When heavy, dark, continued, a-day rains,
Wi deepening deluges o'erflow the plains;
When from the hills where springs tee brawling
Coil,

Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil,

Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course

Or haunted Garpal21 draws his feeble source, Arous'd by blust'ring winds and spotted throwes,

In mony a torrent down his sna'-broo rowes;
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat.
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a to the gate;
And from Glenbuck22 down to the Ratton key,23
Auld Ayr, is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea:
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise!
And dash the gumlic jaups up to the pouring
skies:

A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost,
That Architecture's noble art is lost!

O ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings, Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings!

Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie,
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye;
Ye dainty Deacons, an' ye douce Conveners,
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners;
Ye godly brethren of the sacred gown,
Wha meekly gae your hurdies to the smiters;
And (what would now be strange) ye godly
writers:

A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo,
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do!
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation,
To see each inclancholy alteration;
And agonizing, curse the time and place
When ye begat the base, degenerate race!
Nae langer rev'rend men, their country's glory,
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid
story;

Nae langer thrifty citizens, an' douce,
Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house:
But staumrel corky-headed graceless gentry,
The herryment and ruin of the country:

Men, three parts made by tailors and by barbers

Wha waste your well-hain'd gear on d---d new brigs and harbour!

NEW BRIG.

Now haud you there! for faith! ye've said enough,

And muckle mair than ye can mak to through:

As for your Priesthood, I shall say but little,
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle:
Bat, under favour o' your langer beard,
Abuse of Magistrates inight weel be spared:
To liken thein to your auid-warld squad,
I must needs say comparisons are odd.
In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle
To mouth a citizen,' a term o' scandal:
Nae mair the council waddles down the street
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit;
Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops an'
raisins,

Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and scisins,
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp,
Had shored them with a glimmer of his lamp,
And would to Common-sense, for once betrayed
them,

Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them.
What farther clishmaclaver might been said,
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed,
No man can tell; but all before their sigh

A fairy train appear'd in order bright:
Adown the glitt ring stream they featly danced;
Bright to the moon, their various dresses
glanced:

They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat,
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung,
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung.
O had M'Lauchlin,24 thairm-inspiring sage,
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage,
When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with
Highland rage:

Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs,
The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares:
How would his Highland ing been nobler fired,
And even his matchless hand with finer touch
inspir'd!

No guess could tell what instrument appear'd,
But all the soul of Music's self was heard.
Harmonious concert rung in every part,
While simple melody pour'd moving on the
heart.

The Genius of the stream in front appears,
A venerable chief advanced in years;
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd,
His manly leg with garter tangle bound.
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring.
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring;
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural
Joy,

And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye.
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn,
Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding

corn:

Then Winter's time-bleached locks did hoary show,

By Hospitality with cloudless brow;

Next followed Courage with his martial stride, From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide Benevolence, with mild benignant air,

A female25 form came from the tow'rs of Stair!
Learning and Worth in equal measures trode
From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode;
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel
wreath,

To rustic Agriculture did bequeath
The broken iron instruments of death:
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kind-
ling wrath.

THE ORDINATION.

For sense they little owe to frugal Heav'nTo please the mob they hide the little giv'n.

I.

KILMARNOCK Wabsters, fidge and claw,
An' pour your creeshie nations;
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw,
Of a' denominations.

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN.

On his Text, MALACHI, ch. iv. ver. 2. "And they shall go forth, and grow up, like CALVES of the stall."

RIGHT, SIR! your text I'll prove it true,
Though heretics may laugh;

For instance; there's yoursel' just now,
God knows, an unco calf!

An' should some patron be so kind,
As bless you wi' a kirk,

I doubt, nae Sir, but then we'll find,
Ye're stil! as great a stirk.

Forbid it, every heavenly power,
You e'er should be a stot!

Tho', when some kind, connubial dear,
Your but-and-ben adorns,

The like has been that you may wear
A noble head of horns.

