LINES WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF THE CELEBRATED MISS BURNS

CEASE, ye prudes, your envious railing,
Lovely Burns has charms-confess:
True it is, she had one failing,

Had a woman ever less?

EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM NICOL, OF THE

HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH

YE maggots, feed on Nicol's brain,
For few sic feasts you've gotten;
And fix your claws in Nicol's heart,
For deil a bit o't's rotten.

EPITAPH FOR MR. WILLIAM MICHIE

Schoolmaster of Cleish Parish, Fifeshire.

HERE lie Willie Michie's bares,

O Satan, when ye tak him,
Gie him the schulin o' your weans,
For clever deils he'll mak them!

BOAT SONG-HEY, CA' THRO'

UP wi' the carls o' Dysart,
And the lads o' Buckhaven,
And the kimmers o' Largo,

And the lasses o' Leven.

Chorus.-Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro',
For we hae muckle ado.
Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro',
For we hae muckle ado;

We hae tales to tell,

An' we hae sangs to sing;
We hae pennies tae spend,
An' we hae pints to bring.
Hey, ca' thro', &c.

We'll live a' our days,

And them that comes behin',

Let them do the like,

An' spend the gear they win.
Hey, ca' thro', &c.

ADDRESS TO WM. TYTLER, ESQ.,
OF WOODHOUSELEE

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:
My fathers have died to right it;

Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,
That name should he scoffingly slight it.

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join,
The Queen, and the rest of the gentry:

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine;
Their title's avow'd by my country.

But why of that epocha make such a fuss,
That gave us th' Electoral stem?

If bringing them over was lucky for us,
I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them.

But loyalty truce! we're on dangerous ground;
Who knows how the fashions may alter?
The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring us a halter!

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard,
A trifle scarce worthy your care;

But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard,
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye,
And ushers the long dreary night:

But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky,
Your course to the latest is bright.

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,
Down droops her ance weel burnish'd crest,
Nae joy her bonie buskit nest

Can yield ava,

Her darling bird that she lo'es best-
Willie, 's awa.

O Willie was a witty wight,

And had o' things an unco' sleight,
Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight,

And trig an' braw:

But now they'll busk her like a fright,—
Willie's awa!

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd,
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd;
They durst nae mair than he allow'd,
That was a law:

We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd;
Willie's awa!

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks and fools,
Frae colleges and boarding schools,
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools
In glen or shaw ;

He wha could brush them down to mools-
Willie, 's awa!

The brethren o' the Commerce-chaumer
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour;
He was a dictionar and grammar

Among them a';

I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer;
Willie's awa!

1 Edinburgh.

Nae mair we see his levee door
Philosophers and poets pour,
And toothy critics by the score,
In bloody raw!

The adjutant o' a' the core-
Willie, 's awa!

Now worthy Gregory's latin face,
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace;
M'Kenzie, Stewart, such a brace

As Rome ne'er saw;

They a' maun meet some ither place,
Willie's awa!

Poor Burns ev'n Scotch Drink canna quicken,
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken
Scar'd frae it's minnie and the cleckin,
By hoodie-craw;

Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin,
Willie's awa!

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin blellum,
And Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him;
Ilk self-conceited critic skellum

His quill may draw;

He wha could brawlie ward their bellum—
Willie, 's awa!

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped,
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,

And Ettrick banks, now roaring red,
While tempests blaw;

But every joy and pleasure's fled,
Willie's awa!

May I be Slander's common speech;
A text for Infamy to preach;
And lastly, streekit out to bleach

In winter snaw;