When Masons' mystic word an' grip, In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell!

The youngest brother ye wad whip

Aff straught to hell!

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were paired, An' all the soul of love they shared,

The raptured hour,

Sweet on the fragrant, flowery swaird,

In shady bower:

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog:

Ye came to Paradise incog.,

An' played on man a cursèd brogue,

(Black be your fa'!)

An' gied the infant warld a shog,

'Maist ruined a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz

'Mang better folk,

An' sklented on the man of Uz

Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i'

your thrall,

An' brak him out o' house an' hall,

While scabs an' blotches did him gall,

Wi' bitter claw,

An' lowsed his ill-tongued, wicked scawl,

Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce,
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,
Down to this time,
Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye 're thinkin',
A certain bardie's rantin', drinkin';

Some luckless hour will send him linkin'

To your black pit;

But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin',

An' cheat you yet.

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
Oh, wad ye tak a thought an' men'!
Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken-

Still hae a stake

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

E'en for your sake!

THE VISION.

DUAN FIRST.

THE sun had closed the winter day,
The curlers quat their roaring play,
An' hungered maukin ta'en her way

To kail-yards green,

While faithless snaws ilk step betray

Whare she has been.

The thresher's weary flingin-tree

The lee-lang day had tirèd me;

And whan the day had closed his e'e,

Far i' the west,

Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie,

I gaed to rest.

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,
I sat and eyed the spewing reek,
That filled, wi' hoast-provoking smeek,

The auld clay biggin';

An' heard the restless rattons squeak

About the riggin'.

All in this mottie, misty clime,
I backward mused on wasted time,
How I had spent my youthfu' prime,
An' done nae-thing,

But stringin' blethers up in rhyme,

For fools to sing.

Had I to guid advice but harkit,
I might, by this, hae led a market,
Or strutted in a bank an' clarkit

My cash-account:

While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, Is a' th' amount.

I started, muttering, 'Blockhead! coof!'
And heaved on high my waukit loof,
To swear by a' yon starry roof,

Or some rash aith,

That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof Till my last breath

When click! the string the snick did draw;

And, jee! the door gaed to the wa';

An' by my ingle-lowe I saw,

Now bleezin bright,

A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw,

Come full in sight.

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht;
The infant aith, half-formed, was crusht;
I glowred as eerie 's I'd been dusht

In some wild glen;

When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht
And stepped ben.

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly boughs
Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows;
I took her for some Scottish Muse,

By that same token;

An' come to stop those reckless vows,

Would soon been broken.

A 'hair-brained, sentimental trace,'
Was strongly marked in her face;
A wildly witty, rustic grace

Shone full upon her;

Her eye, e'en turned on empty space,

Beamed keen with honour.

Down flowed her robe, a tartan sheen,
Till half a leg was scrimply seen;

And such a leg! my bonnie Jean

Could only peer it;

Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean,

Nane else came near it.

Her mantle large, of greenish hue,

My gazing wonder chiefly drew;

Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw A lustre grand;

And seemed, to my astonished view,

A well-known land.

Here, rivers in the sea were lost;

There, mountains to the skies were tost:
Here, tumbling billows marked the coast
With surging foam;

There, distant shone art's lofty boast,

The lordly dome.

Here, Doon poured down his far-fetched floods;
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds:

Auld hermit Ayr staw through his woods,
On to the shore;

And many a lesser torrent scuds,

With seeming roar.

Low, in a sandy valley spread,
An ancient borough reared her head;
Still, as in Scottish story read,

She boasts a race,

To every nobler virtue bred,

And polished grace.

By stately tower or palace fair,

Or ruins pendent in the air,

Bold stems of heroes, here and there,

I could discern;

Some seemed to muse, some seemed to dare,

With feature stern.

My heart did glowing transport feel,
To see a race* heroic wheel,

And brandish round the deep-dyed steel

In sturdy blows;

While back-recoiling seemed to reel

Their suthron foes.

The Wallaces.