And in your lug, most reverend James,
To hear you roar and rowte,

Few men o' sense will doubt your claims To rank amang the nowte.

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Below a grassy hillock,

Wi' justice they may mark your head'Here lies a famous bullock!'

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

O Prince! Oh chief of many throned pow'rs, That led the embattled Seraphim to war. -Milton.

O THOU! Whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,

Closed under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be:
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
E'en to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;
Far ken'd and noted is thy name;
An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far;

An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion,
For prey, a' holes and corners tryin';
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin',
Tirlin' the kirks;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin',
Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend grannie say,
In lanely glens you like to stray;
Or where auld ruin'd castles gray,
Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,
Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my grannie summon, To say her prayers, douce, honest woman! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin', Wi' eerie drone;

Or, rustlin', thro' the boortries comin',
Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light,
Wi' you, mysel', I gat a fright,

They skim the muirs, and dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked speed;

And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
Owre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain,
May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain:
For, oh! the yellow treasure's ta'en
By witching skill:

An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen
As yeld's the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse,
On young guidman, fond, keen, an' crouse;
When the best wark-lume i' the house,
By cantrip wit,

Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An' float the jinglin' icy-boord,
Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction,

An' nighted travellers are allured
To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies
Decoy the wight that late and drunk is;
The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys
Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.

When masons' mystic word an' grip,
In storm an' tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell;

The youngest brother ye wad whip
Aff straught to hell!

Lang syne, in Eden's bounie yard,
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,
An' all the soul of love they shared,
The raptured hour,

Sweet on the fragrant flowery swaird
In shady bower:

Then you, ye auld, snec-drawing dog!
Ye came to Paradise incog,
An' played on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa'!)

An' gied the infant world a shog,
'Maist ruined a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smootie phiz
'Mang better folk,

An' sklented on the man of Uz
Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
An' brak him out o' house an' hall,
While scabs and blotches did him gall,
Wi' bitter claw,

An' lowsed his ill tongued wicked scawl,
Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce.
Sin' that day Michael40 did you pierce,
Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin',
A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin',
Some luckless hour will send him linkin',
To your black pit ;

But faith; he'll turn a corner, jinkin',
And cheat you yet.

But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought and men'!
Ye aiblius might-I dinna ken-
Still hae a stake-
I'm wae to think upon yon den,
Even for your sake!

THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE.

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE.

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An' owre she warsled in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc41 he came doytin by.

Wi' glowrin' een, and lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's:
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But wae's my heart! he could no mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak!
At length poor Mailie silence brak.

'O thou, whose lamentable face
Appears to mourn my waefu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my Master dear.

Tell him, if e'er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,
O, bid him never tie them mair
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!
But ca' them out to park or hill,
An' let them wander at their will:
So may his flock increase, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'!

'Tell him, he was a master kin',
An' aye guid to me an' mine:
An' now my dying charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him.

'O bid him save their harmless lives,
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives!
But gie them guid cow milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel';
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn,
Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn.

An' may they never learn the gates,
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets!

To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal,
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail.
So may they, like their great forbears,
For mony a year come thro' the shears:
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,

An' bairns greet for them when they're dead.

My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir,

O bid him breed him up wi' care!

An' if he live to be a beast,

To pit some havins in his breast!
An' warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content with yowes at hame;
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless, graceless, brutes.

'An' neist my yowie, silly thing,
Guid keep thee from a tether string!
O, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' only blastit, moorland toop:
But aye keep mind to moop an' mell
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel'!

'An' now, my bairns, wi' my last breath,
I lea'e my blessing wi' you baith;
An' when you think upo' your mither,
Mind to be kin' to ane anither.

'Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail To tell my master a' my tale;

An' bid him burn this cursed tether,

An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether' This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, And closed her een amang the dead.

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.
LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose,
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose;
Our bardie's fate is at a close,
Past a' remead;

The last sad cape-stane o' his woes;
Poor Mailie's dead!

