God bless you a'! Consider now,

Ye 're unco muckle dautet;

But, ere the course o'life be through,

It may be bitter sautet;

An' I hae seen their coggie fou

That yet hae tarrow't at it;

But or the day was done, I trow,
The laggen they hae clautet

Fu' clean that day.

A Bard's Epitaph.

S there a whim-inspirèd fool,

Is

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool? Let him draw near;

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,

And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,

That weekly this arena throng?

Oh pass not by!

But, with a frater-feeling strong,

Here heave a sigh.

ΙΙΟ

115.

5

ΙΟ

Is there a man whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs himself life's mad career

15

Wild as the wave?

Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear,

Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn and wise to know,

20

IN RECOMMENDATION OF WILLIE CHALMERS. 107

And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stain'd his name!

Reader, attend! Whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole
In low pursuit,

Know prudent, cautious self-control
Is wisdom's root.

In Recommendation of Willie Chalmers.

I' braw new branks in mickle pride,

WP

And eke a braw new brechan,

My Pegasus I'm got astride,

And up Parnassus pechin';

Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush

The doited beastie stammers;

Then up he gets, and off he sets

For sake o' Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name

May cost a pair o'blushes;

I am nae stranger to your fame,

Nor his warm urgèd wishes.

Your bonnie face, sae mild an' sweet,

His honest heart enamours,

An' faith ye'll no be lost a whit,

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30

5

ΙΟ

15

Tho' wair'd on Willie Chalmers.

Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're fair,

And Honour safely back her,
And Modesty assume your air,
And ne'er a ane mistak' her:

20

And sic twa love-inspiring een

Might fire even holy palmers;
Nae wonder then they've fatal been
To honest Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na fortune may you shore
Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie,
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore,

An' band upon his breastie :

But oh! what signifies to you

His lexicons and grammars;

An' that's wi' Willie Chalmers.

25

The feeling heart's the royal blue,

30

Some gapin', glow'rin' countra laird

May warsle for your favour,

May claw his lug, an' straik his beard,

An' hoast up some palaver.

My bonnie maid, before ye wed

Sic clumsy-witted hammers,

Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp

Awa wi' Willie Chalmers !

The Brigs of Ayr.

WAS when the stacks get on their winter hap,

'TWAS

And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap;

Potato-bings are snuggèd up frae skaith.

O' coming Winter's biting, frosty breath;

The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils,
Unnumber'd buds and flow'rs' delicious spoils,
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles,
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak,
The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek:

35

40

5

10

15

The thundering guns are heard on every side,
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide;
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie,
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie:
(What warm poetic heart but inly bleeds,
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!)
Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs;
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings,
Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee,
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree;
The hoary morns precede the sunny days,
Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze,
While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays.

20

'Twas in that season, when a simple Bard,
Unknown and poor-simplicity's reward—
Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr,
By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care,—
He left his bed, and took his wayward route,
And down by Simpson's wheel'd the left about:
(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate
To witness what I after shall narrate;

Or whether, rapt in meditation high,

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30

He wander'd out, he knew not where nor why).
The drowsy Dungeon-clock had number'd two,
And Wallace Tower had sworn the fact was true;
The tide-swoln firth, with sullen-sounding roar,
Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore:
All else was hush'd as Nature's closèd e'e;
The silent moon shone high o'er tower and tree;
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam,
Crept gently crusting o'er the glittering stream-

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40

When lo! on either hand the list'ning Bard,
The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard;
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air,
Swift as the gos drives on the wheeling hare;
Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears,
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers:

45

Our warlock Rhymer instantly descried

The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside.
(That bards are second-sighted is nae joke,
And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk;

50

Fays, spunkies, kelpies, a', they can explain them,

And ev❜n the vera deils they brawly ken them.)
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race,
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face :

He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang,

55

Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang.
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat,

That he at Lon'on, frae ane Adams, got;

In 's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead,

Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head.

60

The Goth was stalking round with anxious search,

Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch;
It chanc'd his new-come neibor took his ee,
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he!
Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien,
He, down the water, gies him this guid-e'en :--

AULD BRIG.

I doubt na, frien', ye 'll think ye 're nae sheepshank
Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank!
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me—

65

Tho' faith that day, I doubt, ye 'll never see-
There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle,
Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle.

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