So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve, Polish their grin--nay, sigh for ladies' love!

His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, Still making work his selfish craft must mend.

* * * Crochallan came, The old c.o.c.k'd hat, the brown surtout--the same; His grisly beard just bristling in its might-- 'Twas four long nights and days from shaving-night; His uncomb'd, h.o.a.ry locks, wild-staring, thatch'd A head, for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd; Yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting-rude, His heart was warm, benevolent and good.

O Dulness, portion of the truly blest!

Calm, shelter'd haven of eternal rest!

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams; If mantling high she fills the golden cup, With sober, selfish ease they sip it up; Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, They only wonder "some folks" do not starve!

The grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog, And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog.

When disappointment snaps the thread of Hope, When, thro' disastrous night, they darkling grope, With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, And just conclude that "fools are Fortune's care:"

So, heavy, pa.s.sive to the tempest's shocks, Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox.

Not so the idle Muses' mad-cap train, Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted h.e.l.l!

Elegy On The Year 1788

For lords or kings I dinna mourn, E'en let them die--for that they're born: But oh! prodigious to reflec'!

A Towmont, sirs, is gane to wreck!

O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' s.p.a.ce, What dire events hae taken place!

Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!

In what a pickle thou has left us!

The Spanish empire's tint a head, And my auld teethless, Bawtie's dead: The tulyie's teugh 'tween Pitt and Fox, And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee c.o.c.ks; The tane is game, a bluidy devil, But to the hen-birds unco civil; The t.i.ther's something dour o' treadin, But better stuff ne'er claw'd a middin.

Ye ministers, come mount the poupit, An' cry till ye be hea.r.s.e an' roupit, For Eighty-eight, he wished you weel, An' gied ye a' baith gear an' meal; E'en monc a plack, and mony a peck, Ye ken yoursels, for little f.e.c.k!

Ye bonie la.s.ses, dight your e'en, For some o' you hae tint a frien'; In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was taen, What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again.

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, How dowff an' daviely they creep; Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, For E'nburgh wells are grutten dry.

O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn!

Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, Thou now hast got thy Daddy's chair; Nae handcuff'd, mizl'd, hap-shackl'd Regent, But, like himsel, a full free agent, Be sure ye follow out the plan Nae waur than he did, honest man!

As muckle better as you can.

January, 1, 1789.

The Henpecked Husband

Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, The crouching va.s.sal to a tyrant wife!

Who has no will but by her high permission, Who has not sixpence but in her possession; Who must to he, his dear friend's secrets tell, Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than h.e.l.l.

Were such the wife had fallen to my part, I'd break her spirit or I'd break her heart; I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse b.i.t.c.h.

Versicles On Sign-Posts

His face with smile eternal drest, Just like the Landlord's to his Guest's, High as they hang with creaking din, To index out the Country Inn.

He looked just as your sign-post Lions do, With aspect fierce, and quite as harmless too.

A head, pure, sinless quite of brain and soul, The very image of a barber's Poll; It shews a human face, and wears a wig, And looks, when well preserv'd, amazing big.

1789

Robin Shure In Hairst

Chorus.--Robin shure in hairst, I shure wi' him.

Fient a heuk had I, Yet I stack by him.

I gaed up to Dunse, To warp a wab o' plaiden, At his daddie's yett, Wha met me but Robin: Robin shure, &c.

Was na Robin bauld, Tho' I was a cotter, Play'd me sic a trick, An' me the El'er's dochter!

Robin shure, &c.

Robin promis'd me A' my winter vittle; Fient haet he had but three Guse-feathers and a whittle!

Robin shure, &c.

Ode, Sacred To The Memory Of Mrs. Oswald Of Auchencruive

Dweller in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation! mark, Who in widow-weeds appears, Laden with unhonour'd years, Noosing with care a bursting purse, Baited with many a deadly curse?

Strophe

View the wither'd Beldam's face; Can thy keen inspection trace Aught of Humanity's sweet, melting grace?

Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows; Pity's flood there never rose, See these hands ne'er stretched to save, Hands that took, but never gave: Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest, She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!

Antistrophe

Plunderer of Armies! lift thine eyes, (A while forbear, ye torturing fiends;) Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends?

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies; 'Tis thy trusty quondam Mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate; She, tardy, h.e.l.l-ward plies.