To serve their king and country weel, I will not wind a lang conclusion, But if (which powers above prevent!) By sad mistakes, and black mischances, TO A LOUSE. ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET At church. HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? Your impudence protects you sairly: I canna say but ye strunt rarely Owre gauze and lace; Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner, Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; Where ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumpin cattle, In shoals and nations; Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight, Till ye've got on it, My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, Wad dress your droddum! I wad na been surprised to spy You on an auld wife's flainen toy; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, On's wylie coat; But miss's fine Lunardi! fie, How dare ye do't? O Jenny, dinna toss your head, An' set your beauties a' abread! Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie's makin! Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takin! O wad some power the giftie gie us, To see oursels as others see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us And foolish notion; What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us, And e'en devotion! ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. EDINA! Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign powers! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. II. Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy trade his labours plies; There architecture's noble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise; Here justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod; There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode. III. Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name! IV. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn! Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptured thrill of joy! Fair B strikes th' adoring eye, Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine; I see the sire of love on high, And own his work indeed divine! V. There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; Like some bold veteran, gray in arms, And mark'd with many a seamy scar; The ponderous walls and massy bar, Grim rising o'er the rugged rock; Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. VI. With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, Famed heroes! had their royal home: Alas! how changed the times to come! Their royal name low in the dust! Their hapless race wild-wandering roam! Though rigid law cries out, 'Twas just! VII. Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Haply my sires have left their shed, And faced grim danger's loudest roar, Bold following where your fathers led! VIII. Edina! Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign powers! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.-APRIL 1st, 1785. On fasten-een we had a rockin, There was ae sang, amang the rest, It thrill'd the heart-strings through the breast, I've scarce heard aught describes sae weel, What generous, manly bosoms feel; Thought I, "Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattie's wark !" They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And sae about him there I spier't; Then a' that ken't him round declared He had ingine, That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, It was sae fine. That set him to a pint of ale, 'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' swoor an' aith, Though I should pawn my pleugh and graith, Or die a cadger pownie's death, At some dyke-back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith To hear your crack. But, first an' foremost, I should tell, Though rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's sel, Does well eneugh. I am nae poet, in a sense, Yet, what the matter? Your critic folk may cock their nose, But, by your leaves, my learned foes, What's a' your jargon o' your schools, What sairs your grammars: Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools, A set o' dull conceited hashes, An' syne they think to climb Parnassu; Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire, That's a' the learning I desire; Then though I drudge through dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My muse, though hamely in attire, O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, My memory's no worth a preen; 'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been In days when mankind were but callans At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, They took nae pains their speech to balance, Or rules to gie, But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans, Like you or me. In thae auld times, they thought the moon, Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon, Wore by degrees, till her last roon, Gaed past their viewing, An' shortly after she was done, They gat a new one. "New-light" is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously. This past for certain, undisputed; It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, An' ca'd it wrang; An' muckle din there was about it, Baith loud and lang. Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, An' out o' sight, An' backlins-comin, to the leuk, She grew mair bright. This was denied, it was affirm'd ; The herds an' hissels were alarm'd: The reverend gray-beards raved an' storm'd, That beardless laddies Should think they better were inform'd Than their auld daddies. Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks; Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks; An' monie a fallow gat his licks, Wi' hearty crunt; An' some, to learn them for their tricks, Were hang'd an' burnt. This game was play'd in monie lands, An' auld-light caddies bure sie hands, That faith the youngsters took the sands Wi' nimble shanks, The lairds forbade, by strict commands, Sic bluidy pranks. But new-light herds gat sic a cowe, Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, Till now amaist on every knowe, Ye'll find ane placed; An' some, their new-light fair avow, Just quite barefaced. Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin; To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on But shortly they will cowe the louns! Guid observation they will gie them; An' when the new-light billies see them, Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter I hope, we bardies ken some better, Than mind sic brulzie. |