Then never murmur nor repine; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine; And trust me, not Potosi's mine,

Nor king's regard,

Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine,
A rustic Bard.

'To give my counsels all in one, Thy tuneful flame still careful fan; Preserve the Dignity of Man,

With soul erect;

And trust, the Universal Plan

Will all protect.

'And wear thou this '-she solemn said, And bound the Holly round my head: The polish'd leaves, and berries red,

Did rustling play;

And, like a passing thought, she fled

In light away.

NOTES ON THE VISION.

1 The Wallaces.

2 William Wallace.

3 Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the immortal preserver of Scottish independence.

4 Wallace, laird of Craigie, who was second in command, under Douglas earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct and in

D

trepid valour of the gallant laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action.

5 Coilus, king of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the family-seat of the Montgomeries of Coils-field, where his burial-place is still shown.

6 Barskimming, the seat of the late lord justice clerk. 7 Catrine, the seat of the late doctor, and present professor Stewart.

8 Colonel Fullarton.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

O prince! O chief of many throned powers,
That led the embattled Seraphim to war.

Milton.

O THOU ! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,

Closed under hatches,

Spairges about the bruustane cootie,

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
E'en to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy power, an' great thy fame;
Far ken'd and noted is thy name;

An' though yon lowin heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far;

An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion,
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin;
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,
Tirling the kirks;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend grannie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld ruin'd castles, gray,
Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wanderer's way,
Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my grannie summon, To say her prayers, douce, honest woman! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, Wi' eerie drone;

Or, rustlin, through the boortries comin,
Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi' sklentin light,

Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright,

Ayont the lough;

Ye like a rash-bush stood in sight,

Wi' waving sugh.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristled hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick—quaick—

Amang the springs,

Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake,

On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags,
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked speed;

And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
Owre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ; For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen

By witching skill;

An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen
As yell's the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, On young guidman, fond, keen, an' crouse; When the best wark-lume i' the house, By cantrip wit,

Is instant made no worth a louse,

Just at the bit.

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin icy-boord,

Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,

By your direction,

An' nighted travellers are allured

To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is : The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,

Ne'er mair to rise.