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Poet Willie, Poet Willie,

Gie the doctor a volley,

To confound the poor doctor at ance, Muirland George,

Wi' your 'liberty's chain' and your wit: To confound the poor doctor at ance.

O'er Pegasus' side,

Ye ne'er laid a stride,
Ye only stood by when he sh—,
Poet Willie,
Ye only stood by when he sh―.

Bar Steenie, Bar Steenie,
What mean ye? what mean ye?
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence man,
To havins and sense man,
Wi' people that ken you nae better,
Bar Steenie,

Wi' people that ken you nae better.

Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose,
Ye hae made but toom roose,
O' hunting the wicked lieutenant;
But the doctor's your mark,
For the Lord's holy ark,

He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin
in't,
Jamie Goose,

He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin in't.

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, For a saunt if ye muster, It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits, Yet to worth let's be just, Royal blood ye might boast,

If the ass were the King o' the brutes. Davie Bluster,

If the ass were the King o' the brutes,

Muirland George, Muirland George, Whom the Lord made a scourge, To claw common sense for her sins; If ill manners were wit, There's no mortal so fit,

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THE SELKIRK GRACE.

SOME hae meat, and canna eat,

And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thanket.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF PEG NICHOLSON.

PEG NICHOLSON was a gude bay Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare,

mare,

As ever trode on airn;

But now she's floating down the Nith,
An' past the mouth o' Cairn.

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare,
An' rode thro' thick an' thin;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
An' wanting even the skin.

An' ance she bare a priest;

But now she's floating down the Nith,
For Solway fish a feast.

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare,
An' the priest he rode her sair;
An' meikle oppress'd an' bruised she
was,

As priest-rid cattle are.

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF

OF ONE OF MISS HANNAH MORE'S WORKS, WHICH SHE HAD GIVEN HIM.

THOU flattering mark of friendship | She showed her tastes refined and just

kind

Still may thy pages call to mind

The dear, the beauteous donor: Though sweetly female every part,

Yet such a head, and more the heart,

Does both the sexes honour.

When she selected thee,
Yet deviating own I must,
For so approving me.

But kind still, I'll mind still
The giver in the gift;
I'll bless her and wiss her
A Friend above the Lift.

ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG

NAMED ECHO.

IN wood and wild, ye warbling throng, | Ye jarring, screeching things around, Your heavy loss deplore;

Now half-extinct your powers of song, Sweet Echo is no more.

Scream your discordant joys;

Now half your din of tuneless sound With Echo silent lies.

ON SEEING MISS FONTENELLE

IN A FAVORITE CHARACTER.

SWEET naïveté of feature,
Simple, wild, enchanting elf,
Not to thee, but thanks to Nature,
Thou art acting but thyself.

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, Spurning nature, torturing art; Loves and graces all rejected, Then indeed thou'd'st act a part,

EPITAPH ON MISS JESSY LEWARS.

SAY, Sages, what's the charm on earth

Can turn Death's dart aside?

It is not purity and worth,

Else Jessy had not died.

THE RECOVERY OF JESSY LEWARS.

BUT rarely seen since Nature's birth,

The natives of the sky,

Yet still one Seraph's left on earth,
For Jessy did not die.

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LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK NOTE.

WAE worth thy power, thou cursed leaf!
Fell source o' a' my woe and grief!
For lack o' thee I've lost my lass!
For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass.
I see the children of affliction
Unaided, thro' thy curs'd restriction.
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile,
Amid his hapless victim's spoil.

For lack o' thee I leave this much-lov'd shore,
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.

REMORSE.

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,
Beyond comparison the worst are those

That to our folly or our guilt we owe.
In every other circumstance, the mind
Has this to say 'It was no deed of mine;'
But when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added-Blame thy foolish self!'
Or worser far, the pangs of keen Remorse;
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt —
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others;
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us,
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!
O burning hell! in all thy store of torments,
There's not a keener lash!

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,

Can reason down its agonizing throbs;
And, after proper purpose of amendment,

Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?
O, happy! happy! enviable man!

O glorious magnanimity of soul!

THE TOAST.

FILL me with the rosy wine,
Call a toast, a toast divine;
Give the Poet's darling flame,
Lovely Jessy be the name;
Then thou mayest freely boast,
Thou hast given a peerless toast.

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