O KENMURE'S ON AND AWA, WILLIE O KENMURE's on and awa, Willie, O Kenmure's on and awa: An' Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord Success to Kenmure's band, Willie! Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie! O Kenmure's lads are men, Willie, Their hearts and swords are metal true, They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie; May Kenmure's lord come hame! Here's him that's far awa, Willie! And here's the flower that I loe best, EPISTLE TO JOHN MAXWELL, ESQ., OF TERRAUGHTY On His Birthday. HEALTH to the Maxwells' veteran Chief! Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf, This natal morn, I see thy life is stuff o' prief, Scarce quite half-worn. This day thou metes threescore eleven, On thee a tack o' seven times seven Will yet bestow it. If envious buckies view wi' sorrow Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, But for thy friends, and they are mony, Wi' mornings blythe, and e'enings funny, Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye, If neist my heart I dinna wear ye, While BURNS they ca' me. SECOND EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY 5th October 1791. LATE crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, Thou, Nature! partial Nature, I arraign; Of thy caprice maternal I complain; The lion and the bull thy care have found, One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground; Her tongue and eyes her dreaded spear and darts. But Oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard, Critics-appall'd, I venture on the name; His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung, The hapless Poet flounders on thro' life: Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd, He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage! So, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd, For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast; By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's son. O Dulness! portion of the truly blest! Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest! Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. If mantling high she fills the golden cup, With sober selfish ease they sip it up; Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, They only wonder "some folks" do not starve. The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, And just conclude that "fools are fortune's care." So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. Not so the idle Muses' mad-cap train, Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. I dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown, THE SONG OF DEATH Tune "Oran an aoig." Scene A Field of Battle. Time of the day-evening. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following song. FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, Thou grim King of Terrors; thou Life's gloomy foe! Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know Thou strik'st the dull peasant-he sinks in the dark, Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark; In the field of proud honour-our swords in our hands, While victory shines on Life's last ebbing sands,- POEM ON SENSIBILITY SENSIBILITY, how charming, Dearest Nancy, thou canst tell; Fairest flower, behold the lily |