Till crush'i beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom!

TO RUIN.

I.

ALL hail! inexorable lord!

At whose destruction-breathing word,
The mightiest empires fall!
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,
The ministers of grief and pain,
A sullen welcome, all!

With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye,
I see each aimed dart;
For one has cut my dearest tie,
And quivers in my heart.

Then low'ring, and pouring,
The storm no more I dread;
Tho' thick'ning and blackn'ing,
Round my devoted head.

II.

And thou grim power, by life abhorr'd, While life a pleasure can afford,

Oh! hear a wretch's prayer:
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid;
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,

To close this scene of care!
When shall my soul, in silent peace,
Resign life's joyless day;
My weary heart its throbbings cease,
Cold mouldering in the clay?

No fear more, no tear more,
To stain my lifeless face;
Enclasped, and grasped
Within my cold embrace!

TO MISS L—,

AGAIN the silent wheels of time

Their annual round have driv'n, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heav'n.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail;

I send you more than India boasts In Edwin's simple tale.

Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charg'd, perhaps, too true;
But may, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you!

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' Friend,
A something to have sent you,
Tho' it should serve nae other end
Than just a kind memento ;
But how the subject-theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

II.
Ye'll try the warld soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye
For care and trouble set your thought,
E'en when your end's attained;
An a' your views may come to nought,
Where ev'ry nerve is strained.

III.

I'll no say, men are villains a';
The real, harden'd wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricted:
But och, mankind are unco weak,

An' little to be trusted;
If self the wavering balance shake,
Its rarely right adjusted!

IV.

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife
Their fate we should na censure,
For still th' important end of life
They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,
Tho' poortith hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neebor's part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

V.

Aye free aff han' your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony ;
But still keep something to yoursel'
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can

Frae critical dissection;
But keek thro' every other man,
Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection.
VI.
The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th' illicit rove,

Tho' naething should divulge it: I wave the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But och it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling!

Then when I'm tired-and sae are ye,
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
Set up a face, how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do-maun do, Sir, wi' them wha Maun please the great folk for a wamefu'; For me! sae laigh I needna bow, For, Lord be thankit, I can plough; And when I downa yoke a naig, Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; Sae I shall say, and that's 's nae flatt'rin', It's just sic poet an' sic patron.

The Poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him;
He may do weel for a' he's done yet,
But only he's no just begun yet.

The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me,
I winna lie, come what will o' me)
On ev'ry hand it will allowed be,
He's just nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant,
He downa see a poor man want;
What's no his ain he winna tak it,
What ance he says he winna break it;
Ought he can lend he'll no refuse'
Till aft his goodness is abused;
And rascals whyles that do him wrang,
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang;
As master, landlord, husband, father
He does na fail his part in either.

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that; Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that; It's naething but a milder feature, Of our poor, sinfu' corrupt nature : Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, Wha never heard of orthodoxy. That he's the poor man's friend in need, The gentleman in word and deed, It's no thro' terror of damnation; It's just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane,

Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice

No stretch a point to catch a plack; Abuse a brother to his back; Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re, But point the rake that taks the door: Be to the poor like onie whunstane, And haud their noses to the grunstane; Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving; No matter, stick to sound believing.

Learn three mile pray'rs, an' half-mile graces, Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces; Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, And damn a' parties but your own;

I'll warrant then, ye're nie deceiver, A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.

O ye wha leave the springs of Calvin,
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin !
Ye sons of heresy and error,

Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror!
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath,
And in the fire throws the sheath;
When ruin, with his sweeping besom,
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him:
While o'er the harp pale Misery moans,
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones,
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, I maist forgat my dedication; But when divinity comes cross me, My readers still are sure to lose me.

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, But I maturely thought it proper, When a' my works I did review, To dedicate them, Sir, to You: Because (ye need na tak it ill)

I thought them something like yoursel'.

Then patronise them wi' your favour,
And your petitioner shall ever-
I had amaist said ever pray,
But that's a word I need na say:
For prayin' I hae little skill o't;

I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't;
But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r,
That kens or hears about you, Sir-

May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk! May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, For that same gen'rous spirit smart! May K's far honour'd name Lang beet his hymeneal flame, Till H- -s, at least a dizen, Are frae her nuptial labours risen: Five bonnie lasses round their table, And seven braw fellows, stout an' able To serve their king and country weel, By word, or pen, or pointed steel! May health and peace, with mutual rays, Shine on the evening o' his days; Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe, When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!"

I will not wind a lang conclusion,
Wi' complimentary effusion;
But whilst your wishes and endeavours
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours,
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent,
Your much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent!)
That iron-hearted carl, Want,
Attended in his grim advances,
By sad mistakes, and black mischances,

Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takin'!

O wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
And foolish notion:
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
And ev'n Devotion !

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.

I.

EDINA! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign pow'rs! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

II.

Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy trade his labours plies; There architecture's noble pride

Bids elegance and splendour rise; Here justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod; There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode.

III.

Thy sons, EDINA, social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail,

Or modest merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name. IV. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn! Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy! Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine: I see the sire of love on high,

And own his work indeed divine!

V.

There, watching high the least alarma, Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar; Like some bold veteran, grey in arms,

And mark'd with many a seamy scar: The pon'drous wall and massy bar,

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock; Have oft withstood assailing war,

And oft repell'd the invader's shock.

VI.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately dome,
Where Scotia's kings of other years,

Famed heroes, had their royal home.
Alas! how changed the times to come!
Their royal name low in the dust!
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam!
Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just!
VII.

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors in days of yore,
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore.
E'en I who sing in rustic lore,

Haply my sires have left their shed,
And faced grim danger's loudest roar,
Bold-following where your fathers led!

VIII.

EDINA! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter'd in thy honour'd shade.

EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK,

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD, APRIL 1st, 1785.
WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green,
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,
An' morning poussie whiddin seen,
Inspire my muse,

This freedom in an unknown frien'
I pray excuse.

On fasten-een we had a rockin',
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin';
And there was muckle fun and jokin',
Ye need na doubt:

At length we had a hearty yokin'
At sang about.

There was ae sang amang the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleased me best,
That some kind husband had addrest
To some sweet wife:
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,
A' to the life.

I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel; Thought I, Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattie's wark?" They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And sae about him there I spiert,