O Jenny, dinna toss your head,
And set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed

The blastie's makin'!

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

Oh wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us,

It wad frae mony a blunder free us,

And foolish notion:

What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us,
And even devotion !

LINES

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNEYPIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH.

A

DMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,

These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
The abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious, I pursue,
Till famed Breadalbane opens to my view-
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides,
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills:
The Tay, meandering sweet in infant pride,
The palace, rising on its verdant side;

The lawns, wood-fringed in Nature's native taste ;
The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste;

The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream;
The village, glittering in the noontide beam-
Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,

Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell:
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods!
The incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods.
Here Poesy might wake her Heaven-taught lyre,
And look through Nature with creative fire;
Here, to the wrongs of Fate half-reconciled,
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild;
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds;
Here heart-struck Grief might heavenward stretch her

scan,

And injured Worth forget and pardon man.

E

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.

DINA! 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-scattered flowers,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
And singing, lone, the lingering hours,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy Trade his labour 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.
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 !
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,
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine
I see the Sire of Love on high,

;

And own His work indeed divine. 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 ponderous wall and massy bar, Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 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-wandering roam !
Though rigid law cries out, 'Twas just.

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Through hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore:
Even 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!
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-scattered flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK,

WH

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.

HILE briers and woodbines budding green,
And paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en,

And morning poussie whiddin seen,

Inspire my Muse,

This freedom in an unknown frien'

I pray excuse.

On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin',

To ca' the crack and weave our stockin';
And there was muckle fun and jokin',
Ye needna doubt;

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

There was ae sang, amang the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleased me best,
That some kind husband had addrest

To some sweet wife :

It thirl'd the heart-strings through the breast, A' to the life.

I've scarce heard ought described sae weel,
What generous, manly bosoms feel:
Thought I, "Can this be Pope, or Steele,

Or Beattie's wark?"

They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't,
And sae about him there I speirt;
Then a' that kent him round declared

He had ingine;

That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,

It was sae fine;

That, set him to a pint of ale,
And either douce or merry tale,

Or rhymes and sangs he'd made himsel,
Or witty catches:

'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale

He had few matches.