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Then lowering, and pouring,

The storm no more I dread; Though thickening and blackening Round my devoted head.

II.

And, thou grim power, by life abhorr'd,
While life a pleasure can afford,
O! hear a wretch's prayer!
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid;
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,

To close this scene of care!
When shall my soul, in silent peace,
Resign life's joyless day;

My weary heart its throbbing cease,
Cold mouldering in the clay?
No fear more, no tear more,
To stain my lifeless face;
Enclasped, and grasped
Within thy cold embrace!

TO MISS L—,

WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS AS A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT, JANUARY 1, 1787.

AGAIN the silent wheels of time

Their annual round have driven,

And you, though scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer heaven.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;

I send you more than India boasts,
In Edwin's simple tale.

Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charged, perhaps, too true;
But may, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you!

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. MAY, 1786.

I.

I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Though it should serve nae other end
Than just a kind memento;
But how the subject theme may gang
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

II.
Ye'll try the world soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,

And muckle they may grieve ye.
For care and trouble set your thought,
E'en when your end's attained;
And a' your views may come to naught,
Where every nerve is strained.

III.

I'll no say, men are villains a' ;
The real, harden'd wicked,
Wha hae nae check but human law,

Are to a few restricked:

But och mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted;

If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted!

IV.

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,
Their fate we should nae censure,
For still th' important end of life
They equally may answer;
A man may hae an honest heart,
Though poortith hourly stare him;
A man may tak a neebor's part,
Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

V.

Aye free, aff han' your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel
Ye scarcely tell to ony.
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can

Frae critical dissection;

But keek through every other man,
Wi' sharpen'd, slee inspection.
VI.

The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;

But never tempt th' illicit rove,

Though naething should divulge it! I wave the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling!

VII.

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by every wile

That's justified by honour;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Not for a train-attendant;
But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent.

VIII.

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip,
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,
Let that aye be your border;
Its slightest touches, instant pause-
Debar a' side pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences.

IX.

The great Creator to revere

Must sure become the creature ; But still the preaching cant forbear, And e'en the rigid feature;

Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended;
An atheist's laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended!

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The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him; The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e;

For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him
That's owre the sea.

O fortune, they hae room to grumble! Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bummle, Wha can do naught but fyke and fumble, "Twad been nae plea; But he was gleg as ony wumble,

That's owre the sea.
Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear,
An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;
"Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,
In flinders flee;

He was her laureate monie a year,
That's owre the sea.

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last,
Ill may she be!

So took a birth afore the mast,

An' owre the sea.

To tremble under fortune's cummock, On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,

Wi' his proud, independent stomach
Could ill agree;

So row't his hurdies in a hammock,
An' owre the sea.

He ne'er was gien to great misguiding,
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ;
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding;
He dealt it free:

The muse was a' that he took pride in,
That's owre the sea.

Jamaica bodies, use him weel,
An' hap him in a cozie biel;
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel,
And fu' o' glee;

He wad na wrang'd the vera diel,

That's owre the sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! Your native soil was right ill-willie;

But may ye flourish like a lily,

Now bonnilie!

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Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve,
Bethankit hums.

Is there that o'er his French ragout,
Or olio that would staw a sow,
Or fricasee wad make her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip lash,
His nieve a nit;
Through bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He'll mak it whissle;

An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye powers, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a haggis!

A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.

EXPECT na, sir, in this narration,

A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication,
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid,
Because ye're surnamed like his grace,
Perhaps related to the race;
Then when I'm tired-and sae are ye,
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
Set up a face, how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do-maun do, sir, wi' them wha
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou;
For me! sae laigh I need na bow,
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough;
And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg;
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatterin,
It's just sic poet, an' sic patron.

The poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him,
He may do weel for a' he's done yet,
But only he's no just begun yet.

The patron, (sir, ye maun forgie me,
I winna lie, come what will o' me,)
On every hand it will allow'd be,
He's just-nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant,
He downa see a poor man want;
What's no his ain he winna tak it,
What ance he says, he winna break it;
Aught he can lend he'll no refuse't,
Till aft his guidness is abused:
And rascals whyles that do him wrang,
E'en that, he does na mind it lang:
As master, landlord, husband, father,
He does na fail his part in either.

But then, na thanks to him for a' that;
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that;
It's naething but a milder feature
Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature!
Ye'll get the best o' moral works
"Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks.
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,
Wha never heard of orthodoxy.

That he's the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word and deed,

It's no through terror of d-mn-tion; It's just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane,

Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice!

No-stretch a point to catch a plack; Abuse a brother to his back; Steal through a winnock frae a wh-re, But point the rake that taks the door: Be to the poor like onie whunstane, And haud their noses to the grunstane, Ply every art o' legal thieving; No matter, stick to sound believing.

Learn three-mile prayers, and half-mile

graces,

Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces;
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan,
And damn a' parties but your own;
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver,
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.

