What tho' they ca' me fornicator,
An' tease my name in kintry-clatter;
The mair they tauk I'm kent the better,
E'en let them clash;
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.
Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint,
My funny tiel is now a' tint,
Sin' thou came to the warl asklent,
Which fools may scoff at;
In my last plack thy part's be in't-
The better half o't.
An' if thou be what I wad hae thee,
An' tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
A lovin father I'll be to thee,
If thou be spar'd
Thro' a' thy childish years I'll e'e thee,
An' think't weel war'd.
Gude grant that thou may ay inherit
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,
An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit,
Without his failins,
"Twill please me mair to hear an' see't,
Than stocket mailins.
IN ANSWER TO AN EPISTLE WHICH HE HAD SENT THE
WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie b-h,
To thresh my back at sic a pitch?
Losh man! hae mercy wi' your natch,
Your bodkin's bauld,
I did na suffer half sae much
Frae daddy Auld.
What tho' at times when I grow crouse,
I gie their wames a random pouse,
Is that enough for you to souse
Your servant sae?
Gae mind your seam, ye prick the louse,
An' jag the flae.
King David o' poetic brief,
Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief
As filled his after life wi' grief
An' bloody rants,
An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief
O lang syne saunts.
And, may be, Tam, for a' my cants,
My wicked rhyines, an' drucken rants,
I'll gie auld cloven Clooty's haunts
An unco slip yet,
An' snugly sit amang the saunts,
At Davie's hip yet.
But fegs, the session says I maun
Gae fa' upo' anither plan,
Than garren lasses cowp the cran
Clean heels owre body,
And sairly thole their mithers' ban
Afore the howdy.
This leads me on, to tell for sport
How I did with the session sort-
Auld Clinkum at the inner port
Cry'd three times, "Robin!
Come hither, lad, an' answer for't,
Ye're blam'd for jobbin."
Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on,
An' snoov'd awa' before the session-
I made an open, fair confession,
I scorn'd to lie;
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression,
Fell foul o' me.
A fornicator loun he call'd me,
An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me;
I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me,
"But what the matter,"
Quo' I, "I fear unless ye geld me,
I'll ne'er be better.'
"Geld you!" quo' he, "and whatfore no If that your right hand, leg or toe, Should ever prove your spiritual foe,
You shou'd remember
To cut it aff, and whatfore no
Your dearest member."
"Na, Na," quo' I, "I'm no for that, Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't,
I'd rather suffer for my faut,
A hearty flewit
As sair owre hip as ye can araw't!
Tho' I should rue it.
"Or gin ye like to end the bother
To please us a' I've just ae ither,
When next wi' yon lass I forgather
Whate'er betide it,
I'll frankly gie her't a' thegither,
An' let her guide it."
But, Sir, this pleas'd them warst ava,
An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw,
I said "Gude night," and cam awa',
An' left the session;
I saw they were resolved a'
On my oppression.
WITH A PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR.
REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,
Of Stuart, a name once respected,
A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart,
But now 'tis despised and reglected.
Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal;
A poor friendless wanderer may well claim a sigh,
Still more, if that wand'rer were royal.
My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne;
My fathers have fallen to right it;
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,
That name should he scoffingly slight it.
Still in prayers for K-G-I most heartily join,
The Q-, and the rest of the gentry,
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine;
Their title's avow'd by my country.
But why of this epocha make such a fuss,
But loyalty, truce! we're on dangerous ground,
Who knows how the fashions may alter?
The doctrine to-day that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring us a halter.
I send you a trifle, a head of a bard,
A trifle scarce worthy your care,
But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard,
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.
Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye,
And ushers the long dreary night;
you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright.
TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRA.
WHEN Nature her great masterpiece design'd, And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind, Her eye intent on all the mazy plan,
She form'd of various parts the various man.
Then first she calls the useful many forth;
Plain, plodding industry, and sober worth;
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth,
And merchandise, whole genus take their birth;
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds,
And all mechanics' many apron'd kinds.
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet,
The lead and buoy are needful to the net;.
The caput mortuum of desires
Makes a material for mere knights and squires;
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow,
She kneads the lumpish, philosophic dough,
Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave designs
Law, physics, politics, and deep divines;
Last she sublimes the Aurora of the poles,
The flashing elements of female souls.
The order'd system fair before her stood,
Nature, well pleas'd, pronounced it very good;
But ere she gave creating labour o'er,
Half jest, she tried one curious labour more
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter;
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter;
With arch alacrity and conscious glee
(Nature may have her whim as well as we,
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it)
She forms the thing, and christens it-a poet.
Creature, though oft the prey of care and sorrow,
When blest to-day unmindful of to-morrow.
A being form'd to amuse his graver friends,
Admir'd and prais'd-and there the homage ends
A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife,
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life;
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give,
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live;
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan,
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own.
But honest Nature is not quite a Turk,
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work,
Pitying the propless climber of mankind,
She cast about a standard-tree to find;
And, to support his helpless woodbine state,
Attach'd him to the generous truly great,
A title, and the only one I claim,
To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham.
Pity the tuneful Muses' hapless train,
Weak, timid landmen on life's stormy main!
Their hearts no selfish, stern, absorbent stuff,
That neither gives-though humbly takes enough
The little fate allows, they share as soon,
Unlike sage, proverb'd Wisdom's hard-wrung boon.
The world were bless'd did bliss on them depend,
Ah! that "the friendly e'er should want a friend!''
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son,
Who life and wisdom at one race begun,
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule,
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool!)
Who make poor will do wait upon I should-
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good?
Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye!
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy !
But come ye who the godlike pleasure know,
Heaven's attribute distinguish'd-to bestow!
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race;
Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace;
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes!
Prop of my dearest hope for future times.
Why shrinks my soul half-blushing, half-afraid,
Backward, abashed to ask thy friendly aid?
I know my need, I know thy giving hand,
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command;
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