In equanimity they never dwell,

By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell!

ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788
FOR lords or kings I dinna mourn,
E'en let them die-for that they're born:
But oh! prodigious to reflec'!

A Towmont, sirs, is gane to wreck!
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space,
What dire events hae taken place!
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!
In what a pickle thou hast left us!

The Spanish empire's tint a head,
And my auld teethless Bawtie's dead:
The tulyie's teugh 'tween Pitt and Fox,
And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks;
The tane is game, a bluidy devil,

But to the hen-birds unco civil;
The tither's something dour o' treadin,
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a middin.

Ye ministers, come mount the poupit,
An' cry till ye be hearse an' roupit,
For Eighty-eight, he wished you weel,
An' gied ye a' baith gear an' meal;
E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck,
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!

Ye bonie lasses, dight your e'en,
For some o' you hae tint a frien';
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was taen,
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again.

Observe the very nowt an' sheep,
How dowff an' daviely they creep;
Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry,
For E'nburgh wells are grutten dry.

O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn,
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn!

Much specious lore, but little understoo
(Veneering oft outshines the solid wood
His solid sense, by inches you must tell,
But mete his cunning by the Scottish e.
A man of fashion too, he made his tou
Learn'd "vive la bagatelle et vive l'amou
So travell❜d monkeys their grimace im
Polish their grin-nay, sigh for ladies' l
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend,
Still making work his selfish craft must

Crochallan

The old cock'd hat, the brown surtoutHis grisly beard just bristling in its mig "Twas four long nights and days from s' His uncomb'd, hoary locks, wild-staring A head, for thought profound and clear Yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting-rud His heart was warm, benevolent and g

O Dulness, portion of the truly blest! Calm, shelter'd haven of eternal rest! Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce ex Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid bear If mantling high she fills the golden cu With sober, selfish ease they sip it up; Conscious the bounteous meed they we They only wonder "some folks" do no The grave, sage hern thus easy picks hi And thinks the mallard a sad worthless When disappointment snaps the thread When, thro' disastrous night, they dark With deaf endurance sluggishly they b And just conclude that "fools are Fortu So, heavy, passive to the tempest's sho Strong on the sign-post stands the stup

Not so the idle Muses' mad-cap trai Not such the workings of their moon-s

Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care,
Thou now hast got thy Daddy's chair;
Nae handcuff'd, mizl'd, hap-shackl'd Regent,
But, like himsel, a full free agent,

Be sure ye follow out the plan

Nae waur than he did, honest man!

As muckle better as you can.

ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST

Chorus.-Robin shure in hairst,

I shure wi' him.

Fient a heuk had I,
Yet I stack by him.

I gaed up to Dunse,

To warp a wab o' plaiden,

At his daddie's yett,

Wha met me but Robin:
Robin shure, &c.

Was na Robin bauld,

Tho' I was a cotter,

Play'd me sic a trick,

An' me the El'er's dochter!

Robin shure, &c.

Robin promis'd me

A' my winter vittle;
Fient haet he had but three

Guse-feathers and a whittle!
Robin shure, &c.

THE HENPECKED HUSBAND

January, 1, 1789.

CURS'D be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal to a tyrant wife!
Who has no will but by her high permission,
Who has not sixpence but in her possession;
Who must to her his dear friend's secrets tell,

Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell.
Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
I'd break her spirit or I'd break her heart;
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch.

VERSICLES ON SIGN-POSTS

His face with smile eternal drest,
Just like the Landlord's to his Guest's,
High as they hang with creaking din,
To index out the Country Inn.

He looked just as your sign-post Lions do,
With aspect fierce, and quite as harmless too.

A head, pure, sinless quite of brain and soul,
The very image of a barber's Poll;

It shews a human face, and wears a wig,
And looks, when well preserv'd, amazing big.

ODE, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS.
OSWALD OF AUCHENCRUIVE

DWELLER in yon dungeon dark,
Hangman of creation! mark,
Who in widow-weeds appears,
Laden with unhonour'd years,
Noosing with care a bursting purse,
Baited with many a deadly curse?

STROPHE

View the wither'd Beldam's face;
Can thy keen inspection trace

Aught of Humanity's sweet, melting grace?
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows;

Pity's flood there never rose,

See these hands ne'er stretched to save,

Hands that took, but never gave:

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest,

Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest, She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!