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Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
They're aye in less or mair provided ;
And tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment,
A blink o' rest's sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o' their lives,
Their grushie weans and faithfu' wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a' their fire-side;
And whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy
Can make the bodies unco happy ;
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk and State affairs:
They'll talk o' patronage and priests,
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts.
Or tell what new taxation's comin',
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.
As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns,
They get the jovial, ranting kirns,
When rural life, o' ev'ry station,
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.
That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty win's;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin pipe, and sneeshin mill,
Are handed round wi' right guid will;
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse,
The young anes rantin' thro' the house-
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wit' them.
Still it's owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play'd.
There's monie a creditable stock
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k,
Are riven out baith root and branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi' some gentle master,
Wha' aiblins thrang a parliamentin',
For Britain's guid his saul indentin'

CÆSAR.

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it;
For Britain's guid! guid faith, I doubt it.
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him,
And saying ay or no's they bid him :
At operas and plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading:
Or may be, in a frolic daft,

To Hague or Calais takes a waft,
To mak a tour and tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton, and see the worl.
There' at Vienna or Versailles,
He rives his father's auld entails
Or by Madrid he takes the route,
To thrum guitars, aud fecht wi' nowte;

;

Or down Italian vista startles,
W-re hunting amang groves o' myrtles;
Then bouses drumly German water,
To mak himsel' look fair and fatter,
And clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain's guid!--for her destruction!
Wi' dissipation, feud, and faction.

LUATH.

Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sae mony a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten and harass'd
For gear to gang that gate at last!
Oh would they stay aback frae courts,
And please themselves wi' countra sports,
It wad for ev'ry ane be better,
The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cotter!
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies,
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breakin' o' their timmer,
Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer,
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock,
The ne'er a bit they're ill to folk.
poor
But will ye tell me, Master Cæsar,
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure?
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them,
The vera thought o't need na fear them,

CESAR.

L-d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am,
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em.
It's true, they needna starve or sweat,
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat;
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes,
And fill auld age wi' grips and granes;
But human bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themselves to vex them;
And aye the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion less will hurt them.
A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh;
A country girl at her wheel,

Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel:
But Gentlemen, and Ladies warst,
Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst,
They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy;
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy;
Their days insipid, dull, and tasteless;
Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless;
And e'en their sports, their balls and races,
Their gallopping thro' public places,
There's sic parade, sic pomp, and art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.
The men cast out in party matches,
Then sawther a' in deep debauches;

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For her dear sake, and her's alone! And must I think it-is she gone,

My secret heart's exulting boast? And does she heedless hear my groan? And is she ever, ever lost?

Oh! can she bear so base a heart,

Ae night they're mad wi' drink and wh-ring, | How have I wish'd for fortune's charms,
Niest day their life is past enduring.
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
As great and gracious a' as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run deils and jads thegither.
Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup and platie,
They sip the scandal potion pretty;
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks,
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
And cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard.
There's some exception, man and woman;
But this is Gentry's life in common.

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ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR. (121)
"Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself!
And sweet affection prove the spring of woe!"
HOME!

OH thou pale orb, that silent shines,
While care-untroubled mortals sleep!
Thou seest a wretch who inly pines,

And wanders here to wail and weep!
With woe I nightly vigils keep,

Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam; And mourn, in lamentation deep,

How life and love are all a dream.

I joyless view thy rays adorn

The faintly marked distant hill:
I joyless view thy trembling horn,
Reflected in the gurgling rill:"
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still!
Thou busy pow'r, remembrance, cease!
Ah! must the agonizing thrill

For ever bar returning peace!

No idly-feign'd poetic pains,

My sad, love-lorn lamentings claim;
No shepherd's pipe-Arcadian strains;

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame:
The plighted faith; the mutual flame;
The oft-attested Pow'rs above;
The promis'd father's tender name;

These were the pledges of my love!
Encircled in her clasping arms,

How have the raptur'd moments flown

So lost to honour, lost to truth, As from the fondest lover part,

The plighted husband of her youth! Alas! life's path may be unsmooth!

Her way may lie thro' rough distress! Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe, Her sorrows share, and make them less? Ye winged hours that o'er us past,

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, Your dear remembrance in my breast,

My fondly treasur'd thoughts employ'd. That breast, how dreary now, and void, For her too scanty once of room! Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, And not a wish to guild the gloom! The morn that warns th' approaching day, Awakes me up to toil and woe:

I see the hours in long array,

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. Full many a pang, and many a throe, Keen recollection's direful train, Must wring my soul, ere Phœbus, low, Shall kiss the distant, western main. And when my nightly couch I try,

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, Keep watchings with the nightly thief: Or if I slumber, fancy, chief,

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright: Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief,

From such a horror-breathing night.

Oh! thou bright queen, who, o'er th' expause, [sway! Now highest reign'st, with boundless Oft has thy silent-marking glance

Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray ! The time, unheeded, sped away,

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray,

To mark the mutual kindling eye.

Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set!
Scenes never, never to return!
Scenes, if in stupor I forget,

Again I feel, again I burn!
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn,

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro'; And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn A faithless woman's broken vow.

Address to Edinburgh.

EDINA! Scotia's darling seat !

All hail thy palaces and towr'rs.
Where once beneath a monarch's feet
Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs!
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.
Here wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy Trade his labour plies;
There Architecture's noble pride

Bids elegance and splendour rise;
Here Justice, from her native skies,
High wields her balance and her rod;
There learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks Science in her coy abode.
Thy sons, Edina! social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail;
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind,
Above the narrow, rural vale;
Attentive still to sorrow's wail,
Or modest merit's silent claim;
And never may their sources fail!
And never envy blot their name!
Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy!
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye,
Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine;
I see the Sire of Love on high,

And own his work indeed divine (122) !
There, watching high the least alarms.

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar: Like some bold vet'ran, grey in arms,

And mark'd with many a seaming scar : The pond'rous wall and massy bar,

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; Have oft withstood assailing war,

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock,
With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately dome,
Where Scotia's kings of other years,

Fam'd heroes! had their royal home:
Alas, how chang'd the times to come!
Their royal name low in the dust!
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam,
Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just!
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore :

Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore,

Haply, my sires have left their shed, And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar,

Bold-following where your fathers led!

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