And thou, Edina! aince my dear abode,
Whan royal Jamie sway'd the sov'reign rod,
In thae blest days, weel did I think bestow'd
To blaw thy poortith by wi' heaps o' gowd;
To mak thee sonsy seem wi' mony a gift,
And gar thy stately turrets speel the lift.
In vain did Danish Jones, wi' gimcrack pains,
In Gothic sculpture fret the pliant stanes;
In vain did he affix my statue here,

Brawly to busk wi' flowers ilk coming year.
My towers are sunk; my lands are barren now;
My fame, my honour, like my flowers, maun dow.

WATSON.

Sure, Major Weir, or some sic warlock wight,
Has flung beguilin glamour owre your sight;
Or else some kittle cantrip thrown, I ween,
Has bound in mirlygoes my ain twa een:
If ever aught frae sense cou'd be believ'd
(And seenil hae my senses been deceiv'd),
This moment owre the tap o' Adam's tomb,
Fu' easy can I see your chiefest dome.
Nae corbie fleein there, nor croupin craws,
Seem to forspeak the ruin o' thy ha's;
But a' your towers in wonted order stand,
Steeve as the rocks that hem our native land.

HERIOT.

Think na I vent my well-a-day in vain ;

Kent

ye the cause, ye sure wad join my mane.

Black be the day, that e'er to England's ground
Scotland was eikit by the Union's bond!
For mony a menzie o' destructive ills

The country now maun brook frae mortmain bills,

That void our test'ments, and can freely gie
Sic will and scoup to the ordain'd trustee,
That he may tir our stateliest riggins bare;
Nor acres, houses, woods, nor fishings spare,
'Till he can lend the stoiterin state a lift,
Wi' gowd in gowpins, as a grassum gift;
In lieu o' whilk, we maun be weel content
To tine the capital for three per cent. ;
A doughty sum indeed; whan, now-a-days,
They raise provisions as the stents they raise;
Yoke hard the poor, and lat the rich chields be
Pamper'd at ease by ithers' industry.

Hale interest for my fund can scantly now Cleed a' my callants' backs, and stap their mou'. How maun their wymes wi' sairest hunger slack, Their duds in targets flaff upon their back, Whan they are doom'd to keep a lastin Lent, Starving for England's weel, at three per cent. !

WATSON.

Auld Reikie then may bless the gowden times, Whan honesty and poortith baith are crimes.

She little ken'd, whan you and I endow'd
Our hospitals for back-gaun burghers' gude,
That e'er our siller or our lands shou'd bring
A gude bien livin to a back-gaun king;
Wha, thanks to Ministry! is grown sae wise,
He downa chew the bitter cud o' vice:
For gin, frae Castlehill to Netherbow,
Wad honest houses bawdy-houses grow,
The Crown wad never spier the price o' sin,
Nor hinder younkers to the deil to rin;
But, gif some mortal grien for pious fame,
And leave the poor man's prayer to sane his

name,

His gear maun a' be scatter'd by the claws
O'ruthless, ravenous, and harpy laws.
Yet, shou'd I think, although the bill tak place,
The council winna lack sae meikle grace
As lat our heritage at wanworth gang,
Or the succeeding generations wrang

O' braw bein maintenance, and walth o' lear,
Whilk else had drappit to their children's skair;
For
mony a deep, and mony a rare engine

Hae sprung frae Heriot's Wark, and sprung

frae mine.

HERIOT.

I find, my friend! that ye but little ken,

There's e'en now on the earth a set o' men,

Wha, if they get their private pouches lin'd,
Gie na a winnlestrae for a' mankind.

They'll sell their country, flae their conscience bare,

To

gar the weigh-bauk turn a single hair. The Government need only bait the line Wi' the prevailin flee the gowden coin! Then our executors, and wise trustees, Will sell them fishes in forbidden seas: Upo' their dwinin country girn in sport; Laugh in their sleeve, and get a place at court.

WATSON.

Ere that day come, I'll 'mang our spirits pick Some ghaist that trokes and conjures wi' Auld Nick,

To gar the wind wi' rougher rumbles blaw, And weightier thuds than ever mortal saw : Fireflaught and hail, wi' tenfauld fury's fires, Shall lay yird-laigh Edina's airy spires:

Tweed shall rin rowtin down his banks out

owre,

Till Scotland's out o' reach o' England's power; Upo' the briny Borean jaws to float,

And mourn in dowie seughs her dowie lot.

HERIOT.

Yonder's the tomb of wise Mackenzie fam'd, Whase laws rebellious bigotry reclaim'd;

Freed the hale land o' covenantin fools,

Wha erst hae fash'd us wi' unnumber'd dools.
Till night, we'll tak the swaird aboon our pows,
And then, whan she her ebon chariot rows,
We'll travel to the vau't wi' stealin stap,
And wauk Mackenzie frae his quiet nap;
Tell him our ails, that he, wi' wonted skill,
May fleg the schemers o' the Mortmain Bill*.

EPISTLE TO

MR ROBERT FERGUSSON.

Is Allan risen frae the dead,

Wha aft has tun'd the aiten reed,

And by the Muses was decreed

To grace the thistle?

Na:-Fergusson's come in his stead.

To blaw the whistle.

* This Poem was written about the time a bill was in agitation for vesting the whole funds of Hospitals, and other charities throughout the kingdom, in government stock, at, three per cent.