Lang may she stand to prop the land, SONG-WILLIE CHALMERS Mr. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as follows: Wr' braw new branks in mickle pride, And eke a braw new brechan, My Pegasus I'm got astride, And up Parnassus pechin; Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush, I doubt na, lass, that weel ken'd name I am nae stranger to your fame, Nor his warm urgèd wishes. And faith ye'll no be lost a whit, Tho' wair'd on Willie Chalmers. Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're fair, I doubt na fortune may you shore And band upon his breastie : Some gapin, glowrin countra laird My bonie maid, before ye wed Sic clumsy-witted hammers, Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp Forgive the Bard! my fond regard May powers aboon unite you soon, REPLY TO A TRIMMING EPISTLE RECEIVED FROM A TAILOR WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie bitch I didna suffer half sae much Frae Daddie Auld. A What tho' at times, when I grow crouse, Your servant sae? Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse, King David, o' poetic brief, Wrocht 'mang the lasses sic mischief An' bluidy rants, An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants, An' snugly sit amang the saunts, But, fegs! the session says I maun Than garrin lasses coup the cran, An' sairly thole their mother's ban This leads me on to tell for sport, Cried three times, "Robin! Come hither lad, and answer for't, Ye're blam'd for jobbin!" Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on, An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, A fornicator-loun he call'd me, An said my faut frae bliss expell'd me; I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me, "But, what the matter? (Quo' I) I fear unless ye geld me, I'll ne'er be better!" "Geld you! (quo' he) an' what for no? If that your right hand, leg, or toe Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe, You should remember To cut it aff-an' what for no Your dearest member?" "Na, na, (quo' I,) I'm no for that, Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't; I'd rather suffer for my faut A hearty flewit, As sair owre hip as ye can draw't, Or, gin ye like to end the bother, To please us a'-I've just ae itherWhen next wi' yon lass I forgather, Whate'er betide it, I'll frankly gie her 't a' thegither, An' let her guide it." But, sir, this pleas'd them warst of a', An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw, I said "Gude night," an' cam' awa', An' left the Session; I saw they were resolvèd a' On my oppression. THE BRIGS OF AYR: A Poem Inscribed to JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq., Ayr. THE Simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush; Or deep-ton'd plovers grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill; Shall he-nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred, By early poverty to hardship steel'd, And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field- The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes? With all the venal soul of dedicating prose? 'Twas when the stacks get on their winter hap, |