EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRAY: ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS. Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd corps, Like Hecla streaming thunder: And bared the treason under. In either wing two champions fought, The wildest savage Tory: And Welsh, who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground, Miller brought up th' artillery ranks, While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 'Mid Lawson's port entrench'd his hold, And threaten'd worse damnation. To these what Tory hosts oppos'd, With these what Tory warriors clos'd, Surpasses my descriving: Squadrons extended long and large, With furious speed rush to the charge, Like raging devils driving. What verse can sing, what prose narrate, Amid this mighty tulzie ! And Hell mix'd in the brulzie. As highland craigs by thunder cleft, Hurl down with crashing rattle, The stubborn Tories dare to die; Before th' approaching fellers: Against the Buchan Bullers. VERSES ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR DRUMLANRIG. As on the banks o' wandering Nith, Ae smiling simmer-morn I strayed, And traced its bonie howes and haughs, Where linties sang and lambkins played, I sat me down upon a craig, And drank my fill o' fancy's dream, When, from the eddying deep below, Uprose the genius of the stream. Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow, And troubled, like his wintry wave, And deep, as sughs the boding wind Amang his eaves, the sigh he gave 'And came ye here, my son,' he cried, 'To wander in my birken shade? To muse some favourite Scottish theme, Or sing some favourite Scottish maid? STANZAS ON THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY. How shall I sing Drumlanrig's | Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore; Grace, Discarded remnant of a race Once great in martial story? His forbears' virtues all ed contrast The very name of Douglas blasted His that inverted glory. But he has superadded more, And sunk them in contempt: Follies and crimes have stained the name, But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim, From aught that's good exempt. EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. HAIL, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie! To every fiddling, rhyming billie, When idly goavan whyles we saunter, Some black bog-hole, My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase The harpy, hoodock, purse - proud Wha count on poortith as disgrace- But come, your hand, my careless I' th' ither warl' if there's anither, We're forced to thole. We cheek for chow shall jog thegither, Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle! Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, Until you on a crummock driddle We've faults and failings-granted clearly, We're frail backsliding mortals merely, For our grand fa'; |