Curst Common Sense, that imp o' hell,
Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder (45);
But Oliphant aft made her yell,
And Russell sair misca'd her
This day M
taks the flail,

And he's the boy will blaud her!
He'll clap a shangan on her fail,
And set the bairns to daud her.
Wi' dirt this day.

Mak haste and turn king David owre,
And lilt wi' holy clangor;

O' double verse come gie us four,
And skirl up the Bangor :
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure,
Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,
For Heresy is in her pow'r,

And gloriously she'll whang her
Wi' pith this day.

Come, let a proper text be read.

And touch it aff wi' vigour,

How graceless Ham (46) leugh at his dad, Which made Canaan a nigger;

Or Phineas (47) drove the murdering blade,
Wi' wh-re-abhorring rigour ;

Or Zipporah (48), the scauldin' jad,
Was like a bluidy tiger

I' th' inn that day.

There, try his mettle on the creed,
And bind him down wi' caution,
That stipend is a carnal weed

He taks but for the fashion;
And gie him o'er the flock, to feed,
And punish each transgression;
Especial, rams that cross the breed,
Gie them sufficient threshin',

Spare them nae day.

Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail.
And toss thy horns fu' canty;

Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale,

Because thy pasture's scanty;

For lapfu's large o' gospel kail

Shall fill thy crib in plenty,

And runts o' grace the pick and wale,
No given by way o' dainty,
But ilka day.

weep,

Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll
To think upon our Zion;
And hing our nddles up to sleep,
Like baby-clouts a-dryin';
Come, screw the pegs, wi' tunefu' cheap
And o'er the thairms be tryin';
Oh, rare! to see our elbucks wheep,
And a' like lamb-tails flyin'
Fu' fast this day;

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' airn,
Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin',
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,
Has proven to its ruin :
Our patron, honest man! Glencairn,
He saw mischief was brewin';
And like a godly elect bairn

He's wal'd us out a true ane,
And sound this day.

Now, Robertson (49), harangue nae mair
But steek your gab for ever:
Or try the wicked town of Ayr,

For there they'll think you clever;
Or, nae reflection on your lear,

Ye may commence a shaver;
Or to the Netherton (50) repair,
And turn a carpet-weaver
Aff-hand this day.

Mutrie (51) and you were just a match,
We never had sic twa drones:
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch,
Just like a winkin' baudrons:
And aye he catched the tither wretch,
To fry them in his caudrons :
But now his honour maun detach,
Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons,
Fast, fast this day.

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes
She's swingein through the city;
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays!
I vow it's unco pretty :

There, Learning, with his Greekish face,
Grunts out some Latin ditty,
And Common Sense is gaun, she says,
To mak to Jamie Beattie (52)
Her plant this day.
But there's Morality himsel',
Embracing all opinions;
Hear, how he gies the tither yell,
Between his twa companions;
See, how she peels the skin and fell,
As ane were peelin' onions!
Now there they're packed aff to hell,
And banish'd our dominions,
Henceforth this day.

Oh, happy day! rejoice, rejoice!
Come bouse about the porter!
Morality's demure decoys

Shall here nae mair find quarter:

M

-, Russell, are the boys, That Heresy can torture: They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, And cowe her measure shorter By th' head some day. Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, And here's, for a conclusion, To every New Light (53) mother's son, From this time forth, Confusion : If mair they deave us wi' their din, Or Patronage intrusion, We'll light a spunk, and every skin We'll rin them aff in fusion, Like oil some day.

To Sames Smith. (54)

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent,
To try my fate in guid black prent;
But still the mair I'm that way bent,

Something cries "Hoolie!

I red you, honest man, tak tent!
Ye'll shaw your folly.

There's ither poets much your betters,
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters,
Hae thought they had ensur'd their
debtors
A' future ages;

Now moths deform in shapeless tatters,
Their unknown pages."

Then farewell hopes o' laurel-boughs,
To garland my poetic brows!

Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs
Are whistling thrang,

Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society!
I owe thee much!"-BLAIR.

DEAR Smith, the slee'est, paukie thief,
That e'er attempted stealth or rief,
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef

Owre human hearts;
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief
Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun and moon,
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon,
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon

Just gaun to see you;
And ev'ry ither pair that's done,

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you.