O ye wha leave the springs of C-lv-n,
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin !
Ye sons of heresy and error,

Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror!
When vengeance draws the sword in wrath,
And in the fire throws the sheath;
When ruin, with his sweeping besom,
Just frets till Heaven commission gies him:
While o'er the harp pale misery moans,
And strikes the ever deepening tones,
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!

Your pardon, sir, for this digression,
I maist forgat my dedication;
But when divinity comes cross me,
My readers still are sure to lose me.

So, sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour,
But I maturely thought it proper,
When a' my work I did review,
To dedicate them, sir, to you:
Because (ye need na tak it ill)

I thought them something like yoursel.

Then patronize them wi' your favour,
And your petitioner shall ever-
I had amaist said, ever pray,
But that's a word I need na say:

For prayin I hae little skill o't;
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill o't;
But I'se repeat each poor man's prayer,
That kens or hears about you, sir-

"May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark
Howl through the dwelling o' the clerk!
May ne'er his generous, honest heart,
For that same generous spirit smart!
May K******'s far honour'd name
Lang beet his hymeneal flame,
Till H*******s, at least a dizen,
Are frae their nuptial labours risen:
Five bonnie lasses round their table,
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able

To serve their king and country weel,
By word, or pen, or pointed steel!
May health and peace, with mutual rays,
Shine on the evening o' his days;
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe,
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!"

I will not wind a lang conclusion,
Wi' complimentary effusion:
But whilst your wishes and endeavours
Are blest with fortune's smiles and favours,
I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent,
Your much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which powers above prevent!)
That iron-hearted carl, want,
Attended in his grim advances

By sad mistakes, and black mischances,
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,
Make you as poor a dog as I am,
Your humble servant then no more;
For who would humbly serve the poor?
But by a poor man's hopes in heaven!
While recollection's power is given,
If, in the vale of humble life,
The victim sad of fortune's strife,
I, through the tender gushing tear,
Should recognise my master dear,
If friendless, low, we meet together,
Then, sir, your hand-my friend and brother!

TO A LOUSE.

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH.

HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie ? Your impudence protects you sairly:

I canna say but ye strunt rarely

Owre gauze and lace;
Though faith, I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn'd by saunt and sinner,
How dare ye set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a lady?
Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner,
On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; Where ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumpin cattle,

In shoals and nations;

Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle
Your thick plantations.

Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right
Till ye've got on it,
The vera tapmost, towering height
O' miss's bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,
As plump and gray as onie grozet;
O for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,

I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't,

Wad dress your droddum!

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Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarged, their liberal 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!

IV. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn! Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptured thrill of joy! Fair B strikes th' adoring eye, Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine;

I see the sire of love on high,

And own his work indeed divine!

V.

There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar;

Like some bold veteran, gray in arms, And mark'd with many a seamy scar; The ponderous walls and massy bar, Grim rising o'er the rugged rock; Have oft withstood assailing war,

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock.

VI.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately dome,
Where Scotia's kings of other years,

Famed heroes! had their royal home:
Alas! how changed the times to come!

Their royal name low in the dust! Their hapless race wild-wandering roam! Though rigid law cries out, "Twas just!

VII.

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Through hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore :
E'en I who sing in rustic lore,

Haply my sires have left their shed, And faced grim danger's loudest roar, Bold following where your fathers led! VIII.

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign powers! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK,

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.-APRIL 1st, 1785.
WHILE briers and woodbines budding green,
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,
An' morning poussie whiddin seen,
Inspire my muse,

This freedom in an unknown frien',
I pray excuse.

On fasten-een we had a rockin,
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin;
And there was muckle fun an' jokin,
Ye need na doubt;
At length we had a hearty yokin
At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleased me best,
That some kind husband had addrest

To some sweet wife:

It thrill'd the heart-strings through the breast, A' to the life.

I've scarce heard aught describes sae weel, What generous, manly bosoms feel; Thought I, "Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattie's wark !" They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And sae about him there I spier't; Then a' that ken't him round declared He had ingine,

That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, It was sae fine.

That set him to a pint of ale,
An' either douce or merry tale,
Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel,
Or witty catches,

'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale,

He had few matches.

Then up I gat, an' swoor an' aith, Though I should pawn my pleugh and graith, Or die a cadger pownie's death,

At some dyke-back,

A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith

To hear your crack.

But, first an' foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle fell,

Though rude an' rough,

Yet crooning to a body's sel,

Does well eneugh.

I am nae poet, in a sense,
But just a rhymer, like, by chance,
An' hae to learning nae pretence,

Yet, what the matter?
Whene'er my muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.

Your critic folk may cock their nose,
And say, "How can you e'er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?"

But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye're may be wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your schools,
Your Latin names for horns an' stools;
If honest nature made you fools,

What sairs your grammars:
Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools,
Or knappin hammers.

A set o' dull conceited hashes,
Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;

An' syne they think to climb Parnassu;
By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire,

That's a' the learning I desire;

Then though I drudge through dub an' mire

At pleugh or cart,

My muse, though hamely in attire,

May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee,
Or bright Lapraik's my friend to be,
If I can hit it!
That would be lear eneugh for me,
If I could get it.

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