Hands that took-but never gave.
Keeper of Mammon's iron chest,

Lo! there she goes, unpitied and unblest! She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!

ANTISTROPHE.

PLUNDERER of armies, lift thine eyes, (Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends.) Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bends? No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies; "Tis thy trusty quondam mate,

Doom'd to share thy fiery fate,
She, tardy, hell-ward plies.

EPODE.

AND are they of no more avail,
Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year?
In other worlds can Mammon fail,
Omnipotent as he is here?

O, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier,
While down the wretched vital part is driv'n!
The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience
clear,

Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to heav'n.

THE HENPECKED 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 hae taken place!
Of what enjoyment thou hast reft us!
In what a pickle thou hast left us!

The Spanish empire's tint a head,
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead;
The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt and Fox,
An' our gudewife'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 monie a plack, an' monie a peck,
Ye ken yoursels for little feck!

Ye bonie lasses dight your een,
For some o' you hae tint a frien':
In Eighty-eight, se ken, was ta'en
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again.

Observe the very nowt an' sheep,
How dowff an' dowie now they creep;
Nay, ev'n 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,
Nae hand-cuff'd, muzzl'd, half-shackl'd regent,
But, like himself, a full, free agent.
Be sure ye follow out the plan
Nae waur than he did, honest man!
As muckle better as you can.

January 1, 1789,

TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY.

An honest man's the noblest work of God.

HAS auld K

Or great M-
Or R

66

seen the Deil?

-t thrawn his heel?

- again grown weel,
To preach an' read?

Na, war than a'!" cries ilka chiel,

K

Tam Samson's dead!

lang may grunt an' grane,

An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane,

Pope.

An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean,
In mourning weed;

To death she's dearly paid the kane,

Tam Samson's dead!

The brethren of the mystic level,
May hing their head in woefu' bevel,

*When this worthy old Sportsman went out last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be in Ossian's phrase, the last of his fields;" and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the Author composed his Elegy and Epitaph.

A certain preacher, a great favorite with the mil lion. Vide the Ordination, stanza II.

Another preacher, an equal favorite with the few who was at that time ailing. For him, see also the Ordination, stanza IX.

While by the nose the tears will revel, Like onie bead;

Death's gien the lodge an unco devel; Tam Samson's dead!

When winter muffles up his cloak,
And binds the mire up like a rock;
When to the loughs the curlers flock,
Wi' gleesome speed,

Wha will they station at the cock?
Tam Samson's dead!

He was the king o' a' the core, To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, Or up the rink like Jehu roar

In time of need;

But now he lags on death's hog-score, Tam Samson's dead!

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, And eels well kenn'd for souple tail, And geds for greed, Sine dark in death's fish-creel we wail, Tam Samson's dead'

Rejoice ye birring paitricks a'; Ye cootle muircocks, crousely craw; Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, Withouten dread;

Your mortal fae is now awa',

Tam Samson's dead!

That wofu' morn he ever mourn'd, Saw him in shootin graith adorn'd, While pointers round impatient burn'd, Frae couples freed;