That auld capricious carlin, Nature,
To mak amends for scrimpit stature,
She's turn'd you aff, a human Creature
On her first plan;

And in her freaks, on every feature
She's wrote, the Man.
Just now I've ta en the fit o' ryhme,
My barmie noddle's working prime,
My fancy yerkit up sublime

Wi' hasty summon :
Hae ye a leisure-moment's time,

To hear what's comin'!

Some rhyme a neighbour's name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought) for needfu' cash;

Some rhyme to court the country clash,
And raise a din;

For me, an aim I never fash-
I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,
And damn'd my fortune to the groat;
But in requit,

Has blest me wi' a random shot

O' countra wit.

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 and hale,
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,
Heave care o'er side!

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

This life, sae far's I understand,
Is a' enchanted fairy land,

Where pleasure is the magic wand,
That, wielded right,

Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand,
Dance by fu' light.

The magic wand then let us wield; For, ance that five-and-forty's speel'd, See, crazy, weary, joyless eild,

Wi' wrinkl'd face,

Comes hostin', hirplin' owre the field,
Wi' creepin' pace.

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin',

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

And fareweel dear, deluding woman !
The joy of joys!

Oh 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 th' 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,
Among the leaves !

And tho' the puny wound appear,
Short while it grieves.
Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot,
For which they never toil'd or swat;
They drink the sweet and eat the fat,
But care or pain;

And, haply, eye the barren hut
With high disdain.

With steady aim some Fortune chase;
Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace;
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,
And seize the prey:

Then cannie, in some cozie place,
They close the day.

And others', like your humble servan',
Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin';
To right or left, eternal swervin',

They zig-zag on;

Till curst with age, obscure and starvin,'
They aften groan.

Alas! what bitter toil and straining-
But truce with peevish, poor complaining!
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning?

E'en let her gang!

Beneath what light she has remaining,

Let's sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door,

I jouk beneath misfortune's blows
As weel's I may :

Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,
I rhyme away.

Oh
ye douce folk, that live by rule,
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool,
Compar'd wi' you-oh fool! fool! fool!
How much unlike ;

Your heart's are just a standing pool,
Your lives a dyke!

Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces,
In
your unletter'd nameless faces!
In arioso trills and graces

Ye never stray,

But gravissimo, solemn basses
Ye hum away.

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys,
The rattling squad:

I see you upward cast your eyes→→
-Ye ken the road.

Whilst I-but I shall haud me there-
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where—
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,
But quat my sang,
Content wi' you to mak a pair,
Whare'er I gang.

"Tho' I should wander terra o'er,

In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more,
Aye rowth o' rhymes.

Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards ;
Gie' fine braw claes to fine life guards,
And maids of honour!

And yill and whisky gie to cairds,
Until they sconner.

A title, Dempster merits it;
A garter gie to Willie Pitt;

Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit,
In cent. per cent.

But give me real, sterling wit,

And I'm content.

While ye are pleased to keep me hale,
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal,
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail,
Wi' cheerfu' face,

As lang's the muses dinna fail
To say the grace."

An anxious e'e I never throws
Behint my lug or by my nose;

RECITATIVO.

I ance was tied up like a stirk;
For civilly swearing and quaffin';
I ance was abus'd in the kirk,

For touzling a lass i' my daffin. Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, Let naebody name wi' a jeer; There's ev'n, I'm taught, i' the court A tumbler ca'd the premier. Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad

Maks faces to tickle the mob; He rails at our mountebank squad— It's rivalship just i' the job. And now my conclusion I'll tell,

For faith I'm confoundedly dry; The chiel that's a fool for himsel',

Gude L-d! he's far dafter than I.

RECITATIVO.

Then neist outspak a raucle carlin,
Wha keut fu' weel to cleek the sterling,
For monie a pursie she had hooked,
And had in mony a well been ducked.
Her dove had been a Highland laddie,
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie!
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began
To wail her braw John Highlandman.

AIR.

TUNE-O an ye were dead Guidman.

A Highland lad my love was born,
The Lawland laws he held in scorn
But he still was faithfu' to his clan,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.

CHORUS.

Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman!
Sing, ho, my braw John Highlandman!
There's not a lad in a' the lan'

Was match for my John Highlandman.

With his philabeg and tartan plaid,
And guid claymore down by his side,
The ladies' hearts he did trepan,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.
Sing, hey, &c.

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey,
And liv'd like lords and ladies
gay;
For a Lawland face he feared none,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.
Sing, hey, &c.

They banish'd him beyond the sea,
But ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.
Sing, hey, &c.

But, oh! they catch'd him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast: