But ae rough night the blatt'ring winds blew

fnell,

Torn frae its roots adown it fouchan fell ;
Twin'd of its nourishment it lifeless lay,
Mixing its wither'd leaves amang the clay.
Sae flourish'd Matt: but where's the tongue can
tell

How fair he grew? how much lamented fell?

SANDY.

How fnackly cou'd he gi'e a fool reproof, E'en wi' a canty tale he 'd tell aff loof? How did he warning to the dofen'd fing, By auld Purganty, and the Dutchman's ring? And Lucky's filler ladle fhaws how aft Our greatest wishes are but vain and daft, The wad-be wits, he bad them a' but pap Their crazy heads into Tam Tinman's shap; There they wad fee a squirrel wi' his bells Ay wrestling up, yet rifing like themfells. Thousands of things he wittily could fay, With fancy strang, and faul as clear as day; Smart were his tales: but where 's the tongue can

tell

How blyth he was? how much lamented fell?

RICHY.

And as he blythfome was, fae was he wife,

Our laird himsell wa'd aft take his advice.

E'en cheek for chew he'd feat him 'mang them a’,
And tauk his mind 'bout kittle points of law.
When clan Red-yards *, ye ken, wi' wicked feud,
Had fkail'd of ours, but mair of his ain blood;
When I, and mony mae that were right croufe,
Wad fain about his lugs have burnt his house:
Yet lady Anne, a woman meek and kind,
A fae to weirs, and of a peacefu' mind,
Since mony in the fray had got their dead,
To make the peace our friend was fent wi' speed.
The very faes had for him just regard,

Tho' fair he jib'd their formast singing bard †.
Careful was Matt: but where's the tongue can tell
How wife he was? how much lamented fell?

SANDY.

Wha cou'd like him, in a short fang, define
The bonny lafs and her young lover's pine?

I'll

* Lewis XIV. king of France.

Boileau, whofe ode on the taking Namur by the French in 1692, he burlefqued, on its being retaken by the English in 1695.

I'll ne'er forget that ane he made. on May,
Wha brang the poor blate Symie to his clay;
To gratify the paughty wench's pride,

The filly fhepherd "bow'd, obey'd, and dy’d.”
Sic conftant laffes, as the Nit-brown Maid,
Shall never want juft praises duly paid;
Sic claim'd his fang, and still it was his care,
With pleafing words to guide and reese the fair.
How sweet his voice when beauty was in view!
Smooth ran his lines, ay grac'd wi' fomething

new;

Nae word ftood wrang: but where's the tongue

can tell

How faft he fung? how much lamented fell?

RICHY.

And when he had a mind to be mair grave,

A minister nae better cou'd behave

Far out of fight of fic he aften flew,

When he of haly wonders took a view:

Well cou'd he praise the Power that made us à', And bids us in return but tent his law;

Wha guides us when we 're waking or asleep, With thousand times mair care than we our

sheep.

While he of pleasure, power, and wisdom fang,
My heart lap high, my lugs wi' pleasure rang:

These

These to repeat braid fpoken I wad fpill,
Altho' I should employ my utmost skill.

He tow'rd aboon: but ah! what tongue can tell
How high he flew? how much lamented fell?

ROBERT.

My bennison, dear lads, light on ye baith, Wha ha'e fae true a feeling of our skaith: O Sandy! draw his likeness in smooth verfe, As well ye can; then fhepherds fhall rehearse His merit, while the fun metes out the day, While ews fhall bleet, and little lambkins mae.

I've been a fauter, now three days are past, While I for grief have hardly broke my fast: Come to my fhiel, there let 's forget our care, I dinna want a routh of country fair,

Sic as it is, ye'r welcome to a skair:
Befides, my lads, I have a browft of tip,
As good as ever wafh'd a fhepherd's lip;
We'll take a fcour o't to put aff our pain,
For a' our tears and fighs are but in vain :
Come, help me up; yon footy cloud fhores rain.

1721.

KEITHA:

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MARY, THE COUNTESS OF WIGTON.

RINGAN.

O'ER ilka thing a genʼral fadness hings:
The burds wi' melancholy droop their wings;
My sheep and kye neglect to moup their food,
And seem to think as in a dumpish mood.

Hark! how the winds fouch mournfu' thro' the broom,

The very lift puts on a heavy gloom.

My neighbour Colin too, he bears a part,
His face speaks out the fairness of his heart;
Tell, tell me, Colin, for my boding thought,
A bang of fears into my breaft has brought.

COLIN.

Where haft thou been, thou fimpleton, wha fpeers The cause of a' our forrow and our tears? Wha unconcern'd can hear the common fkaith The warld receives by lovely Keitha's death?

The