No guess could tell what instrument appear'd,
But all the soul of Music's self was heard;
Harmonious concert rung in every part,
While simple melody pour'd moving on the
heart.

The Genius of the stream in front appears,
A venerable chief advanced in years;
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd,
His manly leg with garter tangle bound.
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring,
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with
Spring;
[Joy,
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye :
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn,
Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding

corn; [show, Then Winter's time-bleached locks did hoary By Hospitality with cloudless brow; Next follow'd Courage with his martial stride, From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide;

Benevolence, with mild benignant air,

A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair:
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode :
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel
wreath,

To rustic Agriculture did bequeath
The broken iron instruments of death:

At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath.

V.
There, try his mettle on the creed,
An' bind him down wi' caution,
That Stipend is a carnal weed,

He taks but for the fashion;
An' gie him o'er the flock to feed,
An' punish each transgression;
Especial, rams that cross the breed,
Gie them sufficient threshin',

Spare them nae day.

VI.

Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail,
An' toss thy horns fu' canty;
Nae mair thou'lt rowt out-owre the dale
Because thy pasture's scanty;

For lapfu's large o' gospel kail
Shall fill thy crib in plenty,

An' runts o' grace, the pick and wale,
No gi'en by way o' dainty,
But ilka day.

VII.

Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep,
To think upon our Zion;
An' hing our fiddles up to sleep,
Like baby-clouts a-dryin';
Come, screw the pegs with tunefu' cheep,
An' owre the thairms be tryin';

Oh, rare to see our elbucks wheep,
An' a like lamb-tails flyin'
Fu' fast this day.

VIII.

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' airn, . Has shored the Kirk's undoin',

Genesis, ch. ix. ver. 22. Numbers, ch. xxv. ver. 8. Exodus, ch. iv. ver. 25.

To every New Light" mother's son,
From this time forth Confusion :
If mair they deave us wi' their din,
Or Patronage intrusion,
We'll light a spunk, an' ev'ry skin,
We'll rin them aff in fusion

Like oil, some day.

THE CALF.

TO THE REV. MR

On his Text, MALACHI, ch. iv. ver. 2 "And they shall go forth, and grow up, like CALVES of the stali.”

RIGHT SIR! your text I'll prove it true,
Though Heretics may laugh;
For instance; there's yoursel' just now,
God knows, an unco Calf!

An' should some Patron be so kind,
As bless you wi' a kirk,

I doubt nae, Sir, but then we'll find,
Ye're still as great a Stirk.

But, if the Lovers raptur'd hour
Shall ever be your lot,
Forbid it, every heavenly Power,
You e'er should be a Stot!

Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, Your but-and-ben adorns,

The like has been that you may wear

A noble head of horns.

And in your lug, most reverend James
To hear you roar and rowte,
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims
To rank amang the nowte.

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead
Below a grassy hillock,

Wi' justice they may mark your head'Here lies a famous Bullock !

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs,
That led the embattled Seraphim to war--Milton,

O THOU! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,
Clos'd under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

To scaud poor wretches

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be;

New Light is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr Taylor of Nor wich has defended so strenuously.

Ye, like a rash-bush stood in sight, Wi' waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,

Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit.

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An' float the jinglin' icy-boord,
Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction,

An nighted Trav'llers are allured
To their destruction.

An aft your moss-traversing Spunkies Decoy the wight that late and drunk is; The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.

When Masons' mystic word an' grip, In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell;

The youngest Brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell!

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' all the soul of love they shared,

The raptured hour, Sweet on the frgrant flowery swaird In shady bower:

Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog!
Ye came to Paradise incog.
An' played on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa'!)

An' gied the infant world a shog,
'Maist ruined a',

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz 'Mang better folk,

Amang the springs,

Awa ye squatter'd like a drake,

On whistling wings.

Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
An' brak him out o' house an' hall,
While scabs and blotches did him gall,
Wi' bitter claw,

An' lowsed his ill tongued wicked Scawl,
Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce,
Sin' that day Michael* did you pierce,
Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin', A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin',

Some luckless hour will send him linkin', To your black pit;

* Vide Milton, book vi.

'An' neist my yowie, silly thing, Guid keep thee frae a tether string!

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE.

As Mailic, at her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An' owre she warsled in the ditch;
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc" he came doytin by.

Wi' glowrin' een, and lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's :
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But wae's my heart! he could na mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak!
At length poor Mailie silence brak.

'O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my waefu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my Master dear.

'Tell him, if e'er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,
O, bid him never tie them mair
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!
But ca' them out to park or hill,
An' let them wander at their will:
So may his flock increase, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'

'Tell him, he was a master kin', An' aye was guid to me an' mine : An' now my dying charge I gie him, My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him.

O bid him save their harmless lives, Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives But gie them guid cow milk their fill, Till they be fit to fend themsel'; An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn.

A neebor herd-callan.

It's no the loss o' warl's gear,
That could sae bitter draw the tear,
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear
The mourning weed
He's lost a friend and neebor dear,
In Mailie dead.

'Thro' a' the town she trotted by him;
A lang half-mile she could descry him;
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him,
She ran wi' speed;
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him,
Than Mailie dead.

I wat she was a sheep o' sense,
An' could behave hersel' wi' mense:
I'll say't, she never brack a fence,

Thro' thievish greed.