Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,
Been snaw white seventeen-hunder linen!
Their breeks o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush o' guid blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal,
Louping and flinging on a cummock,
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie;
There was a winsome wench and walie,
That night enlisted in the core,
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore;
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat,

And shook baith meikle corn and beer,
And kept the country-side in fear.)
Iler cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie-
Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance o' witches !
But here my muse her wing maun cour,
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was and strang,)
And how Tam stood like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd;
Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main :
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a' thegither,

And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow.
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'!
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane (140) o' the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they darena cross!
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!

For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle,
But little wist she Maggie's mettle-
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail;
The carline caught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son take heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys over dear-
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

Tragir Fragment. (141)

ALL devil as I am, a damned wretch,
A harden'd, stubborn, unrepenting villain,
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness;
And with sincere tho' unavailing sighs,
I view the helpless children of distress.
With tears indignant I behold th' oppressor
Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction,
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.
Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you;
Ye whom the seeming good think sin to pity;
Ye poor, despis'd, abandon'd vagabonus,
Whom vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to ruin.
-Oh, but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends,
I had been driven forth like you forlorn,
The most detested, worthless wretch among
you!

Winter, a Dirge. (142)

THE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw ;

Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:

While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;

And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass
the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast" (143), The joyless winter day

Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;

The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,

Because they are thy will!

Then all I want (oh, do thou grant

This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy thou dost deny, Assist me to resign.

A Prayer,

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT

ANGUISH. (144)

OH thou great Being! what thou art Surpasses me to know:

Yet sure I am, that known to Thee

Are all thy works below.

Thy creature here before Thee stands, All wretched and distrest;

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul
Obey Thy high behest.

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act
From cruelty or wrath!
Oh, free my weary eyes from tears,
Or close them fast in death!

But if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design; Then man my soul with firm resolves, To bear and not repine!

Prayer,

ON THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

OH thou unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!

In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wander'd in those paths
Of life I ought to shun;

As something, loudly, in my breast,

Remonstrates I have done.

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me,
With passions wild and strong;
And list'ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stept aside,

Do Thou, All-good! for such thou art,
In shades of darkness hide.
Where with intention I have err'd,
No other plea I have,

But, Thou art good; and goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.

Stanzas

ON THE SAME OCCASION. (145)

WHY am I loth to leave this earthly scene?

Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between : [storms: Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; I tremble to approach an angry God, And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging

rod.

Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul of fence!"

Fain promise never more to disobey; But should my Author health again dis

pense,

Again I might desert fair virtue's way : Again in folly's path might go astray;

Again exalt the brute and sink the man; Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan? [tation ran? Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temp

Oh Thou, great Governor of all below!
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to
blow,

Or still the tumult of the raging sea: With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, Those headlong furious passions to confine;

For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be,

To rule their torrent in the hallowed line; Oh, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine !

Elegy au the Death of Robert Ruisseaur. (146.)

Now Robin lies in his last lair,
He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair,
Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare,

Nae mair shall fear him;
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care,
E'er mair come near him.

To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him,
Except the moment that they crush't him;
For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em,
Tho' e'er sae short,
Then wi' a rhyme or song he lash't 'em,
And thought it sport.

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark,
And counted was baith wight and stark,
Yet that was never Robin's mark

To mak a man ;

charms?

Ye roos'd him than!

The Calf.

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN. (147) On his Text, MAL. iv. 2.-"And they shall go forth, and grow up, like CALVES of the stall." RIGHT, Sir! your text I'll prove it true,

Though Heretics may laugh;
For instance, there's yoursel' just now,
God knows, an unco calf!

And should some patron be so kind,
As bless you wi' a kirk,

I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find,
Ye're still as great a stirk.
But, if the lover's raptur'd hour
Shall ever be your lot,
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly power

You e'er should be a Scot!

The Twa Berds,

OR THE HOLY TULZIE. (148)

Oн a' ye pious godly flocks,
Weel fed on pastures orthodox,
Wha now will keep you frae the fox,
Or worrying tykes,

Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks,
About the dykes?

The twa best herds in a' the wast,
'That e'er gae gospel horn a blast,
These five and twenty simmers past,
Oh! dool to tell,

Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast
Atween themsel.

Oh, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell,
How could you raise so vile a bustle,
Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle,
And think it fine:

The L-'s cause ne'er got sic a twistle
Sin' I ha'e mine.

O, Sirs! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit,
Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit,
To wear the plaid,

But by the brutes themselves eleckit,
To be their guide.

And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid,
And sell their skin.

What herd like Russell (149) tell'd his tale,
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale,
He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail,
O'er a' the height,

And saw gin they were sick or hale,
At the first sight.

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,
Or nobly fling the gospel club,
And New-Light herds could nicely drub,
Or pay their skin;
Could shake them o'er the burning dub,
Or heave them in.

Sic twa-Oh! do I live to see't,
Sic famous twa should disagreet,
And names like villain, hypocrite,
Ilk ither gi'en,

While New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spite,
Say neither's lyin'!

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld,
There's Duncan (150), deep, and Peebles,
shaul (151),

But chiefly thou, apostle Auld (152),
We trust in thee,

That thou wilt work them, het and cauld,
Till they agree.

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset;
There's scarce a new herd that we get
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set
I winna name;

I hope frae heav'n to see them yet
In fiery flame.

Dalrymple (153) has been lang our fae,
M'Gill (154) has wrought us meikle wae,
And that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae (155),
And baith the Shaws (156),

That aft ha'e made us black and blae,
Wi' vengefu' paws.

