Then when I'm tired-and sae are ye,
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
Set up a face, how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do-maun do, Sir, wi' them wha Maun please the great folk for a wamefu'; For me! sae laigh I needna bow, For, Lord be thankit, I can plough And when I dinna yoke a naig, Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatt'rin', It's just sic poet an' sic patron.

The Poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him;
He may do weel for a' he's done yet,
But only he's no just begun yet.

The Patron, (Sir, ye man forgie me,
I winna lie, come what will o' me)
On ev'ry hand it will allowed be,
He's just-nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant,
He downa see a poor man want;
What's no his ain he winna tak it,
What ance he says he winna break it ;
Ought he can lend he'll no refuse't,
Till aft his goodness is abused;
And rascals whyles that do him wrang,
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang;
As master, landlord, husband, father,
He does na fail his part in either.

But then, na thanks to him for a' that;
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that;
It's naething but a milder feature,
Of our poor, sinfu' corrupt nature:
Ye'll get the best o' moral works,
Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks,
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi
Wha never heard of orthodoxy.
That he's the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word and deed,
It's no thro' terror of damnation;
It's just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane,

Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain!
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is
In moral mercy, truth, and justice!

No-stretch a point to catch a plack;
Abuse a brother to his back;
Steal thro a winnock frae a wh-re,
But point the rake that taks the door :
Be to the poor like onie whunstane,
And haud their noses to the grunstane;
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving;
No matter, stick to sound believing.

Learn three mile pray'rs, an half-mile graces,
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces;
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan,
And damn a' parties but your own ;.

I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver,
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.

O ye wha leave the springs of Calvin,
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin !
Ye sons of heresy and error,

Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror!
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath,
And in the fire throws the sheath;
When ruin with his sweeping besom,
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies him :
While o'er the harp pale Misery moans,
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones,
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans !

While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,
Make you as poor a dog as I am,
Your humble servant then no more;
For who would humbly serve the poor!
But by a poor man's hopes in Heaven!
While recollection's power is given,
If, in the vale of humble life,
The victim sad of fortune's strife,
I, thro' the tender gushing tear,
Should recognize my master dear,
If friendless low we meet together,
Then, Sir, your hand—my friend and brother !

Thue winks and finger ends, I dread, Are notice takin'!

O wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
And foolish notion:
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
And ev'n Devotion !

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.

I.

EDINA! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign powers! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

II.

Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy trade his labours plies; There architecture's noble pride

Bids elegance and splendour rise; Here justice, from her native skies,

High wields her balance and her rod; There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode.

III.

Thy sons, EDINA, social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail,

Or modest merit's silent claim ; And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name.

IV.

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn!
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,

Dear as the raptured thrill of joy! Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine: I see the sire of love on high,

And own his work indeed divine !

V.

There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough rude fortress gleams afar: Like some bold veteran grey in arms,

And mark'd with many a seamy scar: The pon'drous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock: Have oft withstood assailing war,

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock.

VI.

With awe-struck thought and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately dome,
Where Scotia's kings of other years,
Famed heroes, had their royal home
Alas! how changed the times to come!
Their royal name low in the dust;
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam!
Tho'rigid law cries out, 'twas just!

VII.

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors in days of yore,
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore:
E'en I who sing in rustic lore,

Haply my sires have left their shed,
And faced grim danger's loudest roar,
Bold following where your fathers led
VIII.
EDINA! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs! From marking wildly scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, I shelter'd in thy honour'd shade.

EPISTLE TO J. LA PRAIK.

AN OLD SCOTTIsh bard, april 1st, 1785. WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green, An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, An' morning poussie whiddin seen, Inspire my muse, This freedom in an unknown frien' I pray excuse.

On fasten-een we had a rockin'
To ca' the crack, and weave our stockin';
And there was muckle fun and jokin',
Ye need na doubt:

At length we had a hearty yokin'
At sang about.

There was ae sang amang the rest,
A boon them a' it pleased me best,
That some kind husband had addrest
To some sweet wife :
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,
A' to the life.

I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel; Thought I, Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattie's wark?' They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And sae about him there I spiert,

Your critic folk may cock their nose, And say, How can you e'er propose, You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, To mak a sang ?' But, by your leaves, my learned foes, Ye're may be wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, Your Latin names for horns an' stools; If honest nature made you fools,

What sairs your grammars? Ye'd better taen up spades and shools, Or knappin-hammers.

A set o' dull conceited hashes,
Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak ;
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire !
That's a' the learning I desire;
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an mire
At pleugh or cart,
My muse, though hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
Or Ferguson's, the bauld and slee,
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be

If I can hit it!

That would be lear eneugh for me!
If I could get it.

Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few,
Yet, if your catalogue be fou,
I'se no insist,

But gif ye want ae friend that's true,
I'm on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel;
As ill I like my faults to tell;
But friends, and folk that wish me well,
They sometimes roose me:

Tho' I maun own, as monie still

As far abuse me.