The poor man's final refuge

If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty, or scorn?

Or why has man the will and pow'r
To make his fellow mourn?

"Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, honest man

Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

"O Death! the poor man's dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!

Welcome the hour my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest!

The great, the wealthy fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn ;
But, oh! a blest relief for those
That weary-laden mourn!"

THE TWA HERDS; OR, THE HOLY
TULYIE.

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE.

"Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor,
But fool with fool is barbarous civil war."-POPE.

O a' ye pious godly flocks,
Weel fed on pastures orthodox,

Wha now will keep you frae the fox,
Or worrying tykes?

O, wha will tent the waifs an' crocks,
About the dykes?

The twa best herds in a' the wast,

That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast
These five an' twenty simmers past-
Oh, dool to tell!

Hae had a bitter black out-cast

Atween themsel'.

O, Moodie, man, an' wordy Russell,
How could you raise so vile a bustle

;

Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle,
An' think it fine!

The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle,
Sin' I hae min'.

O, sirs! whae'er wad hae expeckit
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit,
Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit
To wear the plaid;

But by the brutes themselves eleckit,
To be their guide.

The

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank?-
Sae hale and hearty every shank !

Nae poison'd soor Arminian stank
He let them taste;

Frae Calvin's well aye clear they drank,—
O, sic a feast!

The thummart, willcat, brock, an' tod,
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood,
He smell'd their ilka hole an' road,

Baith out an' in ;

An' weel he lik'd to shed their bluid,

An' sell their skin.

orthodox at

variance

The New What herd like Russell tell'd his tale ;
Lights His voice was heard thro' muir and dale,
scoff and
He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail,
Owre a' the height;

wax

strong

An' saw gin they were sick or hale,
At the first sight.

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,
Or nobly fling the gospel club,

And New-Light herds could nicely drub
Or pay their skin;

Could shake them o'er the burning dub,
Or heave them in.

Sic twa-O! do I live to see't?-
Sic famous twa should disagree't,
And names, like "villain," "hypocrite,"
Ilk ither gi'en,

While New-Light herds, wi' laughin spite,
Say neither's liein!

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld,
There's Duncan deep, an' Peebles shauld,
But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,

We trust in thee,

That thou wilt work them, het an' cauld,
Till they agree.

Consider, sirs, how we're beset;

There's scarce a new herd that we get,
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set,
I winna name;

I hope frae heav'n to see them yet
In fiery flame.

Dalrymple has been lang our fae,
McGill has wrought us meikle wae,
An' that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae,
And baith the Shaws,

That aft hae made us black an' blae,
Wi' vengefu' paws.

Auld Wodrow lang has hatch'd mischief;
We thought aye death wad bring relief;
But he has gotten, to our grief,

Ane to succeed him,

A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef;
I meikle dread him.

And mony a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain wad openly rebel,
Forby turn-coats amang oursel',

There's Smith for ane;

I doubt he's but a grey nick quill,
An' that ye'll fin'.

O! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills,
By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells,
Come, join your counsel and your

skills

To cowe the lairds,

An' get the brutes the themsel's

power

To choose their herds.

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
An' Learning in a woody dance,
An' that fell cur ca'd Common-Sense,

That bites sae sair,

Be banished o'er the sea to France:

Let him bark there.

Popular election is the remedy

Poverty glooms at Plenty

Then Shaw's an' D'rymple's eloquence,
M'Gill's close nervous excellence,
M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense,

An' guid M Math,

Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance,

May a' pack aff.

EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER
POET

January

WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
An' bar the doors wi' driving snaw,
An' hing us owre the ingle,
I set me down to pass the time,
An' spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,
In hamely, westlin jingle:

While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the great-folk's gift,
That live sae bien an' snug:

I tent less, and want less
Their roomy fire-side;
But hanker, and canker,
To see their cursed pride.

It's hardly in a body's pow'r

To keep, at times, frae being sour,

To see how things are shar'd:
How best o' chiels are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,

And ken na how to wair't;