'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, They, ardent, kindling spirits pour; Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar,

They, sightless, stand,

To mend the honest patriot lore,

And grace the land.

And when the bard, or hoary sage, Charm or instruct the future age, They bind the wild poetic rage

In energy,

Or point the inconclusive page

Full on the eye.

'Hence Fullarton, the brave and young; Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue; Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung

His "Minstrel lays;"

Or tore, with noble ardour stung,

The sceptic's bays.

'To lower orders are assign'd
The humbler ranks of human kind,
The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind,

The Artisan;

All chuse, as various they're inclin❜d,

The various man.

'When yellow waves the heavy grain, The threat'ning storm some strongly rein; Some teach to meliorate the plain

With tillage-skill;

And some instruct the shepherd train,

Blythe o'er the hill.

'Some hint the lover's harmless wile; Some grace the maiden's artless smile; Some sooth the lab'rer's weary toil,

For humble gains,

And make his cottage-scenes beguile

His cares and pains.

'Some, bounded to a district-space, Explore at large man's infant race,

To mark the embryotic trace

Of rustic Bard;

And careful note each op'ning grace,

A guide and guard.

' Of these am I—Coila my name; And this district as mine I claim, Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame,

Held ruling pow'r:

I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame,

Thy natal hour.

'With future hope, I oft would gaze Fond, on thy little early ways,

Thy rudely caroll'd chiming phrase,

In uncouth rhymes,

Fir'd at the simple, artless lays

Of other times.

'I saw thee seek the sounding shore,
Delighted with the dashing roar ;
Or when the north his fleecy store

Drove thro' the sky,

I saw grim nature's visage hoar,

Struck thy young eye.

'Or when the deep green-mantl'd earth Warm-cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, And joy and music pouring forth

In ev'ry grove,

I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth

With boundless love.

'When ripen'd fields and azure skies Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, I saw thee leave their ev'ning joys,

And lonely stalk,

To vent thy bosom's swelling rise

In pensive walk.

'When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, Those accents grateful to thy tongue,

Th' adored Name,

I taught thee how to pour in song,

To soothe thy flame.

'I saw thy pulse's maddening play, Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, Misled by fancy's meteor ray,

By passion driven;

But yet the light that led astray

Was light from heaven.

'I taught thy manners-painting strains, The loves, the ways of simple swains, Till now, o'er all my wide domains

Thy fame extends;

And some, the pride of Coila's plains,

Become thy friends,

'Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, To paint with Thomson's landscape-glow; Or wake the bosom-melting throe,

With Shenstone's art;

Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow

Warm on the heart.

'Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose,
The lowly daisy sweetly blows;
Tho' large the forest's monarch throws

His army shade,

Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows,

Adown the glade.

'Then never murmur nor repine; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine; And trust me, not Potosi's mine,

Nor kings' regard,

Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine,

A rustic Bard.

'To give my counsels all in one, Thy tuneful flame still careful fan; Preserve the Dignity of Man,

With soul erect;

And trust, the Universal Plan

Will all protect.

And wear thou this'—she solemn said, And bound the Holly round my head: The polish'd leaves, and berries red,

Did rustling play;

And, like a passing thought, she fled

In light away.

**

ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID;

OR,

THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS.

My son, these maxims make a rule,
And lump them aye thegither;

The Rigid Righteous is a fool,
The Rigid Wise anither:

The cleanest corn that e'er was dight
May hae some pyles o' caff in:

So ne'er a fellow-creature slight

For random fits o' daffin.

Solomon.-Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16,

O YE wha are sae guid yoursel,
Sae pious and sae holy,

Ye've nought to do but mark and tell
Your neebour's faults and folly!
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supply'd wi' store o' water,
The heapet happer's ebbing still,
And still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core,

As counsel for poor mortals,

That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door,
For glaikit Folly's portals;

I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
Would here propone defences,

Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.