And never may their sources fail!
And never envy blot their name!

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,
Gay as the guilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptured thrill of joy!
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye,
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine;
I see the Sire of Love on high,

And own his work indeed divine!

There, watching high the least alarms,
Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar;
Like some bold veteran, gray in arms,
And mark'd with many a seamy scar;
The ponderous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock;
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repelled the invader's shock.

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately dome,
Where Scotia's kings of other years,
Famed heroes! had their royal home:
Alas, how changed the times to come!
Their royal name low in the dust!
Their hapless race wild-wandering roam,
Though rigid law cries out, 'twas just !
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Through hostile ranks and ruined gaps,
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore:
Even I who sing in rustic lore,

Haply, my sires have left their shed,
And faced grim danger's loudest roar,
Bold-following where your fathers led!

Edina! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat Legislation's sovereign powers! From marking wildly scattered flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I strayed, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honoured shade.

ON CHARLES EDWARD'S BIRTH-DAY.

FALSE flatterer, Hope, away!
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore;
We solemnize this sorrowing natal-day
To prove our loyal truth; we can no more;

And owning Heaven's mysterious sway,
Submissive low adore.

Ye honoured mighty dead!

Who nobly perished in the glorious cause,
Your king, your country, and her laws!

From great Dundee who smiling Victory led,
And fell a martyr in her arms

(What breast of northern ice but warms?)

To bold Balmerino's undying name,

Whose soul of fire, lighted at Heaven's high flame,
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim.
Nor unavenged your fate shall be,

It only lags the fatal hour;

Your blood shall with incessant cry
Awake at last th' unsparing power;
As from the cliff, with thundering course,
The snowy ruin smokes along,

With doubling speed and gathering force,

Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the vale

TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS,

AS A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.

AGAIN the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driven,

January 1, 1787.

And you, though scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer heaven.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;

I send you more than India boasts
In Edwin's simple tale.

Our sex with guile and faithless love

Is charged, perhaps, too true;

But may, dear maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you!

BURNS TO THE GUDEWIFE OF WAUCHOPE HOUSE.

I MIND it weel in early date,

When I was beardless, young, and blate,

And first could thrash the barn;

Or haud a yoking at the pleugh;
And though forfoughten sair enough,

Yet unco proud to learn:

When first among the yellow corn
A man I reckon'd was,

well bashful

hold, team, plough

fatigued sore very

And wi' the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass,
Still shearing, and clearing,
The tither stookèd raw,
Wi' claivers and haivers,
Wearing the day awa.

E'en then, a wish, I mind its power-
A wish that to my latest hour

Shall strongly heave my breast-
That I, for poor auld Scotland's sake,
Some usefu' plan or beuk could make,
Or sing a sang at least.

The rough burr-thrissle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bere,

I turned the weeder-clips aside,
And spared the symbol dear:
No nation, no station,

My envy e'er could raise,
A Scot still, but blot still,
I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o' sang

In formless jumble, right and wrang,
Wild floated in my brain;

Till on that har'st I said before,
My partner in the merry core,

She roused the forming strain;
I see her yet, the sonsie quean,
That lighted up her jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky een
That gart my heart-strings tingle:
I fired, inspired,

At every kindling keek,
But bashing and dashing,
I feared aye to speak.

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says,
Wi' merry dance in winter days,

And we to share in common:

The gust o' joy, the balm of woe,
The saul o' life, the heaven below,

Is rapture-giving woman.

Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,
Be mindfu' o' your mither;

rest each

other, row talk, nonsense

book

Scotch thistle

barley

weeding-iron

harvest company

stout & good-natured

She, honest woman, may think shame
That ye're connected with her.

Ye're wae men, ye're nae men,
That slight the lovely dears;

To shame ye, disclaim ye,

Ilk honest birkie swears.

For you, no bred to barn and byre,
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,
Thanks to you for your line:

sly eyes made

glance

each good fellow

soul

fools

poor, not

each, fellow

who

WILLIE SMELLIE to Crochallan came,

The old cocked hat, the gray surtout, the same;
His bristling beard just rising in its might;
'Twas four long nights and days till shaving night;
His uncombed grizzly locks, wild staring, thatched
A head for thought profound and clear unmatched;
Yet though his caustic wit was biting rude,
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good.

ON WILLIE DUNBAR.

As I cam by Crochallan,

I cannilie keekit ben;

Rattlin', roarin' Willie

Was sitting at yon boord-en';
Sitting at yon boord-en',

And amang gude companie;
Rattlin', roarin' Willie,

Ye're welcome hame to me!

TO MRS DAVID WILSON.

My blessings on ye, honest wife,

I ne'er was here before;

gently looked in

board-end

Ye've wealth o' gear for spoon and knife-
Heart could not wish for more.

Heaven keep you clear of sturt and strife,

Till far ayont four score,

AND IF I KEEP MY HEALTH and life,

I'll ne'er gae by your door!

The printer of his poems.

trouble

beyond

go

VERSES UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSON.

SHAME on ungrateful man, that can be pleased,
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure!
Oh thou, my elder brother in misfortune,
By far my elder brother in the Muses,
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!
Why is the Bard unpitied by the world,
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?

Then horn for horn they stretch and strive,

SHAME ON the hindmost, on they drive,

clean

any

smoking

Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve stomachs, by and by

Are bent like drums;

Then auld guid man, maist like to rive,

"Bethankit" hums.

Is there that o'er his French ragout,

Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad mak her spew

Wi' perfect scunner,

Looks down wi' sneerin', scornfu' view
On sic a dinner!

Poor FELLOW! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a withered rash,
His spindle shank a good whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;

Through bloody flood or field to dash,
Oh how unfit!