As who should say, 'I never can need him,' Since we to scoundrels owe our freedom. POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY HAIL, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd! 'Mang heaps o' clavers: And och o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, 'Mid a' thy favours! Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, To death or marriage; In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, That ape their betters. In this braw age o' wit and lear, And rural grace; And, wi' the far-fam'd Grecian, share A rival place? Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan! The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan, Thou paints auld Nature to the nines, Nae gowden stream thro' myrtle twines, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays, Thy rural loves are Nature's sel'; That charm that can the strongest quell, VERSES ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR DRUMLANRIG As on the banks of winding Nith, Ae smiling simmer morn I stray'd, And drank my fill o' fancy's dream, Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow, Amang his caves, the sigh he gave"And come ye here, my son," he cried, "To wander in my birken shade? To muse some favourite Scottish theme, Or sing some favourite Scottish maid? "There was a time, it's nae lang syne, Threw broad and dark across the pool; "When, glinting thro' the trees, appear'd That, slowly curling, clamb the hill. “Alas!" quoth I, "what ruefu' chance Has twin'd ye o' your stately trees? Has laid your rocky bosom bare Has stripped the cleeding aff your braes? Was it the bitter eastern blast, That scatters blight in early spring? Or was 't the wil'fire scorch'd their boughs, Or canker-worm wi' secret sting?" "Nae eastlin blast," the sprite replied; "It blaws na here sae fierce and fell, And on my dry and halesome banks Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell: Man! cruel man!" the genius sighed― As through the cliffs he sank him down— "The worm that gnaw'd my bonie trees, That reptile wears a Ducal crown."" THE GALLANT WEAVER WHERE Cart rins rowin to the sea, O, I had wooers aught or nine, My daddie sign'd my tocher-band, And give it to the Weaver. While birds rejoice in leafy bowers, While bees delight in opening flowers, While corn grows green in summer showers, I love my gallant Weaver. EPIGRAM AT BROWNHILL INN' AT Brownhill we always get dainty good cheer, The Duke of Queensberry. Bacon was the name of a presumably intrusive host. The lines are said to have HCVI 46 afforded much amusement."-Lang. BB YOU'RE WELCOME, WILLIE STEWART. Chorus. You're welcome, Willie Stewart, You're welcome, Willie Stewart, There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, COME, bumpers high, express your joy, The tappet hen, gae bring her ben, You're welcome, Willie Stewart, &c. May foes be strang, and friends be slack May woman on him turn her back That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart, LOVELY POLLY STEWART Chorus. O lovely Polly Stewart, O charming Polly Stewart, There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, THE flower it blaws, it fades, it fa's, O lovely Polly Stewart, &c. May he whase arms shall fauld thy charms To him be given to ken the heaven He grasps in Polly Stewart! O lovely Polly Stewart, &c. |