Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy!
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye,
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine,
I see the Sire of love on high,

And own his work indeed divine'

There, watching high the least alarms,
Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar;
Like some bold vet'ran, grey in arms,
And mark'd with many a seamy scar;
The pond'rous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock;
Have oft withstood assailing war,

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock.
With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately dome,
Where Scotia's kings of other years,
Fam'd heroes, had their royal home
Alas! how chang'd the times to come;
Their royal name low in the dust!
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam!
Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just!

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps,
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore :
Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore,
Haply my sires have left their shed,
And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar,
Bold-following where your fathers led !
Edina! Scotia's darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and tow'rs,
Where once beneath a monarch's feet
Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs!

• Miss Burnet of Monboddo.

From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.P

ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, On crowning his Bust, at Ednam, Roxburghshire, with Bays. [Written by desire of the poet's friend, the Earl of Buchan.)

WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green,
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,

Or tunes Eolian strains between :
While Summer, with a matron grace,
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
The progress of the spiky blade :
While Autumn, benefactor kind,
By Tweed erects his aged head,
And sees, with self-approving mind,
Each creature on his bounty fed:
While maniac Winter rages o'er
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,
Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,
Or sweeping wild, a waste of snows:

So long, sweet Poet of the Year,
Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;
While SCOTIA, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that THOMSON was her son.

THE POET'S WELCOME
q To his illegitimate child.

THOU 's welcome, wean, mishanter fa' me,
If ought of thee or of thy mammy,

Shall ever danton me or awe me,

My sweet wee lady,
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me
Tit-ta or daddy.

Wee image of my bonnie Betty,
I, fatherly, will kiss an' daut thee,
As dear an' near my heart I set thee,

Wi' as gude will,

As a' the priests had seen me get

That 's out o' h-ll.

What tho' they ca' me fornicator,
An' tease my name in kintry-clatter:
The mair they tauk I 'm kent the better,

E'en let them clash;

An auld wife's tongue 's a feckless matter

To gie ane fash.

Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint,
My funny toil is now a' tint,

Sin' thou came to the warl' asklent,

Which fools may scoff at;

In my last plack thy part's be in 't-
The better half o't.

An' if thou be what I wad hae thee,
An' tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
A lovin' father I 'll be to thee,

If thou be spar'd;
Thro' a' thy childish years I'll e'e thee,
An' think 't weel war'd.

Gude grant that thou may ay inherit
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,
An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit,
Without his failin's!

Twill please me mair to hear an' see 't
Than stocket mailins.

TO A HAGGIS.

FAIR fa' your honest, sonsies face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race!

Aboont them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang 's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright

Like onie ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reeking rich!

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytesă belyveb
Are bent like drums,
Then auld guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankitd hums.

Is there that o'er his French ragout,
Or olio that wad stawe a sow,

Or fricassee wad make her spew

Wi' perfect sconner,

t

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

A kind of pudding boiled in the stomach of a cow, or sheep

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle-shark a guid whip-lash,
His nieveh a nit;
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his waliek nieve a blade,

He'll mak it whissle;

An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r,
Gie her a Haggis!

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE.

My curse upon thy venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang;

And thro' my lugsa gies monie a twang,

Wi gnawing vengeance;

Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,

Like racking engines.

When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes;

Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us,

Wi' pitying moan;

But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases,

Ay mocks our groan!