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Tho something like moisture conglobes in my A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war,

eye,

Let no one misdeem me disloyal;

A poor friendless wand'rer 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,

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew. Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, "Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall rue!"

With tillage or pasture at times she would sport,

To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn?

But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn.

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THE following Poem was written to a Gentleman, who had sent him a Newspaper, and offered to continue it free of Expense.

KIND Sir, I've read your paper through,
And faith, to me, 'twas really new!
How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted?
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted,
To ken what French mischief was brewin;
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin;
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie works
Atween the Russians and the Turks;
Or if the Swede, before he halt,
Would play anither Charles the twalt :
If Denmark, any body spak o't;

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't;
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin,
How libbet Italy was singin;

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss,
Were sayin or takin aught amiss :
Or how our merry lads at hame,
In Britain's court kept up the game:
How Royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him!
Was managing St. Stephen's quorum;
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin,
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin,
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin;
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd,
Or if bare a-s yet were tax'd;
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls;
If that daft buckie, Geordie W***s,
Was threshin still at hizzies' tails,
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,
And no a perfect kintra cooser,
A' this and mair I never heard of;
And but for you I might despaired of.
So gratefu', back your news I send you,
And pray, a' guid things may attend you.
Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790.

POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY.

HAIL, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd!
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd

'Mang heaps o' clavers; And och o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, Mid a' thy favours!

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, While loud the trump's heroic clang,

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