EPIGRAMMATICAL POEMS.

EPIGRAMMATICAL POEMS.

1721.

CUPID THROWN INTO THE SOUTH SEA.

MYRTILLA, as like Venus' sell,

As e'er an egg was like anither, Anes Cupid met upon the Mall,

And took her for his bonny mither.

He wing'd his way up to her breast:
She started; he cry'd, " Mam, 'tis me.”

The beauty, in o'er rash a jest,

Flang the arch gytling in South Sea.

Frae thence he raise wi' gilded wings,

His bow and shafts to gowd were chang'd; "Deel's i' the sea," quoth he, "it dings!" Syne back to Mall and park he rang'd.

Breathing mischief, the god look'd gurly,
With transfers a' his darts were feather'd;

He made a horrid hurly burly,

Where beaus and belles were thickest gather'd.

He tentily Myrtilla sought,

And in the thrang Change-Alley got her: He drew his bow, and quick, as thought, With a braw new subscription shot her.

1721.

ON A GOLD TEA-POT.

AFTER the gaining Edinburgh's prize,
The day before, with running thrice,
Me Milncraig's rock most fairly won,
When thrice again the course he run:
Now for diversion 'tis my share
To run three heats and please the fair.

1721.

ON A PUNCH-BOWL.

CHARGE me with Nantz and limpid spring,
Let sour and sweet be mixt;

Bend round a health, syne to the king,
To Edinburgh's captains next,
Wha form'd me in sae blyth a shape,

And gave me lasting honours,

Take up my ladle, fill, and lape,
And say, Fair fa' the donors!

SPOKEN TO THREE YOUNG LADIES.

ME, anes three beauties did surround,

And ilka beauty gave a wound,

Whilst they with smiling eye,

Said, "Allan, which think ye maist fair?
Gi'e judgment frankly; never spare.”-
“Hard is the task,” said I.

But added, seeing them sae free,
“ "Ladies, ye maun say mair to me,
And my demand right fair is;

First, like the gay celestial three,

Shaw a' your charms, and then ha'e wi' ye,
Faith, I shall be your Paris."

1721.

THE ROSE-TREE.

WITH awe and pleasure we behold thy sweets;
Thy lovely roses have their pointed guards;
Yet, tho' the gath'rer opposition meets,

The fragrant purchase all his pain rewards.

But hedg'd about and watch'd with wary eyes,
O plant superior, beautiful, and fair!
We view thee like yon stars which gem the skies,
But equally to gain we must despair.

Ah! wert thou growing on some secret plain,
And found by me, how ravish'd would I meet
All thy transporting charms to ease my pain,
And feast my raptur'd soul on all that's sweet.

Thus sung poor Symon.-Symon was in love,
His too aspiring passion made him smart;
The rose-tree was a mistress far above

The shepherd's hope, which broke his tender heart.