For Comedy abroad he need to toil, A fool and knave are plants of every soil; Nor need he hunt as far as Rome or Greece, To gather matter for a serious piece; There's themes enow in Caledonian story, Would shew the Tragic Muse in a' her glory.--

Is there no daring Bard will rise and tell How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?

Where are the Muses fled that could produce A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce?

How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword 'Gainst mighty England and her guilty Lord; And after mony a b.l.o.o.d.y, deathless doing, Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of Ruin!

O for a Shakespeare, or an Otway scene, To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen!

Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms: She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, To glut that direst foe--a vengeful woman; A woman, (tho' the phrase may seem uncivil,) As able and as wicked as the Devil!

One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, But Dougla.s.ses were heroes every age: And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, A Douglas followed to the martial strife, Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds, Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land Would take the Muses' servants by the hand; Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, And where he justly can commend, commend them; And aiblins when they winna stand the test, Wink hard, and say The folks hae done their best!

Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caition, Ye'll soon hae Poets o' the Scottish nation Will gar Fame blaw until her trumpet crack, And warsle Time, an' lay him on his back!

For us and for our Stage, should ony spier, "Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here?"

My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow-- We have the honour to belong to you!

We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, But like good mithers sh.o.r.e before ye strike; And gratefu' still, I trust ye'll ever find us, For gen'rous patronage, and meikle kindness We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks: G.o.d help us! we're but poor--ye'se get but thanks.

Lines To A Gentleman,

Who had sent the Poet a Newspaper, and offered to continue it free of Expense.

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, And faith, to me, 'twas really new!

How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted?

This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, To ken what French mischief was brewin; Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin; That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, If Venus yet had got his nose off; Or how the collieshangie works Atween the Russians and the Turks, Or if the Swede, before he halt, Would play anither Charles the twalt; If Denmark, any body spak o't; Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't: How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin; How libbet Italy was singin;

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss; Or how our merry lads at hame, In Britain's court kept up the game; How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him!

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum; If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in; How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, If Warren Hasting's neck was yeukin; How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd.

Or if bare a.r.s.es yet were tax'd; The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls; If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, Was threshing still at hizzies' tails; Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, And no a perfect kintra cooser: A' this and mair I never heard of; And, but for you, I might despair'd of.

So, gratefu', back your news I send you, And pray a' gude things may attend you.

Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790.

Elegy On Willie Nicol's Mare

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, As ever trod on airn; But now she's floating down the Nith, And past the mouth o' Cairn.

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

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, And ance she bore a priest; But now she's floating down the Nith, For Solway fish a feast.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, An' the priest he rode her sair; And much oppress'd and bruis'd she was, As priest-rid cattle are,--&c. &c.

The Gowden Locks Of Anna

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, A place where body saw na; Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine The gowden locks of Anna.

The hungry Jew in wilderness, Rejoicing o'er his manna, Was naething to my hinny bliss Upon the lips of Anna.

Ye monarchs, take the East and West Frae Indus to Savannah; Gie me, within my straining grasp, The melting form of Anna:

There I'll despise Imperial charms, An Empress or Sultana, While dying raptures in her arms I give and take wi' Anna!

Awa, thou flaunting G.o.d of Day!

Awa, thou pale Diana!

Ilk Star, gae hide thy twinkling ray, When I'm to meet my Anna!

Come, in thy raven plumage, Night, (Sun, Moon, and Stars, withdrawn a';) And bring an angel-pen to write My transports with my Anna!

Postscript

The Kirk an' State may join an' tell, To do sic things I maunna: The Kirk an' State may gae to h.e.l.l, And I'll gae to my Anna.

She is the sunshine o' my e'e, To live but her I canna; Had I on earth but wishes three, The first should be my Anna.

Song--I Murder Hate

I murder hate by flood or field, Tho' glory's name may screen us; In wars at home I'll spend my blood-- Life-giving wars of Venus.

The deities that I adore Are social Peace and Plenty; I'm better pleas'd to make one more, Than be the death of twenty.

I would not die like Socrates, For all the fuss of Plato; Nor would I with Leonidas, Nor yet would I with Cato: The zealots of the Church and State Shall ne'er my mortal foes be; But let me have bold Zimri's fate, Within the arms of Cozbi!

Gudewife, Count The Lawin

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, But we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light; Gude ale and bratdy's stars and moon, And blue-red wine's the risin' sun.

Chorus.--Then gudewife, count the lawin, The lawin, the lawin, Then gudewife, count the lawin, And bring a coggie mair.

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, And simple folk maun fecht and fen'; But here we're a' in ae accord, For ilka man that's drunk's a lord.

Then gudewife, &c.

My coggie is a haly pool That heals the wounds o' care and dool; And Pleasure is a wanton trout, An ye drink it a', ye'll find him out.

Then gudewife, &c.