Mansions that would disgrace the building taste
Of any mason, reptile, bird, or beast;
Fit only for a doited monkish race,

Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace,
Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion
That sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion;
Fancies that our guid brugh denies protection,
And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrec-
tion !

AULD BRIG.

O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealings,
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings!
Ye worthy proveses, an' mony a bailie,
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye;
Ye dainty deacons, and ye douce conveners,
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners;
Ye godly councils wha hae blest this town,
Ye godly brethren of the sacred gown,
Wha meekly gie your hurdies to the smiters;
And (what would now be strange) ye godly writers:
A'ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo,
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ?
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation,
To see each melancholy alteration;
And, agonizing, curse the time and place
When ye begat the base, degenerate race!

Nae langer reverend men, their country's glory,
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story;
Nae langer thrifty citizens, an' douce,
Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house ;
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry,
The herryment and ruin of the country;
Men, three parts made by tailors and by barbers,
Wha waste your well-hain'd gear on d-d new
brigs and harbours!

NEW BRIG.

What farther clishmaclaver might been said, What bloody wars, if sprites had blood to shed, No man can tell: but, all before their sight, A fairy train appear'd in order bright: Adown the glittering stream they featly danced, Bright to the moon their various dresses glanced; They footed o'er the watery glass so neat, The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet: While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung.

O had McLauchlan,* thairm-inspiring sage,
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage,
When through his dear strathspeys they bore with
highland rage;

Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs,
The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares;
How would his highland lug been nobler fired,
And e'en his matchless hand with Laer touch in-
spired!

No guess could tell what instrument appear'd,
But all the soul of music's self was heard;
Harmonious concert rung in every part,

While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart.
The genius of the stream in front appears,
A venerable chief advanced in years;
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd,
His manly leg with garter tangle bound.
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring,
Sweet female beauty hand in hand with spring;
Then, crown'd with flowery hay, came rural joy,
And summer, with his fervid-beaming eye:
All-cheering plenty, with her flowing horn,
Led yellow autumn wreathed with nodding corn;
Then winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show,
By hospitality with cloudless brow.

Next follow'd courage with his martial stride,
From where the feal wild-woody coverts hide;
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air,

A female form, came from the towers of Stair:
Learning and worth in equal measures trode
From simple Catrine, their long-loved abode :
Last, white-robed peace, crown'd with a hazel
wreath,

To rustic agriculture did bequeath

The broken iron instruments of death,

At sight of whom our sprites forgat their kindling wrath.

THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE,

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE.

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE.

As Mailie an' her lambs thegither
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch.
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoct he cam doytin by.

Wi' glowrin een, and lifted hans,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stans;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, waes my heart! he could na mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak!
At length poor Mailie silence brak.

"O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my master dear.

* A well known performer of Scottish music on the violin. † A neebor herd-callan.

"Tell him, if e'er again he keep,
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,
O, bid him never tie them mair
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!
But ca' them out to park or hill,
An' let them wander at their will;
So may his flock increase, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'!

"Tell him, he was a master kin',
An' aye was guid to me and mine;
An' now my dying charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him.

"O, bid him save their harmless lives Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives! But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, Till they be fit to fend themsel: An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn.

"An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets!

To slink through slaps, an' reave an' steal,
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail.
So may they, like their great forbears,
For monie a year come through the sheers:
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead.

"My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir,
O, bid him breed him up wi' care!
An', if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins in his breast!
An' warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi' yowes at hame;
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.

"An, niest my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!
O, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' only blastit, moorland toop;

But aye keep mind to moop an' mell,

Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel!

"And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith:

An' when you think upo' your mither,
Mind to be kin' to ane anither.

"Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail
To tell my master a' my tale;
An' bid him burn this cursed tether,

An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather."

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, An' closed her e'en amang the dead.

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.

LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose; Our bardie's fate is at a close,

Past a' remead;

The last sad cape-stane of his woes;

Poor Mailie's dead!

Or, if he wanders up the howe,

Her living image in her yowe,
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe,
For bits o' bread;

An' down the briny pearls rowe
For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorland tips,
Wi' tawted ket, an hairy hips;
For her forbears were brought in ships
Frae yont the Tweed,

A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips
Than Mailie dead.

Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile, wanchancie thing—a rape!
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape,
Wi' chokin dread;
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape,
For Mailie dead.

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, To garland my poetic brows! Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang, An' teach the lanely heights an' howes 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 the 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 wieid; For ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd, See crazy, weary, joyless eild,

Wi' wrinkled face, Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, Wi' crepin pace.

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin;
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin,
An' social noise;

An' fareweel, dear, deluding woman,
The joy of joys!

O 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 though the puny wound appear,
Short while it grieves

Some, lucky, find a flowery spot,
For which they never toil'd nor swat;
They drink the sweet, and eat the fat,
But care or pain;

And, haply, eye the barren hut

With high disdain.

In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more,

Aye rowth o' rhymes.

"Gie dreeping roasts to kintra lairds, Till icicles hing frae their beards; Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, And maids of honour And yill an' 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 gie 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' cheerful 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; I jouk beneath misfortune's blows As weel's I may; Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, I rhyme away.

O ye douce folk, that live by rule, Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, Compared wi' you-O fool! fool! fool! How much unlike! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives, a dyke!

Hae 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 though ye do despise The hairum-scarum, ram-stam boys, The rattlin squad:

I see you upward cast your eyes—

-Ye ken the road.

Whilst I-but I shall haud me thereWi' you I'll scarce gang onywhereThen, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, But quat my san Content wi' you to mak a pair,

Whare'er I gang

A DREAM.

Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with

reason;

But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason.

[On reading, in the public papers, the Laureat's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropped asleep, than he imagined himself to the birthday levee; and in his dreaming fancy made the following address.]

I.

GUID-MORNING to your majesty !

May heaven augment your blisses, On every new birth-day ye see, An humble poet wishes!

My bardship here, at your levee,
On sic a day as this is,
Is sure an uncouth sight to see,
Amang the birth-day dresses

Sae fine this day.

II.

I see ye're complimented thrang, By monie a lord and lady; "God save the king!"'s a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said aye; The poets, too, a venal gang,

Wi' rhymes weel turn'd and ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But aye unerring steady, On sic a day.

III.

For me, before a monarch's face,
E'en there I winna flatter;
For neither pension, post, nor place,
Am I your humble debtor:
So, nae reflection on your grace,

Your kingship to bespatter;
There's monie waur been o' the race,
And aiblins ane been better
Than you this day.

IV.

'Tis very true, my sovereign king,
My skill may weel be doubted:
But facts are chiels that winna ding,
An' downa be disputed:

Your royal nest, beneath your wing,
Is e'en right left an' clouted,
And now the third part of the string,
An' less, will gang about it
Than did ae day.

V.

Far be't frae me that I aspire
To blame your legislation,
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,
To rule this mighty nation!
But, faith, I muckle doubt, my sire,
Ye've trusted ministration
To chaps wha in a barn or byre
Wad better fill their station
Than courts yon day.

VI.

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace,
Her broken shins to plaster,
Your sair taxation does her fleece,
Till she has scarce a tester;
For me, thank God, my life's a lease,
Nae bargain wearing faster,
Or, faith! I fear, that wi' the geese,
I shortly boost to pasture

I' the craft some day.

VII.

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt,
When taxes he enlarges,
(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get,
A name not envy spairges,)