In ploughman phrase, "God send you speed,"
Still daily to grow wiser;

And may you better reck the rede
Than ever did th' adviser!

VERSES ON A SCOTCH BARD,

A

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES.

'YE wha live by sowps o' drink, A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,A' ye wha live and never think,

Come mourn wi' me!

Our billie's gien us a' a jink,

And owre the sea.

Lament him a’ ye rantin' core,
Wha dearly like a random-splore,
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar
In social key;

For now he's taen anither shore,

And owre the sea!

The bonny lasses weel may wiss him,
And in their dear petitions place him;
The widows, wives, and a' may bless him,
Wi' tearfu' e'e;

For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him
That's owre the sea!

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble !
Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bumile,

Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble, "Twad been nae plea;

But he was gleg as ony wumble,

That's owre the sea!

Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear; 'Twill make her puir auld heart, I fear, In flinders flee;

He was her laureate mony a year,

That's owre the sea!

He saw misfortune's cauld nor'-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last,

Ill may she be !

So, took a berth afore the mast,

And owre the sea.

To tremble under Fortune's cummock,
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,
Wi' his proud, independent stomach,
Could ill agree;

So, row't his hurdies in a hammock,
And owre the sea.

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding,
Yet coin his pouches wadna bide in;
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding :

He dealt it free:
The Muse was a' that he took pride in
That's owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel,
And hap him in a cozie biel;

Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel,
And fu' o' glee ;

He wadna wrang the very deil,

That's owre the sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie'
Your native soil was right ill-willie;
But may ye flourish like a lily,

Now bonnilie !

I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie
Tho' owre the sea!

TO A HAGGIS.

FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face,

Great chieftain o' the puddin' race!

Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye worthy o' a grace

As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill,

In time o' need,

While through your pores the dews distil Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
And cut you up wi' ready slight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like ony ditch;

And then, oh, what a glorious sight,

Warm-reekin', rich!

Then horn for horn they stretch and strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve

Are bent like drums;

Then auld guidman, maist like to rive,
"Bethankit" hums.

Is there that owre his French ragoût,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad mak her spew

Wi' perfect scunner,

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view

On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit:

Through bloody flood or field to dash,
Oh, how unfit !

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,

The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He'll mak it whissle;

And legs, and arms, and heads will sned, Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye powers wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;

But if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,

Gie her a haggis!

A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.

E

XPECT na, sir, in this narration,
A fleechin', fleth'rin' Dedication,
To rouse you up, and ca you guid,
And sprung
o' great and noble bluid,
Because ye're surnamed like His Grace;
Perhaps related to the race;

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 folks for a wamefu';
For me! sae laigh I needna bow,
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough ;
And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;
Sae I shall say, and that's nae flatterin',
Its just sic Poet, and 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.