V.

A country lad is my degree,

An' few there be that ken me, O; But what care I how few they be, I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O. VI.

My riches a' 's my penny-fee,

An' I maun guide it cannie, 0 ; But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O. VII.

Our auld Guidman delights to view

His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O; But I'm as blithe that hauds his pleugh, An' has nae care but Nannie, O.

V.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O; Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, And then she made the lasses, O.

Green grow, &c.

SONG.

Tune-" Jockie's Grey Breeks."
I.

AGAIN rejoicing Nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep'd in morning dews.

CHORUS.*

And maun I still on Menie † doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk, And it winna let a body be!

II.

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the vi'lets spring;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.
And maun I still, &c.
III.

The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks,
But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.
And maun I still, &c.
IV.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.
And maun I still, &

V.

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorlands whistle shill,
Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step
I meet him on the dewy hill.

And maun I still, &c.

VI.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blithe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on fluttering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
And maun I still, &c.

*This chorus is part of a song composed by a gentle. man in Edinburgh, a particular friend of the author's. + Menie is a common abbreviation of Mariamne.}

Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name,

To masonry and Scotia dear!

A last request, permit me here,

When yearly ye assemble a',
One round, I ask it with a tear,
To him, the bard that's fur awa'!

WRITTEN IN

FRIARS CARSE HERMITAGE

SONG

Tune-"Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tavern let's fly."

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 every hour,
Fear not clouds will always lower.

As youth and love with sprightly dance,
Beneath thy morning star advance,
Pleasure with her siren 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-pinion'd, 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-neuk 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 the 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 the 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, Till future life, future no more, To light and joy the good restore, To light and joy unknown before.

Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour Till waukrife morn!

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! Oft have ye heard my canty strains : But now, what else for me remains

But tales of woe; An' frae my een the drapping rains Maun ever flow.

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year! Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : Thou, simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, For him that's dead!

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear! Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air

The roaring blast,

Wide o'er the naked world declare

The worth we've lost!

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light!
Mourn, empress of the silent night!
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright,
My Matthew mourn!

For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight,
Ne'er to return.

O Henderson! the man, the brother! And art thou gone, and gone for ever! And hast thou cross'd that unknown river, Life's dreary bound!

Like thee, where shall I find another,
The world around!

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state! But by the honest turf I'll wait,

Thou man of worth! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth.

THE EPIТАРН.

STOP, passenger! my story's brief;
And truth I shall relate man:
I tell nae common tale o' grief,
For Matthew was a great man.

If thou uncommon merit hast,

Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man; A look of pity hither cast,

For Matthew was a poor man.

If thou a noble sodger art,

That passest by this grave, man: There moulders here a gallant heart, For Matthew was a brave man.

If thou on men, their works and ways, Canst throw uncommon light, man;

Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, For Matthew was a bright man.

If thou at friendship's sacred ca', Wad life itself resign, man; Thy sympathetic tear maun fa', For Matthew was a kind man.

If thou art staunch without a stain, Like the unchanging blue, man, This was a kinsman o' thy ain,

For Matthew was a true man.

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, And ne'er guid wine did fear, man, This was thy billie, dam, and sire, For Matthew was a queer man,

If ony whiggish whingin sot,

To blame poor Matthew dare, man; May dool and sorrow be his lot, For Matthew was a rare mar

LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS,

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green

On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea

Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies;
But nought can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis mild wi' many a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest:
In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae:
The meanest hind in fair Scotland,
May rove their sweets amang;
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang.

I was the Queen o' bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been ;
Fu' lightly raise I in the morn,

As blithe lay down at e'en :
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland,
And mony a traitor there;
Yet here I lie in foreign bands
And never ending care.