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' moorland tips, Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips; For her forbears were brought in ships Frae yont the Tweed: A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips Than Mailie dead. Wae worth the man wha first did shape Wi' chokin dread; An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, For Mailie dead. 5 O, a' O, a' ye bards on bonie Doon! An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune! Come, join the melancholious croon O' Robin's reed! His heart will never get aboon His Mailie dead. ΤΟ J. S* Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! DEAR S****, the sleest, paukie thief, Owre human hearts; For ne'er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts. BLAIR. For 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 ev'ry ither pair that's done, Mair taen 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 ev'ry feature, She's wrote, the Man. Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, My barmie noddle's working prime, My fancy yerkit up sublime Wi' hasty summon: Hae ye a leisure moment's time To hear what's comin? Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash; Some rhyme to court the countra clash, An' raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash; I rhyme for fun. The The star that rules my luckless lot, Has fated me the russet coat, An' damn'd my fortune to the groat; But in requit, Has blest me wi' a random shot O' countra wit. This while my notion's taen a sklent, To try my fate in guid, black prent; But still the mair I'm that way bent, Something cries, Hoolie! 'I red you, honest man, tak tent! 'Ye'll shaw your folly. 'There's ither poets, much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 'Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors, 'A' future ages; 'Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, • Their unknown pages. Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, To garland my poetic brows! Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang, An' teach the lanely heights an' howes My rustic sang. |