Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash;
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu'
cash;
Some rhyme to court the contra clash,
An' raise a din;

For me, an aim I never fash;'
I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,
An' d-d my fortune to the groat;
But, in requit,

Has blest me wi' a random shot
O' countra wit.

This while my notion's taen a sklent,
To try my fate in guid, black prent;
But still the mair I'm that way bent,

Something cries, "Hoolie !? I red 3 you, honest man, tak tent! Ye'll shaw your folly.

"There's ither poets, much your betters,

Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors,

Á' future ages;

Now moths deform in shapeless tatters, Their unknown pages." Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, To garland my poetic brows! Henceforth I'll rove where busy

ploughs

Are whistling thrang,
An' teach the lanely heights an' howcs
My rustic sang.

I'l' wander on, wi' tentless 4 heed
How never-halting moments speed,
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread:
Then, all unknown,
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead,
Forgot and
gone!

But why o' Death begin a tale?
Just now we're living, sound an' hale;
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,
Heave Care o'er side!

And large, before Enjoyment's gale,
Let's tak the tide.

This life, sae far's I understand,'
Is a' enchanted fairy-land,
Where pleasure is the magic wand,
That, wielded right,
Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand
Dance by fu' light.

The magic-wand then let us wield;
For, ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd,"
See, crazy, weary, joyless Eild,
Wi' wrinkl'd face,

Comes hostin, 3 hirplin owre the field
Wi' creepin pace.

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin,

Then fareweel vacant careless roamin;
An' fareweel chearfu' tankards foainin
An' social noise;
An' fareweel dear deluding woman,
The joy of joys!

O Life! how pleasant in thy morning,
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning!
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning,
We frisk away,

Like school-boys, at th' expected warning,

To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here,
We eye the rose upon the brier,
Unmindful that the thorn is near,
Among the leaves;
And tho' the puny wound appear,
Short while it grieves.

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot,
For which they never toil'd nor swat;
They drink the sweet and eat the fat,
But care or pain;

And, haply, eye the barren hut
With high disdain.

I In your epistle to J. S., the stanzas, from that beginning with this line, "This life," &c. to that which ends with, "Short while it grieves," are easy, flowing, gaily philosophical, and of Horatian elegance. The language is English, with a few Scottish words, and some of those so harmonious as t add to the beauty; for what poet would not prefer gloaming to twilight?-DR. MOORE, June 10, 1789.

Climbed. 3 Coughing. 4 Limping

With steady aim, some Fortune chase.
Keen Hope does ev'ry sinew brace;
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,
And seize the prey:

Then cannie, in some cozie place,
They close the day.

And others, like your humble servan', Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin' ;

To right or left, eternal swervin',
They zig-zag on;

fil' curst with age, obscure an' starvin', They aften groan.

Alas! what bitter toil an' strainingBut truce wi' peevish, poor complaining!

Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning?

E'en let her gang!

Beneath what light she has remaining Let's sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door, And kneel, "Ye Pow'rs!" and warm. implore,

"Tho' I should wander Terra o'er,
In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more,
Ay rowth' o' rhymes.

"Gie dreeping2 roasts to

Lairds,

countra

As lang's the Muses dinna fail
To say the grace."

An anxious e'e I never throws
Behint my lug, or by my nose;
I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows
As weel's I may;

Sworn foe to Sorrow, Care, and Prose
I rhyme away.

O ye deuce folk, that live by rule,
Gave, tideless-blooded, calm and soci
Compar'd wi' you-O fool! fool! foc!
How much unlike!
Your hearts are just a standing pol,
Your lives, a dyke!

Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces
In your unletter'd, nameless faces'
In arioso trills and graces

Ye never stray,

But gravissimo, solemn basses
Ye hum away.

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise
Nac ferly2 tho' ye do despise
The hairum-scairum, ram-stam 3 boy,
The rattling squad:

I see you upward cast your eyes-
Ye ken the road.--

Whilst I-but I shall haud me there-
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where-
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,
But quat my sang,

Contert with You to mak a pair,
Whare'er I gang.

