Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait

The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.

LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT, OF GLEN

CONNER.1

blue

stupefied

AULD Comrade dear, and brither sinner,
How's a' the folk about Glenconner?
How do you, this blae eastlin wind,
That's like to blaw a body blind?
For me, my faculties are frozen,
And ilka member nearly dozen'd.
I've sent you here, by Johnnie Simson,
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on:
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling,
And Reid, to common-sense appealing.
Philosophers have fought and wrangled,
And meikle Greek and Latin mangled,
Till, wi' their logic jargon tir'd,
And in the depth of science mir'd,
To common-sense they now appeal,

What wives and wabsters see and feel. weavers

1 An old friend of the poet and his family, who assisted him in his choice of the farm of Ellisland.

But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly,
Peruse them, and return them quickly,
For now I'm grown sae cursed douce,

wise

hold

I pray and ponder butt the house; in the outer room
My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin',
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston:
Till by and by, if I haud on,
I'll grunt a real gospel groan.
Already I begin to try it,
To cast my e'en up like a pyet,
When by the gun she tumbles o'er,
Flutt'ring and gasping in her gore:
Sae shortly you shall see me bright,
A burning and a shining light.

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,
The ace and wale o' honest men.
When bending down wi' auld gray hairs,
Beneath the load of years and cares,
May He who made him still support him,
And views beyond the grave comfórt him;
His worthy fam'ly far and near,
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear!

magpie

choice

goods

My auld school-fellow, Preacher Willie,

The manly tar, my Mason billie,

And Auchenbay, I wish him joy;

If he's a parent, lass or boy,

May he be dad, and Meg the mither,
Just five-and-forty years thegither!

comrade

And no forgetting Wabster Charlie,

I'm told he offers very fairly.

And, Lord, remember Singing Sannock
Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, and a bannock;1 cake
And next my auld acquaintance Nancy,
Since she is fitted to her fancy;

directed

small quantity

And her kind stars hae airted till her
A good chiel wi' a pickle siller.
My kindest, best respects I sen' it,
To Cousin Kate and Sister Janet;
Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious,
For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them

fashious.

And lastly, Jamie, for yoursel',

May guardian angels tak a spell,

lads

possibly

troublesome

And steer you seven miles south o' hell.
But first, before you see heaven's glory,
May ye get monie a merry story;
Monie a laugh, and monie a drink,
And aye eneugh o' needfu' clink.

Now fare ye weel, and joy be wi' you;
For my sake this I beg it o' you,

Assist poor Simson a' ye can,
Ye'll fin' him just an honest man:
Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter,
Yours, saint or sinner,

66

money

ROB THE RANTER.

1" Fortune, if thou 'll but gie me still

Hale breeks, a scone, and whisky gill," etc.

Scotch Drink.

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE.

My curse upon thy venomed stang,
That shoots my tortured gums alang;
And through my lugs gies monie a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance,

Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!

When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes,
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us
Wi' pitying moan;

But thee thou hell o' a' diseases,
Aye mocks our groan!

Adown my beard the slavers trickle!
I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets

keckle,

To see me loup;

sting

ears

mocking children

laugh

jump

flax-comb

backside

While, raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were in their doup.

O' a' the num'rous human dools,
Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,

sorrows

foolish

Or worthy friends raked ï' the mools,

Sad sight to see!

The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools
Thou bear'st the gree.

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,
Whence a' the tones o' misery yell,
And ranked plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu' raw,

Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell
Amang them a'!

O thou grim mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes of discord squeel,
Till daft Mankind aft dance a reel
In gore a shoe-thick !

Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal

clods

trouble

superiority

A towmond's toothache! twelvemonth

THE KIRK'S ALARM.

Dr. William M'Gill, one of the two ministers conjoined in the parochial charge of Ayr, had published in 1786, A Practical Essay on the Death of Jesus Christ, in Two Parts; containing, 1, the History, 2, the Doctrine of his Death, which was supposed to in