Wha I wish were maggot's meat,
Dish'd up in her winding-sheet,

I could write-but Meg maun see't—
Whistle o'er the lave o't!

MY EPPIE ADAIR

Chorus.-An' O my Eppie, my jewel, my Eppie,
Wha wad na be happy wi' Eppie Adair?

By love, and by beauty, by law, and by duty,
I swear to be true to my Eppie Adair!
By love, and by beauty, by law, and by duty,
I swear to be true to my Eppie Adair!
And O my Eppie, &c.

A' pleasure exile me, dishonour defile me,
If e'er I beguile ye, my Eppie Adair!
A' pleasure exile me, dishonour defile me,
If e'er I beguile thee, my Eppie Adair!
And O my Eppie, &c.

ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S

Peregrinations thro' Scotland, collecting the Antiquities of that Kingdom.

HEAR, land o' Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat's;-

If there's a hole in a' your coats,

I rede you tent it:

A chield's amang you takin notes,

And faith he'll prent it:

If in your bounds ye chance to light
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,
O' stature short, but genius bright,

That's he, mark weel;

And wow! he has an unco sleight
O' cauk and keel.

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,
Or kirk deserted by its riggin,

It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in
Some eldritch part,

Wi' deils, they say, L-d save's colleaguin
At some black art.

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer,
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour,
And you, deep-read in hell's black grammar,
Warlocks and witches,

Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,

Ye midnight bitches.

It's tauld he was a sodger bred,
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled;

But now he's quat the spurtle-blade,
And dog-skin wallet,

And taen the-Antiquarian trade,

I think they call it.

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets:
Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets,
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,
A towmont gude;

And parritch-pats and auld saut-backets,
Before the flood.

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguishèd the gender
O' Balaam's ass:

A broomstick o' the witch of Endor,
Weel shod wi' brass.

Forbye, he'll shape you aff fu' gleg
The cut of Adam's philibeg;

The knife that nickit Abel's craig

He'll prove you fully,

It was a faulding jocteleg,

Or lang-kail gullie.

But wad ye see him in his glee,

For meikle glee and fun has he,

Then set him down, and twa or three

Gude fellows wi' him:

And port, O port! shine thou a wee,

And THEN ye'll see him!

Now, by the Pow'rs o' verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose!-
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,

They sair misca' thee;

I'd take the rascal by the nose,

Wad say,

"Shame fa' thee."

EPIGRAM ON FRANCIS GROSE THE ANTIQUARY

THE Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying

So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying;
But when he approached where poor Francis lay moaning,
And saw each bed-post with its burthen a-groaning,
Astonish'd, confounded, cries Satan-" By G—,
I'll want him ere take such a damnable load!"

THE KIRK OF SCOTLAND'S ALARM
A Ballad.

Tune-" Come rouse, Brother Sportsman!”

ORTHODOX! Orthodox, who believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience:
A heretic blast has been blown in the West,
That what is no sense must be nonsense,

Orthodox! That what is no sense must be nonsense.

Doctor Mac! Doctor Mac, you should streek on a rack,
To strike evil-doers wi' terror:

To join Faith and Sense, upon any pretence,

Was heretic, damnable error,

Doctor Mac!' 'Twas heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr! town of Ayr, it was rash, I declare,
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing,'

Provost John is still deaf to the Church's relief,
And Orator Bob' is its ruin,

Town of Ayr! Yes, Orator Bob is its ruin.

D'rymple mild! D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child's, And your life like the new-driven snaw,

Yet that winna save you, auld Satan must have you,

For preaching that three's ane an' twa,

D'rymple mild! For preaching that three's ane an' twą.

Calvin's sons! Calvin's sons, seize your spiritual guns,
Ammunition you never can need;

Your hearts are the stuff will be powder enough,
And your skulls are a storehouse o' lead,

Calvin's sons! Your skulls are a storehouse o' lead.

Rumble John! rumble John, mount the steps with a groan, Cry, the Book is with heresy cramm'd;

Then out wi' your ladle, deal brimstone like aidle,
And roar ev'ry note of the D-'d.

Rumble John! And roar ev'ry note of the D—'d.

Simper James! simper James, leave your fair Killie dames,
There's a holier chase in your view:

I'll lay on your head, that the pack you'll soon lead,
For puppies like you there's but few,

Simper James! For puppies like you there's but few.

Singet Sawnie! singet Sawnie, are ye huirdin the penny,
Unconscious what danger awaits?

1 Dr. M'Gill, Ayr.-R. B. 2 See the advertisement.-R. B.

John Ballantine.-R. B.

Dr. Dalrymple, Ayr.-R. B.

Robert Aiken.-R. B.

John Russell, Kilmarnock.-R. B.

7 James Mackinlay, Kilmarnock.-R. B.

With a jump, yell, and howl, alarm ev'ry soul,

For Hannibal's just at your gates,

Singet Sawnie!" For Hannibal's just at your gates.

Poet Willie! poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley,

Wi' your "Liberty's Chain" and your wit;

O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride,

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t.

Poet Willie! Ye but smelt man, the place where he sh-t.

Barr Steenie! Barr Steenie, what mean ye, what mean ye? If ye meddle nae mair wi' the matter,

Ye may hae some pretence, man, to havins and sense, man, Wi' people that ken ye nae better,

Barr Steenie !10 Wi' people that ken ye nae better.

Jamie Goose! Jamie Goose, ye made but toom roose,
In hunting the wicked Lieutenant;

But the Doctor's your mark, for the L-d's holy ark,
He has cooper'd an' ca'd a wrang pin in't,

Jamie Goose!" He has cooper'd an' ca'd a wrang pin in't.

Davie Bluster! Davie Bluster, for a saint if ye muster,
The core is no nice o' recruits;

Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast,
If the Ass were the king o' the brutes,

Davie Bluster ! If the Ass were the king o' the brutes.

Cessnock-side! Cessnock-side, wi' your turkey-cock pride
Of manhood but sma' is your share:

Ye've the figure, 'tis true, ev'n your foes maun allow,
And your friends dare na say ye hae mair,

Cessnock-side! And your friends dare na say ye hae mair.

Alexander Moodie of Riccarton.-R. B.

William Peebles, in Newton-upon-Ayr, a poetaster, who, among many other things, published an ode on the Centenary of the Revolution," in

which was the line:

"And bound in Liberty's endearing chain."-R. B.

10 Stephen Young of Barr.-R. B.

11 James Young, in New Cumnock, who had lately been foiled in an ecclesiastical prosecution against a Lieutenant Mitchel.-R. B. 12 David Grant, Ochiltree.-R. B.

HC VI

18 George Smith, Galston.-R. B.

X