And may those pleasures gild thy reign,
That neer wad blink on mine!
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,

Or turn their hearts to thee;

And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, Remember him for me!

O! soon, to me, may summer-suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn!
And in the narrow house o' death

Let winter round me rave;

And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, Bloom on my peaceful grave.

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq.

OF FINTRA.

LATE crippled of an arm, and now a leg, About to beg a pass for leave to beg; Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest;) Will generous Graham list to his poet's wail? (It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,)

And hear him curse the light he first survey'd, And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; Of thy caprice maternal I complain. The lion and the bull thy care have found, One shakes the forest, and one spurns the ground: [shell, Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, In all th' omnipotence of rule and power.Foxa) and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure; The cit and polecat stink, and are secure; Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, [snug, The priest and hedge-hog in their robes are Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, [darts. Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and

But Oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard, To thy poor, fenceless, naked child-the Bard!

A thing unteachable in world's skill,
And half an idiot too, more helpless still.
No heels to bear him from the opening dun;
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun;

No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn,
And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn:
No nerves olfactory, Mammon's trusty cur,
Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur,
In naked feeling, and in aching pride,
He bears th' unbroken blast from every side:
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart.

Critics-appall'd, I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame; Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes; He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, By blockheads' daring into madness stung; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must

wear;

Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife,
The hapless poet flounders on through life,
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired,
And fled each muse that glorious once inspired,
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age,
Dead even resentment for his injured page,
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's
rage!

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceased,

For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast; By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son.

O dulness! portion of the truly blest! Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest! Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. If mantling high she fills the golden cup, With sober selfish ease they sip it up; [serve, Conscious the bounteous meed they well deThey only wonder, 'some folks' do not starve. The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, And just conclude that fools are fortune's care.'

So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train, Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell.

I dread the fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear; Already one strong hold of hope is lost, Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust; (Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, And left us darkling in a world of tears :) O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r! Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare!

As market-days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' gettin' fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonny lasses,)

O Tam! had'st thon but been sae wise,
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the L-d's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesy'd, that late or soon,

Thou would be found deep drown'd ir. Doon;
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises !

But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely:
And at his elbow, souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious;
The souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy; As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious !

But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed! Or like the snow-falls in the river,

A moment white-then melts for ever;

Or like the borealis race,

That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.-

Nae man can tether time or tide :
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in,
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattlin' showers rose on the blast:
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd;
That night a child might understand,
The deil had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg-
A better never lifted leg-

Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain and fire;

Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet;
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him anawares ;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry-

By this time he was cross the ford,
Whare in the snaw the chapman sinoor'd;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn :
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel.-
Before him Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll;
When glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk Alloway seem'd in a bleeze;
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing
And loud resounded mirth and dancing-

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! What dangers thou canst make us scorn! Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil.— The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventured forward on the light; And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance; Nae cotillon brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-bunker in the east, There sat auld Nick in shape o' beast; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge: He screw'd his pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.—

Coffins stood round like open presses,
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;
And by some devilish cantrip slight,
Each in its cauld hand held a light,-
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,

A murderer's banes in gibbet airns ;
Twa span-lang, wee unchristen'd bairns:
A thief new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape:
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted;
Five scimitars wi' murder crusted;
A garter which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o' life bereft,
The gray hairs yet stuck to the heft;
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The piper loud and louder blew ; The dancers quick and quicker flew ;

Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main :
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a' thegither,

And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty sark!"
And in an instant all was dark;

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' monie an eldritch screech and hollow.

cleekit,

Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,

And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queens A' plump an' strapping, in their teens ; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies! For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies!

But wither'd beldams auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping and flinging on a crummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, There was ae winsome wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country side in fear,) Her cutty sark o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude though sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie,— Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she cooft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches,) Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!

But here my muse her wing maun cour⚫ Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r : To sing how Nunnie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was and strang) And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, thought his very een enrich'd :

There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tale she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle-
Ae spring brought aff her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son take heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear,
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME,

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT

INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye:
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!
Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
The bitter little that of life remains :

*It is a well known fact, that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any farther than the middle of the next running stream.-It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back.