ing turns,

Why desert ye your auld native shire; Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie, She could ca' us nae waur than we are.

THE TWA HERDS.*

O A' ye pious godly flocks,

Weel fed on pasture's orthodox,

Wha now will keep you frae the fox,

Or pay their skin; Could shake them o'er the burning dub, Or heave them in.

Sic twa-O! do I live to see't,
Sic famous twa should disagreet,
An' names, like villain, hypocrite,
Ilk ither gi'en,

While new-light herds wi' laughin' spice,
Say neither's lie!

A'

Or worrying tykes,

Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks,
About the dykes?

The twa best herds in a' the wast,
That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast,
These five-and-twenty simmers past,
O! dool to tell,

Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast

Atween themsel.

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod,
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood,
He smelt their ilka hole and road,
Baith out and in,
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid,
And sell their skin.

What berd like Rll tell'd his tale,
His voice was beard thro' muir and dale,
He kend the Lord's shecp, ilka tail,
O'er a' the height,
And saw gin they were sick or hale,
At the first sight.
He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,
Or nobly fling the gospel club,

This piece was among the first of our Author's productions which he submitted to the public; and was occasioned by a dispute between two clergymen, near Kilmarnock.

ye wha tent the gospel fauld,

There's D-n, deep, and P-—8, shaul, But chiefly thou, apostle A-d

We trust in thee,

That thou wilt work them, hot and cauld, Till they agree.

CURS'D be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife,
Who has no will but by her high permission;
Who has not sixpence but in her possession;
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell;
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell.
Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart;
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b-h.

ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788.

FOR lords or kings I dinna mourn,
E'en let them die-for that they're born!
But, oh, prodigious to reflect,
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck !
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space
What dire events ha'e taken place!
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us !
In what a pickle thou hast left us !

The Spanish empire's tint ahead,
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead;
The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox,
An' our guidwife's wee birdy cocks;
The tane is game, a bluidy devil,
But to the hen-birds unco civil;
The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin',
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden!

Ye ministers, come mount the pulpit, An' cry till ye be hearse an' rupit ; For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel, An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal; E'en mony a plack, an' 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 gi'e again.

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, How dowff an' dowie now they creep; Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, For Embro' 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,

THICKEST night o'erhangs my dwelling!
Howling tempests o'er me rave!
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,
Still surround my lonely cave!

Crystal streamlets gently flowing,
Busy haunts of base mankind,
Western breezes, softly blowing,
Suit not my distracted mind.

In the cause of right engaged,

Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour's war we strongly waged, But the heavens deny'd success.

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,

Not a hope that dare attend, The wide world is all before us But a world without a friend!❤

CLARINDA.

CLARINDA, mistress of my soul,
The measur'd time is run!
The wretch beneath the dreary pole,
So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie; Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, The sun of all his joy.

We part, but by these precious drops,
That fill thy lovely eyes!
No other light shall guide my steps,
Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,
Has blest my glorious day :

And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray?

A VISION.

As I stood by yon roofless tower,

Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care.

The winds were laid, the air was still, The stars they shot alang the sky; The fox was howling on the hill,

And the distant echoing glens reply.

⚫ Strathallan, it is presumed, was one of the followers of the young Chevalier, and is supposed to be lying concealed in some cave of the Highlands, after the battle of Culloden. This song was written before the year 1788

Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,' Whase distant roaring swells and fa's.

The cauld blue north was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din; Athort the lift they start and shift,

Like fortune's favours, tint as win.

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,†
And, by the moon-beam, shook, to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.

Had I a statue been o' stane,

His darin look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, The sacred posie-Liberty!

And frae his harp sic strains did flow,
Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear;
But oh, it was a tale of woe,

As ever met a Briton's ear!

He sang wi' joy his former day,
He weeping wail'd his latter times;
But what he said it was nae play,
I winna ventur't in my rhymes.

COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS

TO

MR. WILLIAM TYTLER,

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE.

REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,
Of Stuart, a name once respected,

A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart,

But now 'tis despised and neglected:

• Variation. To join yon river on the Strath.
t Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld,
Her horn the pale faced Cynthia rear'd;
When, lo, in form of minstrel auld,

A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. This poem, an imperfect copy of which was printed in Johnson's Museum, is here given from the poet's MS. with his last corrections. The scenery so finely described is taken from nature. The poet is supposed to be musing by night on the banks of the river Clu den, and by the ruins of Lincluden-Abbey, founded in the twelfth century, in the reign of Malcom IV. of whose present situation the reader may find some account in Pennant's Tour in Scotland, or Grose's Antiquities of that division of the island. Such a time and such a place are well fitted for holding converse with aerial beings. Though this poem has a political bias, yet it may be presumed that no reader of taste, whatever his opinions may be, would forgive it being omit. ted. Our poet's prudence suppressed the song of Liberty, perhaps fortunately for his reputation. It may be questioned whether, even in the resources of his genius, a strain of poetry could have been found worthy of the grandeur and solemnity of this preparation.

M'Q-e's pathetic manly sense,

-h,

And guid M Wi' S-th, wha thro' the heart can glance, May a' pack aff.

Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, haff-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 meikle better as you can.
January 1, 1789.

THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND.

CURS'D be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife,
Who has no will but by her high permission;
Who has not sixpence but in her possession;
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell;
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell.
Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart;
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b-h.

ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788.

FOR lords or kings I dinna mourn,
E'en let them die-for that they're born!
But, oh, prodigious to reflect,
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck !
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space
What dire events ha'e taken place
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!
In what a pickle thou hast left us !

The Spanish empire's tint ahead,
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead;
The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox,
An' our guidwife's wee birdy cocks;
The tane is game, a bluidy devil,
But to the hen-birds unco civil;
The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin',
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden !

STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT.

THICKEST night o'erhangs my dwelling!
Howling tempests o'er me rave!
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,
Still surround my lonely cave!

Crystal streamlets gently flowing,
Busy haunts of base mankind,
Western breezes, softly blowing,
Suit not my distracted mind.

In the cause of right engaged,

Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour's war we strongly waged, But the heavens deny'd success.

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, Not a hope that dare attend, The wide world is all before us— But a world without a friend !•

CLARINDA.

CLARINDA, mistress of my soul,
The measur'd time is run!
The wretch beneath the dreary pole,
So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie;
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy.

We part, but by these precious drops,
That fill thy lovely eyes!
No other light shall guide my steps,
Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,

Has blest my glorious day:

And shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray?

A VISION.

As I stood by you roofless tower,

Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower,

And tells the midnight moon her care.

The winds were laid, the air was still, The stars they shot alang the sky;

The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant echoing glens reply.

The stream adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's.

The cauld blue north was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din; Athort the lift they start and shift,

Like fortune's favours, tint as win.

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,†
And, by the moon-beam, shook, to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.

Had I a statue been o' stane,

His darin look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, The sacred posie-Liberty!

And frae his harp sic strains did flow,
Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear;
But oh, it was a tale of woe,

As ever met a Briton's ear!

He sang wi' joy his former day,

He weeping wail'd his latter times; But what he said it was nae play, I winna ventur't in my rhymes.t

COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS

TO

MR. WILLIAM TYTLER,

WITH THE PRESENT of the BARD'S PICTURE.

REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,
Of Stuart, a name once respected,

A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart,

But now 'tis despised and neglected:

• Variation. To join yon river on the Strath. † Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld, Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear'd; When, lo, in form of ininstrel auld,

A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. This poem, an imperfect copy of which was printed in Johnson's Museum, is here given from the poet's MS. with his last corrections. The scenery so finely described is taken from nature. The poet is supposed to be musing by night on the banks of the river Clu den, and by the ruins of Lincluden-Abbey, founded in the twelfth century, in the reign of Malcom IV. of whose present situation the reader may find some ac count in Pennant's Tour in Scotland, or Grose's Antiquities of that division of the island. Such a time and such a place are well fitted for holding converse with aerial beings. Though this poem has a political bias, yet it may be presumed that no reader of taste, whatever his opinions may be, would forgive it being omit.

berty, perhaps fortunately for his reputation. It may be questioned whether, even in the resources of his genius, a strain of poetry could have been found wor thy of the grandeur and solemnity of this preparation.