Like "Patience on a monument" you stand, Speak! why so cowardly conceal the cause Of your absurd, humiliating plight? here thee overawes, What august presence Poor sneaking, timid, melancholy wight ? Solicit you a beggar's bite of bread, From such a grovelling brother of the soil? No!-why then hang as self-condemned your head? Go, ask mock-consequence for leave to toilWithout reserve, your wish a child might scan— And show yourself, poor devil, once a man. That "Britons never shall be slaves," how vain That boast with you! so henceforth sing it not; Nor any of your smutty trade and train, Who equally with you may curse their lot, ANSWER TO ROBERT GILFILLAN. EALTH, sir, to you! I've lang essay'd A gratefu' tribute to hae paid; But aye the Muse, that fickle jade, Syne by the pen I've aften laid Then up the pipe wi' vengeance cocket, To ne'er again wi' her be yocket "Twas in a plight like this yestreen, Alane mysel, without my frien', In his bit cot of ivy green In scented breer, I saw, what few hae ever seen When seated at the clean fireside, With whom on earth the gayest bride Her flowin' robes were driven snaw, Bloom'd flowers the sweetest e'er I saw, Thought I, guid keep me; Lord, be here! I guessed some goddess was asteer, She spak-'twas music in my ear— Then beckon'd to me and drew nigher, Then smilin', vow'd me to inspire Hail, favours sacred ever new! Then frae her breath distill'd a dew, I 'nhaled in store, And raise transported, born anew, For rhymin' lore, My heart wi' gratefu' feelings glowed, A thousand thanks I felt I owed My heavenly Donor, Which, while I reverently bowed, I poured upon her. But by degrees a flood o' light But when I rallied on that night, Now on my harp, hail three times ten, Lang life and health to thee I sen'; While inspiration guides my pen, Thy praise I'll sound, And honest worth, thou wale o' men, Till a' resound. Your kind reply to what I sent Believe me, sir, for frae my youth, And freely dealt to a' a footh O' blame or praise. An independent mind for me- I loathe, and glory to be free, As Steel's my name. Forgie me, sir, and wi' me bear; Your honest verdict dinna spare— "Twill stand inspection. My theme is Roslin, sir, I ween; Lang famed and classic has it been; Speak loud o' mony a moving scene Of strife, and stratagem, and plot, Blooms o'er a grave; And buried splendours sleep, forgot, Where nettles wave. H |