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And then my fifty pounds a year

Will little gain me.

Ye glaikit, gleesome, daintie damies
Wha, by Castalia's wimplin streamies,
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,

Ye ken, ye ken
That strang necessity supreme is

'Mang sons o' men.

I hae a wife an’twa wee laddies;
They maun hae brose and brats o duddies
Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is,

I need nae vaunt,
But I'll sned besoms thraw saugh woodies,

Before they want.

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Lord help me thro’ this warld o' care
I'm weary, sick o't late and air!
Not but I hae a richer share

Than monie ithers :
But why should ae man better fare,

And a' men brithers ?

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van,
Thou stalk o carl-hemp in man!
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan

A lady-fair;
Wha does the utmost that he can,

Will whyles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme,
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,)
To make a happy fire-side clime

To weans and wife ·

That's the true pathos and sublime

Of human life.

My compliments to sister Beckie;
And eke the same to honest Lucky,
I wat she is a dainty chuckie,

As e'er trod clay!
An' gratefully, my guid auld cockie,
I'm yours for ay.




My honord Colonel, deep I feel
Your intrest in the Poet's weal;
Ah! how sma' heart hae I to speel

The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus pill,

And potion glasses.

0, what a cantie world were it, Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it; And fortune favor worth and merit,

As they deserve: (And ay a rowth, roast-beef and claret ;

Syne wha wad starve ?)

Dame Life, tho’ fiction out may trick her, And in paste gems and fripp'ry deck her; Oh! flick’ring, feeble, and unsicker

I've found her still,

Ay wav'ring like the willow wicker,

'Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrans by a rattan,
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on,

Wifelon ire;
Syno, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on,

He's aff like fire.

Ah, Nick! ah, Nick! it is na fair,
First showing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonie lasses rare,

To put us daft;
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare,

O' hell's damn'd waft.

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzies by,
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi’.joy,

And hellish pleasure;
Already in thy fancy's eye

Thy sicker treasure.

Soon, heels o’er gowdie! in he gangs,
And, like a sheep-head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs

And murd'ring wrestle,
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs,

A gibbet's tassel.

But, lest you think I am uncivil,
To plague you with this draunting drivel,

Abjuring a' intentions evil,

I quat my pen:
The Lord preserve us frae the devil . •

Amen! Amen!



Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner,
How's a' the folk about Gl-nc-r?
How do you this blae eastlin wind,
That's like to blaw a body blind ?
For me, my faculties are frozen,
My dearest member nearly dozen'd!
I've sent you here my Johnny Simson,
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;
Sinith, wi' his sympathetic feeling,
An' Reid to common sense appealing:
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled,
And meikle Greek an' Latin mangled,
Till wi’ their logic-jargon tir’d,
An' in the depth of science mir’d,
To common sense they now appeal,
What wives and wabsters see an' feel :
But hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly,
Peruse them an' return them quickly ;
For now I'm grown sae cursed douce,
I pray an' ponder butt the house,
My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin,
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston

Till by an' by, if I haud on,
I'll grunt a real Gospel groan ;
Already I begin to try it,
To cast my een up like a pyet,
When by the gun she tumbles o'er,
Fluttring an' gasping in her gore:
Sae shortly you shall see me bright,
A burning an' a shining light.

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, The ace an’ wale of honest men ; When bending down with auld gray hairs, Beneath the load of years


cares, May he who made him still support him, An' views beyond the grave comfort him. His worthy fam’ly far and near, God bless them a'wi grace and gear.

My auld school-fellow, Preacher Willie, The manly tar, my mason Billie, An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy; If he's a parent, lass or boy, May he be dad, and Meg the mither, Just five-an’-forty years thegither! An' no forgetting wabster Charlie, I'm tauld he offers very fairly. An', L-d, remember singing Sannock, Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an'a bannock; And next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy, Since she is fitted to her fancy ; An' her kind stars hae airted till her A guid chiel wi' a pickle siller. My kindest, best respects I sen' it, To cousin Kate, an' sister Janet; Tell them frae me, wi chiels be cautious,

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