Forbye, he 'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, The cut of Adam's philibeg;

The knife that nicket Abel's craig

He'll prove you fully,

It was a faulding jocteleg,

Or lang-kail gullie.—

But wad ye see him in his glee,
For meikle glee and fun has he,
Then set him down, and twa or three

Guid fellows wi' him;

And port, O port! shine thou a wee,

And then ye'll see him!

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose! Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose !— Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,

They sair misca' thee;

I'd take the rascal by the nose,

Wad say, Shame fa' thee!

TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS,

A VERY YOUNG LADY.

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR.

BEAUTEOUS rose-bud, young and gay,

Blooming on thy early May,

Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r,

Chilly shrink in sleety show'r!

Never Boreas' hoary path,

Never Eurus' pois'nous breath,
Never baleful stellar lights,
Taint thee wish untimely blights!
Never, never reptile thief
Riot on thy virgin leaf!

Nor even Sol too fiercely view

Thy bosom blushing still with dew!

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, Richly deck thy native stem;

Till some ev'ning, sober, calm,
Dropping dews, and breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings;
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,
Shed thy dying honours round,

And resign to parent earth

The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.

SONG.

ANNA, thy charms my bosom fire,
And waste my soul with care;
But ah! how bootless to admire,
When fated to despair!

Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair,
To hope may be forgiv❜n;
For sure 'twere impious to despair,
So much in sight of Heav'n.

ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER,

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ.

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S.

SAD thy tale, thou idle page,

And rueful thy alarms:

Death tears the brother of her love

From Isabella's arms.

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew
The morning rose may blow;
But cold successive noontide blasts
May lay its beauties low.

Fair on Isabella's morn

The sun propitious smil❜d;

But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
Succeeding hopes beguil'd.

Fate oft tears the bosom chords
That nature finest strung:
So Isabella's heart was form❜d,
And so that heart was wrung.

Dread Omnipotence alone,

Can heal the wound he gave;
Can point the brimful grief-worn eye
To scenes beyond the grave.

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow,
And fear no withering blast;
There Isabella's spotless worth
Shall happy be at last.

THE

HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR
WATER*

TO THE

NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.

Mr Lord, I know, your noble ear
Woe ne'er assails in vain;
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble Slave complain.

How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,

Dry-withering waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

The lightly-jumping glowri trouts,
That thro' my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray ;-

Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want o trees and shrubs.

If, hapless chance! the linger lang,
I'm scorching up to shallow,
They're left the whitening stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow.

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,

As Poet B**** came by,
That, to a bard 1 should be seen
Wi' half my channel dry:
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
Even as I was he shor d me;
But had I in my glory been,

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me.

Here, foaming down the sleivy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin;
There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o'er a linn:
Enjoying large each spring and well
As nature gave them me,

I am, altho' I say 't mysel,
Worth gaun a mile to see.

Would then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes,
He'll shade my bar wi' tow'ring trees,
And bonnie spreading bushes;

Deli, ed doubly then, my Lord,

You wander on my banks,

1

And sten mony a grateful bird

Return you tuneful thanks.

Le sober laverock, warbling wild,

Shall to the skies aspire;