It's no' the loss o' warl's gear
That could sae bitter draw the tear,
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear
The mourning weed:
He's lost a friend and neebour dear,

In Mailie dead.

Thro' a' the town she trotted by him! A lang half-mile she could descry him; Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, She ran wi' speed;

A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him,
Than Mailie dead.

I wat she was a sheep o' sense,
An' could behave hersel' wi' mense:
I'll say't she never brak a fence,

Thro' thievish greed.

Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence
Sin' Mailie's dead.

Or, if he wanders up the howe,
Her living image in her yowe,
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe,
For bits o' bread;

An' down the briny pearls rowe
For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorla tips,
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips:
For her forbears were brought in ships
Frae yont the Tweed!

A bonnier flesh ne'er cross'd the clips

Than Mailie dead.

DEAR SMITH, the sleest, paukie thief,
That e'er attempted stealth or rief,
Ye surely has some warlock-breef
Owre human hearts;
For never a bosom yet was prief
Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an' moon,
And every star that blinks aboon,
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon,
Just gaun to see you:
And every ither pair that's done,
Mair ta'en I'm wi' you.

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She's turn'd you aff, a human creature On her first plan,

And in her freaks, on every feature,
She's wrote, the Man,

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, To garland my poetic brows!

Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs
on Are whistling thrang,
An' teach the lanely heights an' lowes
My rustic sang.

I'll wander on, with tentless heed
How never-halting moments speed,
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;
Then, all unknown,

I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead,
Forgot and gone!

But why o' death begin a tale?
Just now we're living, sound an' hale,
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,
Heave care o'er side!

And large, before enjoyment's gale,
Let's tak' the tide."

This life, sae far's I understand,
Is a' enchanted fairy land,

Where pleasure is the magic wand,

That, wielded right,

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin',
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin';
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin',
An' social noise; u

An' fareweel dear, deluding woman!
The joy of joys!

O Life! how pleasant in thy morning,
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning!"
Cold pausing Caution's lesson scorning.
We frisk away,

Like school-boys, at the expected warning.
To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here,
We eye the rose upon the brier,

Unmindful that the thorn is near,
Amang the leaves:

And though the puny wound appear,
Shart while it grieves.

Some, lucky, find a flowery spot,
For which they never toiled nor swat,
They drink the sweet and eat the fat,"
But care or pain;

And, haply, eye the barren hut
With high disdain.

With steady aim, some Fortune chase;
Keen Hope does every sinew brace:
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,
And seize the prey:

Then cannie, in some cozie place,
They close the day.

An' others, like your humble servan', Poor wights! nae rules, or roads observin'; To right or left, eternal swervin',

Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starvin',
They aften groan.

Alas! what bitter toil an' strainin-
But truce with peevish poor complaining!
Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning?
E'en let her gang!

Beneath what light she has remaining,
Let's sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door,

And kneel, Ye Pow'rs!' and warm implore,
Tho' I should wander Terra o'er,
In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more,
Aye rowth o' rhymes.

'Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards:
Gie fine braw cloes to fine life-guards,
An' maids of honour!

An' yill an' whisky gie to cairds,
Until they sconner.

'A title, Dempster42 merits it;
A garter gie to Willie Pitt;
Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit,
In cent. per cent.

But give me real, and sterling wit,
An' I'm content.

While ye are pleased to keep me hale,
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal,
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail,
Wi' cheerfu' face,

As lang's the Muses dinna fail
To say the grace.'

An' anxious e'e I never throws
Behint my lug, or by my nose;
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows,
As well's I may:

Sworn foe to sorrow, care, an' prose,
In rhyme away.

O ye douse folk, that live by rule,
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool,
Compar'd wi' you-O focl! fool! fool!
How much unlike!

Your hearts are just a standing pool,
Your lives, a dyke!

Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces
In your unletter'd nameless faces!
In drioso trills and graces

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise, Nae ferly tho' ye do despise

The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys,
The rattlin' squad:

I see you upward cast your eyes

Ye ken the road