Then lowering, and pouring, The storm no more I dread; Though thickening and blackening Round my devoted head. II. And, thou grim power, by life abhorr'd, To close this scene of care! My weary heart its throbbing cease, TO MISS L—, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS AS A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT, JANUARY 1, 1787. AGAIN the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driven, And you, though scarce in maiden prime, No gifts have I from Indian coasts I send you more than India boasts, Our sex with guile and faithless love EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. MAY, 1786. I. I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, II. And muckle they may grieve ye. III. I'll no say, men are villains a' ; Are to a few restricked: But och mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted; If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted! IV. Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, V. Aye free, aff han' your story tell, Frae critical dissection; But keek through every other man, The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, But never tempt th' illicit rove, Though naething should divulge it! I wave the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling! VII. To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, That's justified by honour; VIII. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, IX. The great Creator to revere Must sure become the creature ; But still the preaching cant forbear, And e'en the rigid feature; Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him; The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him O fortune, they hae room to grumble! Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bummle, Wha can do naught but fyke and fumble, "Twad been nae plea; But he was gleg as ony wumble, That's owre the sea. He was her laureate monie a year, He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west So took a birth afore the mast, An' owre the sea. To tremble under fortune's cummock, On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, Wi' his proud, independent stomach So row't his hurdies in a hammock, He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, The muse was a' that he took pride in, Jamaica bodies, use him weel, He wad na wrang'd the vera diel, That's owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! Your native soil was right ill-willie; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonnilie! Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive, Is there that o'er his French ragout, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view Poor devil! see him owre his trash, But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread, Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, Ye powers, wha mak mankind your care, But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. EXPECT na, sir, in this narration, A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, This may do-maun do, sir, wi' them wha The poet, some guid angel help him, The patron, (sir, ye maun forgie me, I readily and freely grant, But then, na thanks to him for a' that; That he's the poor man's friend in need, It's no through terror of d-mn-tion; It's just a carnal inclination. Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice! No-stretch a point to catch a plack; Abuse a brother to his back; Steal through a winnock frae a wh-re, But point the rake that taks the door: Be to the poor like onie whunstane, And haud their noses to the grunstane, Ply every art o' legal thieving; No matter, stick to sound believing. Learn three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces, Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces; O ye wha leave the springs of C-lv-n, Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror! Your pardon, sir, for this digression, So, sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, I thought them something like yoursel. Then patronize them wi' your favour, For prayin I hae little skill o't; "May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark To serve their king and country weel, I will not wind a lang conclusion, But if (which powers above prevent!) By sad mistakes, and black mischances, TO A LOUSE. ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH. HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie ? Your impudence protects you sairly: I canna say but ye strunt rarely Owre gauze and lace; Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; Where ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumpin cattle, In shoals and nations; Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight, My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, Wad dress your droddum! Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim; And never may, their sources fail! And never envy blot their name! IV. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn! Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptured thrill of joy! Fair B 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! V. 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 walls and massy bar, Grim rising o'er the rugged rock; Have oft withstood assailing war, And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. VI. With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, Famed heroes! had their royal home: Their royal name low in the dust! Their hapless race wild-wandering roam! Though rigid law cries out, "Twas just! VII. Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Haply my sires have left their shed, And faced grim danger's loudest roar, Bold following where your fathers led! VIII. 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-scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.-APRIL 1st, 1785. This freedom in an unknown frien', On fasten-een we had a rockin, There was ae sang, amang the rest, To some sweet wife: It thrill'd the heart-strings through the breast, A' to the life. I've scarce heard aught describes sae weel, What generous, manly bosoms feel; Thought I, "Can this be Pope, or Steele, Or Beattie's wark !" They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk. It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, And sae about him there I spier't; Then a' that ken't him round declared He had ingine, That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, It was sae fine. That set him to a pint of ale, 'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' swoor an' aith, Though I should pawn my pleugh and graith, Or die a cadger pownie's death, At some dyke-back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith To hear your crack. But, first an' foremost, I should tell, Though rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's sel, Does well eneugh. I am nae poet, in a sense, Yet, what the matter? Your critic folk may cock their nose, But, by your leaves, my learned foes, What's a' your jargon o' your schools, What sairs your grammars: A set o' dull conceited hashes, An' syne they think to climb Parnassu; Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire, That's a' the learning I desire; Then though I drudge through dub an' mire At pleugh or cart, My muse, though hamely in attire, May touch the heart. O for a spunk o' Allan's glee, |