Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,

But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe- or his friend; Said

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Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,' And knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;

But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame, Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame. 40

A bard was selected to witness the fray,
And tell future ages the feats of the day;
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen,
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

The dinner being over, the claret they ply,

And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy;

In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,
And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er;
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core,
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn,
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn.

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did.

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,
No longer the warfare ungodly would wage;
A high-ruling elder to wallow in wine!

He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;
But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend?
Though fate said, a hero should perish in light;
So up rose bright Phoebus-and down fell the knight.

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Next up rose our bard. like a prophet in drink :
'Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink!
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,
Come-one bottle more-and have at the sublime!

"Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay!

The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!'

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THE KIRK'S ALARM.

ORTHODOX, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience :
There's a heretic blast has been blawn i' the wast,
'That what is not sense must be nonsense.'

Dr. Mac, Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack,
To strike evil-doers wi' terror;

To join faith and sense upon ony pretence,
Is heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare,
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing;

Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief,
And orator Bob is its ruin.

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D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a child,
And your life like the new driven snaw,

Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye,
For preaching that three's ane and twa.

Rumble John, Rumble John, mount the steps wi' a groan,
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd;

Then lug out your ladle, deal brimstane like adle,
And roar ev'ry note of the damn'd.

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Simper James, Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames,
There's a holier chase in your view;

I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead,
For puppies like you there's but few.

Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney, are ye herding the penny,
Unconscious what evils await?

Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul,
For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld,
A tod meikle waur than the clerk;

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Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death,
And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark.

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do muster, The corps is no nice of recruits :

Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast, If the ass was the king of the brutes.

Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, ye hae made but toom roose, In hunting the wicked Lieutenant;

But the Doctor's your mark, for the Lord's haly ark, He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrang pin in 't.

Poet Willie, Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley,
Wi' your liberty's chain' and your wit;

O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride,

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he shit.

Andro Gouk, Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book,
And the book no the waur, let me tell ye!

Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig,
And ye'll hae a calf's head o'sma' value.

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Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, what mean ye? what mean ye?
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter.

Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense,
Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.

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Irvine Side, Irvine Side, wi' your turkeycock pride,
Of manhood but sma' is your share;

Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will allow,
And your friends they dare grant vou nae mair.

Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock, when the Lord makes a rock
To crush common sense for her sins,

If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit
To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

Holy Will, Holy Will, there was wit i' your skull,
When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor;

The timmer is scant when ye're ta'en for a saint,
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual guns,
Ammunition you never can need;

Your hearts are the stuff will be powther enough,
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelping turns,
Why desert ye your auld native shire?

Your muse is a gipsy, e'en tho' she were tipsy
She cou'd ca' us nae waur than we are.

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LINES WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE,

ON NITH-SIDE.

THOU whom chance may hither lead,

Be thou clad in russet weed,

Be thou deckt in silken stole,
Grave these counsels on thy soul.

Life is but a day at most,

Sprung from night, in darkness lost:
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour,
Fear not clouds will always lour.

Eines written in Friars-Carse Hermitage.

As Youth and Love, with sprightly dance,
Beneath thy morning star advance,
Pleasure with her syren air

May delude the thoughtless pair;
Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup,
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up.

As thy day grows warm and high,
Life's meridian flaming nigh,

Dost thou spurn the humble vale?

Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale?
Check thy climbing step, elate,

Evils lurk in felon wait:
Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold,

Soar around each cliffy hold,

While cheerful Peace, with linnet song,
Chants the lowly dells among.

As the shades of ev'ning close,
Beck'ning thee to long repose;
As life itself becomes disease,
Seek the chimney-nook of ease.

There ruminate with sober thought,

On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought:

And teach the sportive younkers round,

Saws of experience, sage and sound.

Say man's true genuine estimate,
The grand criterion of his fate,
Is not Art thou high or low?
Did thy fortune ebb or flow?
Did many talents gild thy span?
Or frugal Nature grudge thee one?
Tell them, and press it on their mind,
As thou thyself must shortly find,
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n
To Virtue or to Vice is giv'n.

Say to be just, and kind, and wise,--
There solid self-enjoyment lies;
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways
Lead to be wretched, vile, and base.
Thus resign'd and quiet, creep
To the bed of lasting sleep;
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake,
Night, where dawn shall never break

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