POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose, Past a' remead; The last sad cape-stane of his woes; Poor Mailie's dead! It's no the loss o' warl's gear, That could sae bitter draw the tear, Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed: He's lost a friend and neebor dear, In Mailie dead. Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him; A lang half-mile she could descry him; Wi' kindly bleat when she did spy him, She ran wi' speed: A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, Than Mailie dead. I wat she was a sheep of sense, An' could behave hersel wi' mense: I'll say't, she never brak a fence, Thro' thievish greed. Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence Sin' Mailie's dead, Or, if he wanders up the howe, Her living image in her yowe, Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, For bits o' bread; An' down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead.. She was no get o' moorland tips, Wi' tawted ket an' hairy hips: For her forbears were brought in ships A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing-a rape! It makes guid fellows girn an' gape, Wi' chokin dread; An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune! Come, join the melancholious croon O' Robin's reed! His heart will never get aboon His Mailie dead. To J. S Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! DEAR S****, the sleest, paukie thief, Owre human hearts; For ne'er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts. For me, I swear by sun an' moon, And every star that blinks aboon, Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon, Just gaun to see you: And ev'ry ither pair that's done, Mair taen I'm wi' you. That auld capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She's turn'd you aff, a human creature On her first plan, And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature, She's wrote, the Man. BLAIR Just now I've taen the fit o' rhymes, My barmie noddle's working prime, My fancy yerkit up sublime Wi' hasty summon; Hae ye a leisure moment's time To hear what's comin? Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash; Some rhyme (vain hought!) for needfu' cash; Some rhyme to court the countra clash, An' raise a din: For me, an aim I never fash; I rhyme for fun. The star that rules my luckless lot, An' damn'd my fortune to the groat, Has blest me wi' a random shot O' countra wit. This while my notion's taen a sklent, To try my fate in guid, black prent; But still the mair I'm that way bent, Something cries, Hoolie! 'I red you, honest man, tak tent! Ye'll shaw your folly. There's ither poets, much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 'Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors, A' future ages; < Now moths deform in shapeless tetters, · Their unknown pages. Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, To garland my poetic brows! Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang, An' teach the lanely heights an' howes, My rustic sang. I'll wander on, with tentless heed I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead, But why o' death begin a tale? Just now we're living sound and hale, Then top and maintop crowd the sail, Heave care o'er side! And large, before enjoyment's gale, Let's tak the tide. This life, sae far's I understand, Is a' enchanted fairy land, Where pleasure is the magic wand, That, wielded right, Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, The magic-wand then let us wield; ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd, |