ELEGY ON WILLIE NICOL'S MARE

PEG NICHOLSON was a good bay mare,
As ever trod on airn;

But now she's floating down the Nith,
And past the mouth o' Cairn.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
An' rode thro' thick and thin;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
And wanting even the skin.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And ance she bore a priest;

But now she's floating down the Nith,
For Solway fish a feast.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
An' the priest he rode her sair;
And much oppress'd and bruis'd she was,
As priest-rid cattle are,-&c. &c.

THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA

YESTREEN I had a pint o' wine,

A place where body saw na;
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine
The gowden locks of Anna

The hungry Jew in wilderness,
Rejoicing o'er his manna,
Was naething to my hinny bliss
Upon the lips of Anna.

Ye monarchs, take the East and West
Frae Indus to Savannah;

Gie me, within my straining grasp,
The melting form of Anna:

There I'll despise Imperial charms,
An Empress or Sultana,

While dying raptures in her arms
I give and take wi' Anna!

Awa, thou flaunting God of Day!
Awa, thou pale Diana!

Ilk Star, gae hide thy twinkling ray,
When I'm to meet my Anna!

Come, in thy raven plumage, Night,

(Sun, Moon, and Stars, withdrawn a';) And bring an angel-pen to write My transports with my Anna!

POSTSCRIPT

The Kirk an' State may join an' tell,
To do sic things I maunna:
The Kirk an' State may gae to hell,
And I'll gae to my Anna.

She is the sunshine o' my e'e,
To live but her I canna;
Had I on earth but wishes three,
The first should be my Anna.

SONG-I MURDER HATE

I MURDER hate by flood or field,
Tho' glory's name may screen us;
In wars at home I'll spend my blood-
Life-giving wars of Venus.

The deities that I adore

Are social Peace and Plenty;
I'm better pleas'd to make one more,

Than be the death of twenty.

I would not die like Socrates,
For all the fuss of Plato;
Nor would I with Leonidas,

Nor yet would I with Cato:
The zealots of the Church and State
Shall ne'er my mortal foes be;
But let me have bold Zimri's fate,
Within the arms of Cozbi!

GUDEWIFE, COUNT THE LAWIN

GANE is the day, and mirk's the night,
But we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light;
Gude ale and brandy's stars and moon,
And blue-red wine's the risin sun.

Chorus.-Then gudewife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin,

Then gudewife, count the lawin,
And bring a coggie mair.

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And simple folk maun fecht and fen';
But here we're a' in ae accord,

For ilka man that's drunk's a lord.
Then gudewife, &c.

My coggie is a haly pool

That heals the wounds o' care and dool;

And Pleasure is a wanton trout,

An ye drink it a', ye'll find him out.

Then gudewife, &c.

ELECTION BALLAD

At the close of the contest for representing the Dumfries Burghs, 1790.

Addressed to R. GRAHAM, Esq. of Fintry.

FINTRY, my stay in worldly strife,

Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life,
Are ye as idle's I am?

Come then, wi' uncouth kintra fleg,

O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg,

And ye shall see me try him.

But where shall I go rin a ride,
That I may splatter nane beside?
I wad na be uncivil:

In manhood's various paths and ways
There's aye some doytin body strays,
And I ride like the devil.

Thus I break aff wi' a' my birr,
And down yon dark, deep alley spur,
Where Theologics daunder:

Alas! curst wi' eternal fogs,

And damn'd in everlasting bogs,

As sure's the creed I'll blunder!

I'll stain a band, or jaup a gown,
Or rin my reckless, guilty crown
Against the haly door:
Sair do I rue my luckless fate,
When, as the Muse an' Deil wad hae't,
I rade that road before

Suppose I take a spurt, and mix

Amang the wilds o' Politics—

Elector and elected,

Where dogs at Court (sad sons of bitches!)
Septennially a madness touches,

Till all the land's infected.

All hail! Drumlanrig's haughty Grace,
Discarded remnant of a race

Once godlike-great in story;
Thy forbears' virtues all contrasted,
The very name of Douglas blasted,

Thine that inverted glory!

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore,
But thou hast superadded more,

And sunk them in contempt;
Follies and crimes have stain'd the name,
But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim,
From aught that's good exempt!

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears,
Who left the all-important cares

Of princes, and their darlings:

And, bent on winning borough touns,
Came shaking hands wi' wabster-loons,
And kissing barefit carlins.

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode,
Whistling his roaring pack abroad

Of mad unmuzzled lions;
As Queensberry blue and buff unfurl'd,
And Westerha' and Hopetoun hurled
To every Whig defiance.

But cautious Queensberry left the war,
Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star,
Besides, he hated bleeding:
But left behind him heroes bright,

Heroes in Cæsarean fight,

Or Ciceronian pleading.

O for a throat like huge Mons-Meg,
To muster o'er each ardent Whig

Beneath Drumlanrig's banners;

Heroes and heroines commix,

All in the field of politics,

To win immortal honours.