When winter muffles up his cloak,
And binds the mire like a rock;
When to the lochs the curlers flock

Wi' gleesome speed,

Wha will they station at the cock ?—
Tam Samson's dead?

He was the king o' a' the core,
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,
Or the rink like Jehu roar
up
In time o' need;
But now he lags on death's hog-score-
Tam Samson's dead!

Now safe the stately sawmont sail,
And trouts be-dropp'd wi' crimson hail,—
And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail,

And geds for creed,

Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail
Tam Samson dead!

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a';
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw;
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw,
Withouten dread;

Your mortal fae is now awa'-
Tam Samson's dead!
That woefu mourn be ever mourn'd
Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd,
While pointers round impatient burn'd,
Frae couples freed;

But, och! he gaed and ne'er return'd!—
Tam Samson's dead!

In vain auld age his body batters;
In vain the gout his ancles fetters;
In vain the burns cam' down like waters,
An acre braid!

Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters,
Tam Samson's dead!

Owre many a weary hag he limpit,
And aye the tither shot he thumpit,
Till coward death behind him jumpit,
Wi' deadly feide;

Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet,
Tam Samson's dead!

When at his heart he felt the dagger,
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger,

But yet he drew the mortal trigger

Wi' weel-aim'd heed;

"L-d, five!" he cried, and owre did stagger

Tam Samson's dead!

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither;
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father;
You auld grey stane, amang the heather,
Marks out his head,

Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether,
Tam Samson's dead!

There now he lies, in lasting rest;
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest,
To hatch and breed;

Alas! nae mair he'll them molest!
Tam Samson's dead!
When August winds the heather wave,
And sportsmen wander by yon grave,
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave

O' pouther and lead,

Till echoe answer frae her cave,
Tam Samson's dead!
Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be!
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me;
He had twa fants, or inaybe three,
Yet what remead?

Ae social, honest man want we:

Tam Samson's dead!

EPITAPH.

Tam Samson's weel worn clay here lies,
Ye canting zealots spare him!
If honest worth in heaven rise,
Ye'll mend or ye win near him.

PER CONTRA.

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly
Thro' e the streets and neuks o' Killie (102),
Tell ev'ry social, honest billy

To cease his grievin',

For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, Tam Samson's livin' (103)!

Despondency.

AN ODE.

OPPRESS'D with grief, oppress'd with care,

A burden more than I can bear,
I set me down and sigh ;
Oh life! thou art a galling load.
Along a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such as I!
Dim-backward as I cast my view,
What sick'ning scenes appear!
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro',
Too justly I may fear!

Still caring, despairing,

Must be my bitter doom;
My woes here shall close ne'er
But with the closing tomb !
Happy, ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,

No other view regard !
Ev'n when the wished end's denied,
Yet while the busy means are plied,
They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,
Unfitted with an aim,
Meet ev'ry sad returning night
And joyless morn the same;
You, bustling, and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I listless, yet restless,

Find every prospect vain.
How blest the solitary's lot,
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,

Within his humble cell,

The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,
Beside his crystal well!

Or haply to his ev'ning thought,
By unfrequented stream,

The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint collected dream

While praising and raising

His thoughts to heav'n on high,
As wand'ring, meand'ring,

He views the solemn sky.
Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd
Where never human footstep trac'd,
Less fit to play the part;
The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop, and just to move,
With self-respecting art:

But, ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,
Which I too keenly taste,

The solitary can despise,

Can want, and yet be blest!
He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here, must cry here

At perfidy ingrate!

Oh! enviable, early days,

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze,

To care, to guilt unknown!
How ill exchang'd for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes,
Of others or my own!

Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,

That active man engage!
The fears all, the tears all,
Of dim declining age!

The native feelings strong, the guileless What Aitken in a cottage would have [there, I ween. Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier November chill blaws loud wi' angry [close; The short'ning winter-day is near a The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; [repose: The black'ning trains o' craws to their The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his [spend,

hoes,

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;

Th' expectant wee things toddlin, stacher
thro'
[and glee.

To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily,

His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile,

The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, [his toil. And makes him quite forget his labour and Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in,

At service out amang the farmers roun', Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some

133

I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare[spare, "If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure One cordial in this melancholy vale, "Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, [the ev'ning gale.” Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!-

That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? [smooth! Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child? [traction wild? Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their disBut now the supper crowns their simple board, [food;

The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's The soupe their only hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her

cood: [mood, The dame brings forth, in complimental To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd keb

luck, fell,

And aft he's prest, and aft he ca's it guid;
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was
i' the bell.

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride;
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion gfide,

He wales a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship GOD!" he says, with solemn air.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise; [aim: They tune their hearts, by far the noblest Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures [name,

rise,

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame,

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame; [raise; The tickl'd ear no heart-felt raptures unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

page[high; How Abram was the friend of GOD on Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;

Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme(shed; How guiltless blood for guilty man was How He, who bore in Heaven the second [head: Had not on earth whereon to lay his How his first followers and servants sped, The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:

name,

How he, who lone in Patmos banished,

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command.

Then kneeling down to HEAVEN'S ETERNAL KING, [prays : The saint, the father, and the husband Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," (106) [days: That thus they all shall meet in future There ever bask in uncreated rays,

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear ; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,

In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide, Devotion's ev'ry grace, excent the heart! The pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will de

sert,

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But, haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; [enrol. And in his book of life the inmates poor Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;

The youngling cottagers retire to rest: The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, [nest, That HE, who stills the raven's clam'rous And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best,