There, watching high the least alarms,

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; Like some bold veteran, grey in arms,

And mark'd with many a seamy scar: The pond'rous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock,

Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repell'd th' invader's shock.

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

Fam'd heroes! had their royal home:
Alas, how chang'd 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!

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:
Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore,
Haply my sires have left their shed,

And fac'd grim Danger's loudest roar,
Bold-following where your fathers led!
Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs;
Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet,
Sat Legislation's sovereign pow'rs:
From marking wildly-scatt'red 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.

ADDRESS TO A HAGGIS

FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the pudding-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill

In time o' need,

While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin', rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive: Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,

Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve

Are bent like drums;

Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
Bethankit! hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad make her spew

Wi' perfect sconner,

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view

On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

As feckless as a wither'd rash,

His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,

His nieve a nit;

Thro' blody flood or field to dash,

O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,

The trembling earth resounds his tread.

Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;

An' legs an' arms, an' hands will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer

Gie her a haggis!

TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS FOR A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT, JAN. 1, 1787.

AGAIN the silent wheels of time

Their annual round have driven,
And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer Heaven.

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.

MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE-A SKETCH

SHREWD Willie Smellie to Crochallan came;
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout the same;
His bristling beard just rising in its might,
"Twas four long nights and days to shaving night:
His uncomb'd grizzly locks, wild staring, thatch'd
A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd;
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting-rude,

His heart was warm, benevolent, and good.

RATTLIN', ROARIN' WILLIE'

As I cam by Crochallan,
I cannilie keekit ben;
Rattlin', roarin' Willie

Was sittin at yon boord-en';
Sittin at yon boord-en',

And amang gude companie;
Rattlin', roarin' Willie,

You're welcome hame to me!

SONG-BONIE DUNDEE

My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie!
My blessin's upon thy e'e-brie!

Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie,
Thou's aye the dearer, and dearer to me!

But I'll big a bow'r on yon bonie banks,
Whare Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear;
An' I'll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine,

And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.

EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION
Tune "Killiecrankie."

LORD ADVOCATE

He clenched his pamphlet in his fist,

He quoted and he hinted,

Till, in a declamation-mist,

His argument he tint it:

He gaped for't, he grapèd for't,

He fand it was awa, man;

But what his common sense came short,

He ekèd out wi' law, man.

MR. ERSKINE

Collected, Harry stood awee,

Then open'd out his arm, man;

1 William Dunbar, W. S., of the Crochallan Fencibles, a convivial club.

His Lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e,

And ey'd the gathering storm, man:
Like wind-driven hail it did assail,

Or torrents owre a lin, man:

The BENCH sae wise, lift up their eyes,
Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man.

INSCRIPTION FOR THE HEADSTONE OF FERGUS-
SON THE POET'

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay,
"No storied urn nor animated bust;"

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way,
her sorrows o'er the Poet's dust.

To pour

ADDITIONAL STANZAS

She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate;
Tho' all the powers of song thy fancy fired,
Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in state,

And, thankless, starv'd what they so much admired.

This tribute, with a tear, now gives

A brother Bard-he can no more bestow:
But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives,

A nobler monument than Art can shew.

INSCRIBED UNDER FERGUSSON'S PORTRAIT

CURSE on ungrateful man, that can be pleased,
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure.
O thou, my elder brother in misfortune,
By far my elder brother in the Muses,
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!
Why is the Bard unpitied by the world,
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?

1 The stone was erected at Burns's expense in February-March, 1789.