28 ON THE DEATH OF SIR J. H. BLAIR.

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell,

Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train1; Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd, well 2;

Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane 3. Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks, The clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry sky, The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. The paly moon rose in the livid east,

And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately Form, In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast,

And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd; Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. Revers'd that redoubtable in war, spear, Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar,

And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.

My patriot son fills an untimely grave!'

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried; 'Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride! 'A weeping country joins a widow's tear,

The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh.

'The King's Park, at Holyrood house. 2 St. Anthony's Well.

3 St. Anthony's Chapel.

6

TO AN OLD SWEETHEART.

I saw my sons resume their ancient fire; I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow; But, ah! how hope is born but to expire!

Relentless fate has laid this guardian low.— My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung,

29

While empty greatness saves a worthless name? No; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, And future ages bear his growing fame.

And I will join a mother's tender cares,

Thro' future times to make his virtues last, That distant years may boast of other Blairs,'She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast.

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF THE POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED.

ONCE fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear,
Sweet early object of my youthful vows,
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere;
Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows.--

And when you read the simple artless rhymes,
One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more,
Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes,
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar,

THE KIRK'S ALARM'.

A Satire.

ORTHODOX, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox, Let me sound an alarm to your conscience: There's a heretic blast has been blawn in the wast, That what is no sense must be nonsense.

Dr. Mac 2, Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack,
To strike evil doers wi' terror;

To join faith and sense upon ony pretence,
Is heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad I declare,
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing;

Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, And orator Bob3 is its ruin.

D'rymple mild+, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child,

And your life like the new driven snaw, Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye, For preaching that three's ane and twa.

Rumble John', Rumble John, mount the steps wi' a groan,

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd;

Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstane like addle, And roar ev'ry note of the damn'd.

Simper James, Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames,

There's a holier chase in your view;

I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead, For puppies like you there's but few.

1 This Poem was written a short time after the publication

of Dr. M'Gill's Essay.

2 Dr. M'Gill.

5 Mr. R-ss-11.

3 R-
6 Mr. M'K-y.

-t A-kin.

4 Mr. D-m-le.

THE KIRK'S ALARM.

31

Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney, are ye herding

the penny,

Unconscious what evils await?

Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the A tod meikle waur than the Clerk; [fauld, Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death, And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

The

Davie Bluster', Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do is no nice of recruits; [muster, Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might

corps

boast,

If the ass was the king of the brutes.

Jamy Goose", Jamy Goose, ye hae made but

toom roose,

In hunting the wicked Lieutenant; [ark, But the Doctor's your mark, for the L-d's haly He has cooper'd and caw'd a wrang pin in't.

Poet Willie, Poet Willie,gie the Doctora volley, Wi' your liberty's chain and your wit;

O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid astride,

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t.

Andro Gouk 12, Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book,

And the book no the waur, let me tell ye! Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig, And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value.

7 Mr. M- -y.

9 Mr. Gt of O-1-e. 11 Mr. P-b-s of A-r.

8 Mr. A-d.

10 Mr. Y-g of C-n-k. 12 Dr. A. M-11.

Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, what mean ye? what mean ye?

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense, Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.

[pride,

faes will allow,

Irvine Side, Irvine Side, wi' your turkeycock
Of manhood but sma' is your share ;
Ye've the figure, 'tis true,even your
And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.
Muirland Jock ", Muirland Jock, when the L-d
makes a rock

To crush common sense for her sins,

If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit
To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

Holy Will, Holy Will, there was wit i' your skull,
When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor;
The timmer is scant when ye're ta'en for a saint,
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.
Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your spiritual
Ammunition you never can need; [guns,
Your hearts are the stuff will be powther enough,
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest skelping turns,

Why desert ye your auld native shire?

Your muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie, She cou'd ca' us nae waur than we are.