A WINTER NIGHT.

Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are,
That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm!
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these?-SHAKSPEARE.

WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers through the leafless bower;
When Phoebus gies a short-lived glower
Far south the lift,

Dim-darkening through the fiaky shower,
Or whirling drift:

keen, sullen

stare sky

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi' snawy wreathes up-choked,
Wild eddying swirl,

one

rivulets

Or, through the mining outlet bocked,
Down headlong hurl.

And through the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle,
Beneath a scaur.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing,
That, in the merry months o' spring,

Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o' thee?

Whare wilt thou cower thy chittering wing,

And close thy ee?

Even you, on murdering errands toiled,

Lone from your savage homes exiled,

The blood-stained roost, and sheep-cot spoiled,

My heart forgets,

While pitiless the tempest wild

Sore on you beats.

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign,
Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain;
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
Rose in my soul,

When on my ear this plaintive strain
Slow, solemn, stole :-

"Blow, blow ye winds with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost!
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows!
Not all your rage, as now united, shows
More hard unkindness, unrelenting,
Vengeful malice unrepenting,

Than heaven-illumined man on brother man bestows

"See stern Oppression's iron grip,

Or mad Ambition's gory hand,

shivering

eye

N

Sending, like bloodhounds from the slip,
Woe, want, and murder o'er a land!
E'en in the peaceful rural vale,

Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,
How pampered Luxury, Flattery by her side,
The parasite empoisoning her ear,

With all the servile wretches in the rear,
Looks o'er proud Property, extended wide;
And eyes the simple rustic hind,

Whose toil upholds the glittering show,
A creature of another kind,

Some coarser substance, unrefined,

Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile below.

"Where, where is love's fond, tender throe,
With lordly Honour's lofty brow,

The powers you proudly own?
Is there, beneath Love's noble name,
Can harbour dark the selfish aim,
To bless himself alone!

Mark maiden innocence a prey
To love pretending snares,
This boasted Honour turns away,
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway,

Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers!
Perhaps this hour, in Misery's squalid nest,
She strains your infant to her joyless breast,
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast!

"Oh ye who, sunk in beds of down,

Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think for a moment on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown!

Ill satisfied keen Nature's clamorous call,

Stretched on his straw he lays himself to sleep,
While through the ragged roof and chinky wall,
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap!
Think on the dungeon's grim confine,
Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pine,
Guilt, erring man, relenting view!
But shall thy legal rage pursue
The wretch already crushèd low

By cruel Fortune's undeservèd blow?
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress;

A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss !"

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery snaw,

And hailed the morning with a cheer,
A cottage-rousing craw.

But deep this truth impressed my mind-
Through all his works abroad,

The heart benevolent and kind

The most resembles GOD.

no moie

powdery, snow

WILLIE STEWART.

YOU'RE welcome, Willie Stewart;
You're welcome, Willie Stewart;

There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May,
That's half sae welcome's thou art.

Come, bumpers high, express your joy,
The bowl we maun renew it;

VERSES TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.:

WITH A PRESENT OF BOOKS.

OH, could I give thee India's wealth,

As I this trifle send,

Because thy joy in both would be

To share them with a friend!

But golden sands did never grace
The Heliconean stream;

Then take what gold could never buy-
An honest Bard's esteem.

TO MISS JESSY LEWARS:

WITH A PRESENT OF BOOKS.

THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair,
And with them take the Poet's prayer-
That Fate may in her fairest page,
With every kindliest, best presage
Of future bliss, enrol thy name:
With native worth, and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution still aware
Of ill-but chief, man's felon snare;
All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind-
These be thy guardian and reward;
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard.

ON SEEING MRS KEMBLE IN YARICO.

KEMBLE, thou cur'st my unbelief

Of Moses and his rod;

At Yarico's sweet notes of grief
The rock with tears had flowed.

TO MR SYME:

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER.

OH, had the malt thy strength of mind,
Or hops the flavour of thy wit,
"Twere drink for first of human kind,
A gift that even for Syme were fit.

TO THE SAME,

ON BEING PRESSED TO STAY AND DRINK MORE.

THERE'S Death in the cup, sac beware-
Nay, mair, there is danger in touching;
But wha can avoid the fell snare?

The man and his wine's sae bewitching.

80 more

who

TO THE SAME,

DECLINING AN INVITATION TO JOIN A DINNER PARTY.

No more of your guests, be they titled or not,
And cookery the first in the nation;
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit,
Is proof to all other temptation.

ON JOHN DOVE,

INNKEEPER, MAUCHLINE..

HERE lies Johnny Pigeon;

What was his religion?

Wha e'er desires to ken,

To some other warl'

Maun follow the carl,

For here Johnny Pigeon had nane!

Strong ale was ablution

Small beer persecution,

A dram was memento mori;

But a full-flowing bowl

Was the joy of his soul,

And port was celestial glory.

ON MISS LEWARS' INDISPOSITION.

SAY, sages, what's the charm on earth
Can turn Death's dart aside?

It is not purity and worth,

Else Jessy had not died.

MISS LEWARS RECOVERED A LITTLE

BUT rarely seen since Nature's birth,
The natives of the sky;

Yet still one seraph's left on earth,
For Jessy did not die.

EPITAPH FOR ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.

KNOW thou, O stranger to the Fame
Of this much-loved, much-honoured name!
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.

world

must follow