LINES WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF THE CELEBRATED MISS BURNS CEASE, ye prudes, your envious railing, Had a woman ever less? EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM NICOL, OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH YE maggots, feed on Nicol's brain, EPITAPH FOR MR. WILLIAM MICHIE Schoolmaster of Cleish Parish, Fifeshire. HERE lie Willie Michie's bares, O Satan, when ye tak him, BOAT SONG-HEY, CA' THRO' UP wi' the carls o' Dysart, And the lasses o' Leven. Chorus.-Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', We hae tales to tell, An' we hae sangs to sing; We'll live a' our days, And them that comes behin', Let them do the like, An' spend the gear they win. ADDRESS TO WM. TYTLER, ESQ., With an Impression of the Author's Portrait. REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected; A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart, But now 'tis despis'd and neglected. Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal; A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more if that wand'rer were royal. My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne: Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; But why of that epocha make such a fuss, If bringing them over was lucky for us, But loyalty truce! we're on dangerous ground; I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, EPIGRAM TO MISS AINSLIE IN CHURCH FAIR maid, you need not take the hint, Nor idle texts pursue: 'Twas guilty sinners that he meant, Not Angels such as you. BURLESQUE LAMENT FOR THE ABSENCE OF WILLIAM CREECH, PUBLISHER AULD chuckie Reekie's' sair distrest, Can yield ava, Her darling bird that she lo'es best- O Willie was a witty wight, And had o' things an unco' sleight, And trig an' braw: But now they'll busk her like a fright,— The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd, We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd; Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks and fools, He wha could brush them down to mools- The brethren o' the Commerce-chaumer Among them a'; I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer; 1 Edinburgh. Nae mair we see his levee door The adjutant o' a' the core- Now worthy Gregory's latin face, As Rome ne'er saw; They a' maun meet some ither place, Poor Burns ev'n Scotch Drink canna quicken, Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin, Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin blellum, His quill may draw; He wha could brawlie ward their bellum— Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, And Ettrick banks, now roaring red, But every joy and pleasure's fled, May I be Slander's common speech; In winter snaw; |