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Loyal Natives,' attend to my song, and riot rejoice the night long; From envy and hatred your corps is exempt; But where is your shield from the darts of contempt?
SEARCHING auld wives' barrels,
That clarty barm2 should stain my laurels,
These muvin' things ca'd wives and weans
ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF LORD G.
WHAT dost thou in that mansion fair?
Flit, G, and find
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave,
The picture of thy mind!
ON THE SAME.
No Stewart art thou G
The Stewarts all were brave;
ON THE SAME.
BRIGHT ran thy line, O G-
TO THE SAME,
On the Author being threatened with his Resentment.
SPARE me thy vengeance G-
I ask no kindness at thy hand,
EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION. Tune. Gillicrankie.
He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist,
Till in a declamation mist,
His argument he tint' it;
He gap'd for 't, he grap'd for 't,
But what his common sense came short,
COLLECTED Harry stood awee,
And ey'd the gathering storm, man :
Like wind-driven hail it did assail,
ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD IN
THAT there is falsehood in his looks
They say their master is a knave-
On the late Mr. William Smellie, Author of the Philosophy of Natural History, and Member of the Antiquarian and Roval Societies of Edinburgh.
To Crochallan came
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same;
EXTEMPORE, TO MR. SYME,"
On refusing to dine with him, after having been promised the first of company, and the first of cookery; 17th Dec. 1795.
No more of your guests, be they titled or not,
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit,
TO MR. S**E,
With a Present of a dozen of Porter.
O, HAD the malt thy strength of mind,
A gift that e'en for S**e were fit.
LINES ADDRESSED TO MR. J. RANKINE.
While he occupied the farm of Adamhill, in Ayrshire.
AE day, as Death, that grusome carl,
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad,
And monie a guilt-bespotted lad;
w An intimate friend of the Poet's, with whom he made a very pleasant tour over the counties of Kirkcudbright and Galloway, in July and August, 1793.
a Grim old man.
y Other world.
z Confusedly mixed.
Black gowns of each denomination,
By God, I'll not be seen behint them,
By Adamhill a glance he threw,
LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS, While on his death-bed, to John Rankine, and forwarded to him immediately after the Poet's death.
He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead,
EPITAPH FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER.
The pitying heart that felt for human woe;
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;
'For ev❜n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.
INSCRIPTION TO THE MEMORY OF
HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET.
No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay,
FOR ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.
A BARD'S EPITAPH.
Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owrec fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
And owref this grassy heap sing dool,g
Is there a Bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,
pass not by !
But with a frater-feeling strong,
Here heave a sigh.
Is there a man, whose judgment clear,
Wild as the wave;
Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear,
Survey this grave.
e To submit tamely, to sneak.
To lament, to mourn.