Then he had ay a good advice to gie,
And kend my thoughts amaist as well as me :
Had I been thowlefs, vext, or oughtlins four,
He wad have made me blyth in haff an hour;
Had Rofie ta'en the dorts, or had the tod
Worry'd my lambs, or were my feet ill fhod,
Kindly he'd laugh when fae he faw me dwine,
And tauk of happiness like a divine,
Of ilka thing he had an unco' skill;
He kend be moon-light how tides ebb and fill;
He kend (what kend he no ?) e'en to a hair
He'd tell or night gin neist day wad be fair.
Blind John *, ye mind, wha fang in kittle phrase,
How the ill fp'rit did the first mischief raise ;
Mony a time, beneath the auld birk-tree,
What 's bonny in that fang he loot me fee.
The laffes aft flung down their rakes and pails,
And held their tongues, O ftrange! to hear his
Sound be his fleep, and faft his wak'ning be He's in a better cafe than thee or me:
*The famous Milton, the author of the excellent Paradife Loft, was blind.
He was o'er good for us; the gods hae ta'en
Their ain but back-he was a borrow'd len:
Let us be good, gin virtue be our drift,
Then we may yet forgether 'boon the lift.
But see the sheep are wyfing to the cleugh;
Thomas has loos'd his oufen frae the pleugh;
Maggy by this has bewk the fupper-fcones;
And muckle kye stand rowting in the loans :
Come, Richy, let us trufe and hame o'er bend,
And make the best of what we canna mend.
ROBERT, RICHY, AND SANDY:
A PASTORAL ON THE DEATH OF MATTHEW PRIOR.
ROBERT, the good, by a' the fwains rever'd,
Wife are his words, like filler is his beard ;
Near faxty fhining fimmers he has feen,
Tenting his hirfle on the moorland green :
Unfhaken yet with mony a winter's wind,
Stout are his limbs, and youthfu' is his mind,
But now he droops, ane wad be wae to fee
Him fae caft down; ye wadna trow 'tis he.
By break of day he feeks the dowy glen,
That he may scowth to a' his mourning len:
Nane but the clinty craigs and fcrogy briers
Were witnesses of a' his granes and tears.
Howder'd wi' hills a crystal burnie ran,
Where twa young fhepherds fand the good auld
Kind Richy Spec, a friend to a distrest,
And Sandy, wha of fhepherds fings the best;
With friendly looks they fpeer'd, wherefore he
He rais'd his head, and, fighing, thus return'd:
O Matt! poor Matt!-my lads, e'en take a fkair Of a' my grief:-fweet-finging Matt 's nae mair. Ah heavens! did e'er this lyart head of mine Think to have seen the cauldrife mools on thine.
My heart mifga'e me when I came this way, His dog its lane fat yowling on a brae;
I cry'd, "Ifk! isk! poor Ringwood, fairy man:" He wagg'd his tail, cour'd near, and lick'd my
I clap'd his head, which eas'd a wee his pain;
But foon 's I gade away, he yowl'd again.
Poor kindly beast!-Ah, firs, how fic fhould be
Mair tender-hearted mony a time than we!
Laft ouk I dream'd my tup that bears the bell, And paths the fnaw, out o'er a high craig fell, And brak his leg.-I started frae my bed, Awak'd, and leugh.-Ah! now my dream its
How dreigh's our cares! our joys how foon away, Like fun-blinks on a cloudy winter's day!
Flow faft, ye tears, ye have free leave for me; Dear sweet-tongu'd Matt! thousands shall greet for thee.
Thanks to my friends, for ilka briny tear, Ye fhed for him; he to us a' was dear. Sandy, I'm eas'd to fee thee look fae wan; Richy, thy fighs bespeak the kindly man.
But twice the fummer's fun has thaw'd the
Since frae our heights Addie was tane awa':
Faft Matt has follow'd.-Of fic twa bereft,
To fmooth our fauls, alake! wha have we left?
Waes me! o'er short a tack of fic is given,
But wha may contradict the will of Heaven?
Yet mony a year he liv'd to hear the dale
Sing o'er his fangs, and tell his merry tale.
Last year I had a stately tall afh-tree,
Braid were its branches, a fweet shade to me;
I thought it might have flourish'd on the brae,
Tho' past its prime, yet twenty years or fae:
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