Till crush'i beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom! TO RUIN. I. ALL hail! inexorable lord! At whose destruction-breathing word, With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, Then low'ring, and pouring, II. And thou grim power, by life abhorr'd, While life a pleasure can afford, Oh! hear a wretch's prayer: To close this scene of care! No fear more, no tear more, TO MISS L—, WITH BEATTIE's poems, as a NEW-YEAR'S GIFT, JAN. 1, 1787. 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 EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' Friend, II. III. I'll no say, men are villains a'; An' little to be trusted; IV. Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife V. Aye free aff han' your story tell, Frae critical dissection; 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, 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, The Patron, (Sir, ye maun forgie me, I readily and freely grant, 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, Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror! 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, I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't; 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, But if (which Pow'rs above prevent!) Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takin'! O wad some power the giftie gie us 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, Famed heroes, had their royal home. Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Haply my sires have left their shed, 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. This freedom in an unknown frien' On fasten-een we had a rockin', At length we had a hearty yokin' There was ae sang amang the rest, 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, |