ANSWER TO VERSES.
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, an' haivers,
Wearing the day awa.
Ev'n then a wish, (I mind its power,)
A wish that to my latest hour,
Shall strongly heave my breast;
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake,
Some useful plan, or beuk could make,
Or sing a sang at least.
The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,
I turn'd my weeding heuk aside,
An' 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 hairst 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 ev'ry kindling keek,
But bashing, and dashing,
I feared aye to speak.
Heal to the set, ilk guid chiel says,
Wi' merry dance in winter days,
An' we to share in common:
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe,
The saul o' life, the heav'n 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 marbled plaid ye kindly spare,
By me should gratefully be ware;
"Twad please me to the nine.
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,
Douse hingin' o'er my curple,
Than
ony ermine ever lap,
Or proud imperial purple.
Fareweel then, lang heal then,
An' plenty be your fa':
May losses and crosses
hallan ca',
Ne'er at your
ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788.
A Sketch.
FOR Lords or Kings I dinna mourn,
E'en let them die-for that they're born:
But oh! prodigious to reflec'!
A Towmond, Sirs, is gane to wreck!
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space
What dire events hae taken place!
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!
In what a pickle thou hast left us!
The Spanish empire's tint a head,
An' my
auld teethless Bawtie's dead;
The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt an' Fox,
And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks;
The tane is game, a bluidie devil,
But to the hen-birds unco civil;
The tither's something dour o' treadin,
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden.-
Ye ministers, come mount the poupit,
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet,
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel,
An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal;
E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck,
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!-
Ye bonnie lasses, dight your een,
For some o' you hae tint a frien';
In Eighty-eight ye ken, was ta'en
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again.
Observe the very nowte an' sheep,
How dowf and daviely they creep;
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry,
For E'nburgh wells are grutten dry.
O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn! Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, Thou now has got thy Daddy's chair, Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, hap-shackl'd Regent, But, like himsel, a full free agent.
Be sure ye follow out the plan
Nae waur than he did, honest man:
As muckle better as you can.
January 1, 1789.
WRITTEN AT A TIME WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE SCOTLAND.
O'ER the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying,
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave, What woes wring my heart while intently surveying
[wave. The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the
Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail,
Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native shore; Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale,
The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more.
No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll
[wave; And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the No more shall my arms cling with fondness around
her, [grave. For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her
No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my
I haste with the storm to a far distant shore; Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.
FAIR the face of orient day,
Fair the tints of op'ning rose;
But fairer still my Delia dawns,
More lovely far her beauty blows.
Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
But, Delia, more delightful still
Steal thine accents on mine ear.
The flower-enamour'd busy bee
The rosy banquet loves to sip;
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip;
But, Delia, on thy balmy lips
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove!
O, let me steal one liquid kiss!
For oh! my soul is parch'd with love!
SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR.
THE lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare,
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave;
Th' inconstant blast howl'd through the dark'ning
And hollow whistl'd in the rocky cave. [air,
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