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How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd,
Or if bare a-s yet were tax'd;

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls ;
If that daft buckie, Geordie W***s,
Was threshen still at hizzies' tails,
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,
And no a perfect kintra cooser,
A' this and mair I never heard of;
And but for you I might despair'd of..
So gratefu', back your news I send you,
And pray, a' guid things may attend you!
Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790.

POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY.

HAIL Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd!
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd

'Mang heaps o' clavers;

And och o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd,

Mid a' thy favours!

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,
While loud, the trump's heroic clang,

And sock or buskin skelp alang

To death or marriage ;

Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang

But wi' miscarriage?

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives;

Wee Pope, the knurlin, till him rives

Horatian fame;

In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives

Even Sappho's flame.

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches:
'Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches
O' heathen tatters:

I pass by hunders, nameless wretches,

That ape their betters.

In this braw age o' wit and lear,

Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair

Blaw sweetly in its native air

And rural grace;

And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share

A rival place?

Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan!
There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan !
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,

A chiel sae clever;

The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tamtallan,

But thou's for ever.

Thou paints auld nature to the nines,

In thy sweet Caledonian lines;

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines,

Where Philomel,

While nightly breezes sweep the vines,

Her griefs will tell!

In gowany glens thy burnie strays,
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes;
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,

Wi' hawthorns gray,

Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays
At close o' day.

Thy rural loves are nature's sel;

Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell;
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell
O' witchin love,

That charm that can the strongest quell,
The sternest move.

ON THE

BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR,

BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL
OF MAR.

'O CAM ye here the fight to shun,
'Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?
'Or were ye at the Sherra-muir,

And did the battle see, man?'

I saw the battle, sair and tough,
And reeken-red ran mony a sheugh,
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds,
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds,
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
VOL. XXXIX.

F

The red-coat lads wi' black cockades

To meet them were na slaw, man;

They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd,
And many a bouk did fa' man:

The great Argyle led on his files,

I wat they glanced twenty miles:

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They hack'd and hash'd, while broadswords clash'd,
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd,
Till fey men died awa, man.

But had you seen the philibegs,

And skyrin tartan trews, man,

When in the teeth they dar'd our whigs,
And covenant true blues, man;
In lines extended lang and large,
When bayonets oppos'd the targe,
And thousands hasten'd to the charge,
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath,
They fled like frighted doos, man.

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O how deil Tam can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man: 'I saw myself, they did pursue

The horseman back to Forth, man;

And at Dumblane, in my ain sight,

They took the brig wi' a' their might,

And straught to Stirling wing'd their flight;

But, cursed lot! the gates were shut,
And mony a huntit, poor red-coat,
'For fear amaist did swarf, man.'

My sister Kate cam up the gate
Wi' crowdie unto me, man;

She swore she saw some rebels run
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man:
Their left-hand general had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae good will
That day their neebors' blood to spill;
For fear, by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o' brose; all crying woes,
And so it goes you see, man.

They've lost some gallant gentlemen,
Amang the Highland clans, man ;
I fear my lord Panmure is slain,

Or fallen in whiggish hands, man:
Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right;
But mony bade the world guid-night;
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,
By red claymores, and muskets' knell,
Wi' dying yell, the tories fell,

And whigs to hell did flee, man.

SKETCH-NEW YEAR'S DAY.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

THIS day, Time winds the' exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonth's length again :
I see the old, bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpair'd machine,
To wheel the equal, dull routine.

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