For me! before a Monarch's face,
Ev'n there I winna flatter;
For neither pension, post, nor place,
Am I your humble debtor:
So, nae reflection on Your Grace,
Your Kingship to bespatter;
There's monie waur been o' the Race,
And aiblins2 ane been better

Than You this day.
'Tis very true, my sovereign King,
My skill may weel be doubted:
But Facts are cheels 3 that winna ding,4
An' downa 5 be disputed:
Your Royal nest, beneath Your wing,
Is e'en right reft an' clouted,6
And now the third part of the string,
An' less, will gang about it
Than did ae day.
Far be't frae me that I aspire
To blame your legislation,
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,
To rule this mighty nation!
But faith! I muckle doubt, my Sire,
Ye've trusted Ministration
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre,7
Wad better filled their station
Than courts yon day.

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace,
Her broken shins to plaister;
Your sair taxation does her fleece,

Till she has scarce a tester:
For me, thank God, my life's a lease,
Nae bargain wearing faster,
Or, faith! I fear, that wi' the geese,
shortly boost to pasture
I' the craft some day.

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt,
When taxes he enlarges,
(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get,3
A name not envy spairges,) 4
That he intends to pay your debt

An' lessen a' your charges;
But, God's sake! let nae saving-fit
Abridge your bonnie barges

An' boats this day.

Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geck
Beneath your high protection;
An' may Ye rax6 Corruption's neck,
And gie her for dissection!
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect,
In loyal, true affection,

To pay your Queen, with due respect,
My fealty an' subjection

This great Birth-day.

Hail, Majesty most Excellent!
While nobles strive to please Ye,
Will Ye accept a compliment

A simple Poet gies Ye?

Thae bonny bairntime, Heav'n has .ent,
Still higher may they heeze? Ye
In bliss, till Fate some day is seat,
For ever to release Ye

Yet af a Lagged cowte's' been known To niak a noble aiver;2

Sae, ye may doucely fill a Throne,

For a' their clish-ma-claver: 3 There, Him4 at Agincourt wha shone, Few better were or braver ; And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,5 He was an unco shaver6

For monie a day.

For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg,7
Nane sets the lawn-sleeves sweeter,
Altho' a ribbon at your lug
Wad been a dress completer:
As ye disown yon paughty 8 dog
That bears the Keys of Peter,
Then, swith 19 an' get a wife to hug,
Or, trouth! ye'll stain the Mitre
Some luckless day.
Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn,
Ye've lately come athwart her;
A glorious galley, stem and stern,
Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter;
But first hang out, that she'll discern
Your hymeneal charter.

II

10

Then heave aboard your grapple airn,12
An', large upon her quarter,
Come full that day.
Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a',

Ye royal Lasses dainty,
Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw,
An' gie you lads a plenty :
But sneer na British boys awa',

For Kings are unco scant ay;
An' German Gentles are but sma',
They're better just than want ay
On one day.

God bless you a'! consider now
Ye're unco muckle dautet: 13
But, ere the course o' life be through,
It may be bitter sautet:

closed the winter day, quat their roarin play, Maukin I taen her way To kail-yards green,

While faithless snaws ilk step betray
Where she has been.

The thresher's weary flingin-tree
The lee-lang day had tired me;
And when the day had clos'd his e'e,
Far i' the west,

Ben i' the Spence,' right pensivelie,
I gaed to rest.

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek,
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek,
The auld, clay biggin;2
An' beard the restless rattons 3 squeak
About the riggin.

All in this mottie, misty clime,
I backward mus'd on wasted time,
How I had spent my youthfu' prime,
An' done nae-thing,

But stringin blethers up in rhyme,
For fools to sing.

Had I to guid advice but harkit,
I might, by this, hae led a market
Or strutted in a bank, and clarkit
My cash-account:
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-
sarkit 4

Is a' th' amount.

I glowr'd as eerie's l'a been dusht In some wild glen;

When sweet, like modest worth, sha
blusht,
And stepped ben.2

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs
Were twisted, gracefu',round her brows,
I took her for some Scottish Muse,
By that same token;

And come to stop those reckless vow 3
Would soon been broken.
A "hair-brain'd, sentimental trace,'
Was strongly marked in her face;
A wildly-witty, rustic grace

Shone full upon her;
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space,
Beam'd keen with Honour.
Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen.
Till half a leg was scrimply3 seen;
And such a leg! my bonnie Jean
Could only peer it;

Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean,
Nane else came near it.

Her mantle large, of greenish hue,
My gazing wonder chiefly drew;
Deep lights and shades, bold-minglig,
threw

A lustre grand;

And seem'd, to my astonish'd view,
A well-known land.

Here, rivers in the sea were lost;
There, mountains to the skies were tost:
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the