Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit.

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An' float the jinglin' icy-boord,
Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction,

An' nighted Trav'llers are allured
To their destruction.

An aft your moss-traversing Spunkies Decoy the wight that late and drunk is; The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.

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 pair'd, An' all the soul of love they shared, The raptured hour, Sweet on the frgrant flowery swaird In shady bower:

Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog!
Ye came to Paradise incog.
An' played on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa'!)

An' gied the infant world a shog,
'Maist ruined a

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz,
Ye did present your emoutie 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 and 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;

* Vide Milton, book vi.

An' may they never learn the gaets,
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets!
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal,
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail.
So may they, like their great forbears,
For mony a year come thro the sheers:
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead.

My poor toop-lamo, my son an' heir,
O bid him breed him up wi' care!
An' if he live to be a beast,

To pit some havins in his breast,
An' warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi' yowes at hame;
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless, graceless, brutes.

An' neist my yowie, silly thing, Guid keep thee frae a tether string!

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE.

As Mailic, an her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An' owre she warsled in the ditch;
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc he came doytin by.

Wi' glowrin' een, and lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's:
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But wae's my heart! he could na mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak!
At length poor Mailie silence brak.

O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my waefu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my Master dear.

Tell him, if e'er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,
O, bid him never tie them mair
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!
But ca' them out to park or hill,
An' let them wander at their will:
So may his flock increase, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'

Tell him, he was a master kin', An' aye was guid to me an' mine: An' now my dying charge I gie him, My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him.

O bid him save their harmless lives, Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives But gie them guid cow milk their fill, Till they be fit to fend themsel'; An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn.

A neebor herd-callan.

Wi' ony blastit moorland toop:
But aye keep mind to moop an' mell
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel'!

An' now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith: An' when you think upo' your mither, Mind to be kin' to ane anither.

Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail To tell my master a' my tale; An' bid him burn this cursed tether, An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether.'

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, And closed her een amang the dead.

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose; Our bardie's fate is at a close,

Past a' remead;

The last sad cape-stane o' his woes; Poor Mailie's dead!

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, That could sae bitter draw the tear, Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed: He's lost a friend and neebor dear, In Mailie dead.

'Thro' a' the town she trotted by him; A lang half-mile she could descry him; Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, She ran wi' speed;

A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, Than Mailie dead.

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, An' could behave hersel' wi' mense: I'll say't, she never brack a fence,

Thro' thievish greed.

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, To garland my poetic brows Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang, An' teach the lanely heights an' howes My rustic sang.

I'll wander on, with tentless heed How never-halting moments speed, Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; Then, all unknown,

I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead,
Forgot and gone!

But why o' death begin a tale?
Just now we're living, sound an' hale,
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,
Heave care o'er side!

And large, before enjoyment's gale,
Let's tak' the tide.

gloamin',

Then fareweel vacant careless roamin';
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin',
An' social noise ;

An' fareweel dear deluding woman,
The joy of joys!

O Life! how pleasant in thy morning, Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning! Cold pausing Caution's lesson scorning, We frisk away,

Like school-boys, at the expected warning, To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here, We eye the rose upon the brier, Unmindful that the thorn is near, Amang the leaves : And though the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves.

Some lucky, find a flowery spat, For which they never toiled nor swat They drink the sweet and eat the fat, But care or pain

And haply eye the barren hut

With high disdain.

In cent. per cent.

But give me real, sterling wit,

An' I'm content.

An' now ye've gien auld Britain peace,
Her broken shins to plaister;
Your sair taxation does her fleece,

Till she has scarce a tester;
For me, thank God, my life's a lease
Nae bargain wearing faster,
Or, faith! I fear, that wi' the geese,
I shortly boost to pasture

I' the craft some day.
VII.

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt,
When taxes he enlarges,
(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get,
A name not envy spairges),
That he intends to pay your debt,
An' lessen a' your charges;