For this, some ca'd him an uncanny wight;
The clash gaed round," he had the second sight;"
A tale that never fail'd to be the pride
O' grannies spinnin' at the ingle-side.

GEORDIE.

But now he's gane; an fame, that, when alive,
Seenil lets ony o' her votaries thrive,

Will frae his shinin' name a' motes withdraw,
An' on her loudest trump his praises blaw.
Lang may his sacred banes untroubled rest!
Lang may his truff in gowans gay be drest!
Scholars, an' bards unheard-o' yet, shall come
An' stamp memorials on his grassy tomb,
Which in yon ancient kirkyard shall remain,
Fam'd as the urn that hauds the Mantuan swain.

ELEGY

On the Death of Mr David Gregory, late Professor of Mathematics in the University of St Andrews.

Now mourn, ye college masters a' !
An frae your een a tear let fa';
Fam'd Gregory death has taen awa,

Without remeid;

The skaith ye've met wi' 's nae that sma',
Sin' Gregory's dead.

The students, too, will miss him sair;
To school them weel his eident care;

Now they may mourn for ever mair;

They hae great need: They'll hip the maist feck o' their lear,

Sin' Gregory's dead.

He cou'd, by Euclid, prove lang syne,
A gangin' point compos'd a line.
By numbers, too, he cou'd divine,

When he did read,

That three times three just made up nine: But now he's dead.

In algebra weel skill'd he was,

An' kent fu' weel proportion's laws :
He cou'd mak clear baith B's and A's

Wi' his lang head;

Rin owre surd roots, but cracks or flaws :
But now he's dead.

Weel vers'd was he in architecture,
An' kent the nature o' the sector;
Upo' baith globes he weel cou'd lecture,

An' gar's tak heed;

O' geometry he was the Hector :

But now he's dead.

Sae weel's he'd fley the students a',
When they were skelpin at the ba’;
They took leg-bail, an' ran awa

Wi' pith an' speed:

We winna get a sport sae braw,

Sin' Gregory's dead.

Great 'casion hae we a' to weep,
An' cleed our skins in mournin' deep,

୮

༡ ་་་,

To tak his nap:

He'll till the resurrection sleep,

As sound's a tap.

THE DAFT DAYS.

Now mirk December's dowie face
Glowrs owre the rigs wi' sour grimace,
While, through his minimum o' space,
The bleer-ee'd sun,

Wi' blinkin' light an stealin' pace,
His race doth run.

Frae naked groves nae birdie sings;
To shepherd's pipe nae hillock rings;
The breeze nae odorous flavour brings
Frae Borean cave;

And dwynin' nature droops her wings,
Wi' visage grave.

Mankind but scanty pleasure glean
Frae snawy hill or barren plain,
When winter, 'midst his nippin' train,
Wi' frozen spear,

Sends drift owre a' his bleak domain,
An' guides the weir.

Auld Reikie! thou'rt the canty hole;
A bield for mony a cauldrife soul,
Wha snugly at thine ingle loll,

Baith warm an' couth;

While round they gar the bicker roll,

To weet their mouth.

When merry Yule-day comes, I trow,
You'll scantlins find a hungry mou;
Sma' are our cares, our stamacks fu'
O' gusty gear,

An' kickshaws, strangers to our view
Sin' fernyear.

Ye browster wives! now busk ye braw,
An' fling your sorrows far awa;
Then, come an' gie's the tither blaw
O' reaming ale,

Mair precious than the Well o' Spa,
Our hearts to heal.

Then, though at odds wi' a' the warl',
Amang oursels we'll never quarrel;
Though discord gie a canker'd snarl
To spoil our glee,

As lang's there's pith into the barrel,
We'll drink an' gree.

Fiddlers! your pins in temper fix,
An' rozet weel your fiddlesticks;
But banish vile Italian tricks

Frae out your quorum;

Nor fortes wi' pianos mix

Gie's Tullochgorum.

For nought can cheer the heart sae weel, As can a canty Highland reel;

It even vivifies the heel

To skip and dance:

Lifeless is he wha canna feel

Its influence..

Let mirth abound; let social cheer
Invest the dawnin' o', the year;

Let blythesome innocence appear,

To crown our joy;

Nor envy, wi' sarcastic sneer,

Our bliss destroy.

An' thou, great god of aquavita!
Wha sway'st the empire o' this city—
When fou, we're sometimes capernoity-
Be thou prepar'd

To hedge us frae that black banditti,
The City Guard.

THE

KING'S BIRTH-DAY IN Edinburgh.

Oh! qualis hurly-burly fuit, si forte vidisses.

I SING the day sae aften sung,

Polemo-Middinia.

Wi' which our lugs hae yearly rung,

In whase loud praise the Muse has dung
A' kind o' print;

But, wow! the limmer's fairly flung;
There's naething in't.

I'm fain to think the joy's the same
In London town as here at hame,
Whare fouk o' ilka age and name,

Baith blind an' cripple,

Forgather aft, O fy for shame!

To drink an' tipple.

O Muse! be kind, an' dinną fash us

To flee awa beyond Parnassus,