Imagens das páginas
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My bardship here, at your levee,
On sic a day as this is,

Is sure an uncouth sight to see,
Amang the birth-day dresses
Sae fine this day.


I see ye're complimented thrang, By monie a lord and lady; "God save the king!"'s a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said aye;

The poets, too, a venal gang,

Wi' rhymes weel turn'd and ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But aye unerring steady, On sic a day.


For me, before a monarch's face,
E'en 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 aiblins ane been better
Than you this day.


'Tis very true, my sovereign king,
My skill may weel be doubted:
But facts are chiels that winna ding,
An' downa be disputed:

Your royal nest, beneath your wing,
Is e'en right left an' clouted,
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 Wad better fill their station Than courts yon day.


And now ye've gien auld Britain peace,
Her broken shins to plaster,
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,
I 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,
A name not envy spairges,)

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Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known
To make a noble aiver ;
So ye may doucely fill a throne,
For a' their clishmaclaver:
There, him at Agincourt wha shone,
Few better were or braver ;
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,†
He was an unco shaver

For monie a day.

For you, right reverend O*******, Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Although a riband at your lug

Wad been a dress completer: As ye disown yon paughty dog

That bears the keys of Peter, Then, swith! an' get a wife to hug, Or, trouth! ye'll stain the mitre Some luckless day.

* King Henry V.

+ Sir John Falstaff: vide Shakspeare.

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a',

Ye royal lasses dainty,

Heaven make you guid as weel as braw,

An' gie you lads a-plenty :

But sneer nae British boys awa',
For kings are unco scant aye;
An' German gentles are but sma',
They're better just than want aye,
On onie day.


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

An' I hae seen their coggie fou,

That yet hae tarrow't at it; But or the day was done, I trow, The laggen they hae clautet

Fu' clean that day.



THE sun had closed the winter day, The curlers quat their roaring play, An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way To kail-yards green, While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has been.

The thresher's weary flingin-tree,
The lee-lang day had tired me;
And when the day had closed 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 eyed the spewing reek,
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek,
The auld clay biggin;

An' heard the restless rattons squeak
About the riggin.

* Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain royal sailor's amour.

† Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a digressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. ii. of M'Pherson's translation.

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When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht,
And stepped ben.

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs
Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows;
I took her for some Scottish muse,

By that same token;
An' come to stop those reckless vows,
Wou'd 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, e'en turn'd on empty space,

Beam'd keen with honour.

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The Wallaces. + William Wallace. Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin immortal preserver of Scottish independence.

to the

§ Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in command, under Douglas Earl of Ormond, at the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct, and intrepid valour of the gallant Laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the action.

Coilus, King of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near the family-seat of the Montgomeries of Coil'sfield, where his burial-place is still shown.

Barskimming the seat of the Lord Justice Clerk. **Catrine, the seat of the late Doctor and present Professor Stewart.

Brydone's brave ward* I well could spy, Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye; Who call'd on fame, low standing by, To hand him on, Where many a patriot name on high, And hero shone.


WITH musing-deep, astonish'd stare, I view'd the heavenly-seeming fair; A whispering throb did witness bear, Of kindred sweet, When with an elder sister's air

She did me greet. "All hail! my own inspired bard! In me thy native muse regard! Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, Thus poorly low! I come to give thee such reward

As we bestow.

"Know the great genius of this land Has many a light aërial band, Who, all beneath his high command, Harmoniously,

As arts or arms they understand,

Their labours ply.

"They Scotia's race among them share; Some fire the soldier on to dare; Some rouse the patriot up to bare Corruption's heart; Some teach the bard, a darling care, The tuneful art.

"Mong swelling floods of recking gore, They, ardent, kindling spirits pour; Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar,

They, sightless, stand,

To mend the honest patriot lore,

And grace the hand.

"And when the bard, or hoary sage, Charm or instruct the future age, They bind the wild poetic rage

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