Auld Wodrow (157) lang has hatch'd mischief,
We thought aye death wad bring relief,
But he has gotten, to our grief,

Ane to succeed him,
A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef;
I meikle dread him.

And mony a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain would openly rebel,
Forbye turn-coats amang oursel.

There's Smith for ane,
I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill,
And that ye'll fin'.

Oh! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills,
By mosses, ineadows, moors and fells,
Come, join your counsel and your skills
To cowe the lairds,

And get the brutes the powers themsels
To choose their herds.

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,
And Learning in a woody dance,
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense,
That bites sae sair,

Be banish'd o'er the sea to France:
Let him bark there.

Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence,
M'Gill's close nervous excellence,
Quhae's pathetic manly sense,

And guid M'Math,

[158

Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance, May a' pack aff.

Woly Willie's Prayer. (159)

OH Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwelt,
Wha, as it pleases best thysel',

Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell,
A' for thy glory,

And no for ony giude or ill

They've done afore thee!

I bless and praise thy matchless might, When thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here afore thy sight,

For gifts and grace,

A burnin' and a shinin' light
To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation,
I wha deserve sic just damnation,
For broken laws,

Five thousand years 'fore my creation,
Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might hae plunged me into hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,
In burnin' lake,

Where damned devils roar and yell,
Chain'd to a stake,

Yet I am here a chosen sample;
To show thy grace is great and ample;
I'm here a pillar in thy temple,

Strong as a rock,

A guide, a buckler, an example, To a' thy flock.

But yet, oh Lord! confess I must,
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust;
And sometimes, too, wi' wardly trust,
Vile self gets in ;

But thou remembers we are dust,
Defil'd in sin.

Maybe thou lets't this fleshly thorn,
Beset thy servant e'en and morn,
Lest he owre high and proud should turn,
Cause he's sae gifted;

If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne,
Until thou lift it.

Lord, bless thy chosen in this place,
For here thou hast a chosen race:
But God confound their stubborn face,
And blast their name,

Wha bring thy elders to disgrace
And public shame.

Lord, mind Gaw'n Hamilton's deserts,
He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes,
Yet has sae mony takin' arts,

Wi' grat and sma',

Frae God's ain priests the people's hearts
He steals awa'.

And when we chasten'd him therefore,
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
As set the warld in a roar

O' laughin' at us ;-
Curse thou his basket and his store,
Kail and potatoes,

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r,
Against the presbyt❜ry of Ayr;
Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare
Upo' their heads,

Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.

Oh Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aikin,
My very heart and saul are quakin',
To think how we stood groanin', shakin'
And swat wi' dread,

While he wi' hingin' lips and snakin”,
Held up his head.

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him,
Lord, visit them wha did employ him,
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em,
Nor hear their pray'r;
But for thy people's sake destroy 'em,
And dinna spare.

But, Lord, remember me and mine,
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine,
Excell'd by nane,
And a' the glory shall be thine,
Amen, Amen!

Epitaph an Bulq Willie.

HERE Holy Willie's sair-worn clay
Taks up its last abode;

His soul has ta'en some other way,
I fear the left-hand road.
Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun,

Poor, silly body, see him;
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun',
Observe wha's standing wi' him.
Your brunstane devilship, I see,

Has got him there before ye;
But haud your nine-tail cat a wee,
Till ance you've heard my story.
Your pity I will not implore,

For pity ye hae nane;
Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er,
And mercy's day is gaen.

But hear me, sir, deil as ye are,

Look something to your credit; A coof like him wad stain your name, If it were kent ye did it.

Epistle to John Gondie of Kilmarnork.

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS

ESSAYS. (160)

OH Goudie! terror of the Whigs, Dread of black coats and rev'rend wigs, Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,

Girnin', looks back,

Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues
Wad seize you quick.

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition,
Waes me! she's in a sad condition;
Fie! bring Black Jock, her state physician,
To see her water.

Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion
She'll ne'er get better.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
But now she's got an unco ripple;
Haste, gie' her name up i' the chapel,
Nigh unto death;

See, how she fetches at the thrapple,
And gasps for breath.

Enthusiasm's past redemption,
Gane in a galloping consumption,
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption,
Will ever mend her.

Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
Death soon will end her.

"Tis you and Taylor (161) are the chief,
Wha are to blame for this mischief,
But gin the Lord's ain fouk gat leave,
A toom tar-barrel

And twa red peats wad send relief,
And end the quarrel.

Epistle to Jaha Rankine,
ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. (162)

OH rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin'!
There's mony godly folks are thinkin',

Your dreams (163) and tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin', Straught to Auld Nick's.

Ye hae sae mony cracks and cants,
And in your wicked, drunken rants,
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,

And fill them fou (164);
And then their failings, flaws, and wants,
Are a' seen through.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!

That holy robe, oh dinna tear it!
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it,
The lads in black!

But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
Rives't aff their back.

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing,
It's just the blue-gown badge and claithing
O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething
To ken them by,

Frae ony unregenerate heathen
Like you or I.

I've sent you here some rhyming ware,
A' that I bargain'd for, and mair;
Sae, when you hae an hour to spare,
I will expect

Yon sang (165), ye'll sen't wi' canny care,
And no neglect.

Third Epistle to John Lapraik. (166)
September 13, 1785.

Good speed and furder to you, Johnny,
Guide health, hale han's, and weather bonny;
Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny
The staff o' bread,

May ye ne'er want a stoup o' hran'y
To clear your head.

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs and naggs
Like drivin' wrack;
But may the tapmast grain that wags
Come to the sack.

I'm bizzie too, and skelpin' at it,
But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it,
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it
Wi' muckle wark,
And took my jotteleg and whatt' it,
Like ony clark.