Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field!
The bitter little that of life remains:

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

Oft as by winding Nith I, musing, wait

The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn,

And curse the rumian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.

LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT OF GLENCONNER.

AULD Comrade dear, and brither sinner,
How's a' the folk about Glenconner?
How do you, this blae eastlin wind,

That's like to blaw a body blind?

For me, my faculties are frozen,
And ilka member nearly dozen'd.
I've sent you here, by Johnnie Simpson,
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling,
And Reid, to common-sense appealing.
Philosophers have fought and wrangled,
And meikle Greek and Latin mangled,
Till, wi' their logic jargon tir'd,
And in the depths of science mir'd,
To common-sense they now appeal,
What wives and wabsters see and feel.
But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly,
Peruse them, and return them quickly,
For now I'm grown sac VERA douce,

I pray and ponder butt the house;

My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin',
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston;
Till, by and by, if I haud on,
I'll grunt a real gospel groan:
Already I begin to try it,
To cast my e'en up like a pyet
When by the gun she tumbles o'er,
Flutt'ring and gasping in her gore:
Sae shortly you shall see me bright,
A burning and a shining light.
My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,
The ace and wale o' honest men:
When bending down wi' auld grey hairs,
Beneath the load of years and cares,
May He who made him still support him
Aud views beyond the grave comfort him.

old, brother

chilly eastern blow

each, stupified

much

weavers

very quiet

inside

alone

hold

magpie

choice

His worthy fam'ly far and near,
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear!

My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie,
The manly tar, my mason Billie,
And Auchinbay, I wish him joy,
If he's a parent-lass, or boy-

May he be dad, and Meg the mither,
Just five-and-forty years thegither!
And no forgetting wabster Charlie,
I'm told he offers very fairly.

And AYE remember singing Sannock,

Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, and a bannock;
And next my auld acquaintance Nancy,
Since she is fitted to her fancy;

And her kind stars hae airted till her

A good chiel wi' a pickle siller.
My kindest, best respects I sen' it,
To cousin Kate, and sister Janet;

wealth

father

cake

directed to

fellow, some money

Dr Mac, Dr Mac,

You should stretch on a rack,

To strike evil doers wi' terror;
To join faith and sense
Upon any pretence

Is heretic HORRIBLE error.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr,
It was mad, I declare,

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing;
Provost John is still deaf

To the church's relief,

And orator Bob is its ruin.

Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney,
Are ye huirding the penny,
Unconscious what evils await;

Wi' a jump, yell, and howl,
Alarm every soul,

For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld,
There's a tod in the fauld,

A tod meikle waur than the clerk;
Though ye downa do skaith,
Ye'll be in at the death,

And if ye canna bite, ye may bark.

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster,
For a saint if ye muster,

The corps is no nice of recruits;
Yet to worth lets be just,
Royal blood ye might boast,

If the ass was the king of the brutes.

Jamy Goose, Jamy Gooze,
Ye hae made but toom roose,

who

blown

(Rev. Dr M'Gill)

(Robert Aiken, (Rev. Alex. Moodie) hoarding

(Rev. Mr Auid) fox, fold much worse cannot harm

(Mr Grant, Ochiltree)

(Mr Young, Cumnock)

empty prais0

In hunting the wicked lieutenant;
But the Doctor's your mark,

For the KIRK's haly ark,

He has cooper'd and cawt a wrong pin in't.

Andro Gouk, Andro Gouk,

Ye may slander the book,

holy

driven

(Rev. Dr Mitchell, Monkton)

And the book not the waur, let me tell yc;

Ye are rich, and look big,

But lay by hat and wig,

And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value.

Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie,
What mean ye-what mean ye?
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence

To havins and sense,

Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.

Irvine-side, Irvine-side,

Wi' your turkey-cock pride,

Of manhood but sma' is your share;

Ye've the figure, 'tis true,

Even your faes will allow,

worse

(Rev. Mr Young, Barr)

more

manners

know, no

(Rev. Mr Smith, Galston)

And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.

Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock,

Whom HIS PRIDE made a rock

To crush Common Sense for her sins,

If ill manners were wit,

There's no mortal so fit

To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

Holy Will, Holy Will,

There was wit i' your skull,

When ye pilfered the alms o' the poor;

The timmer is scant,

When ye're ta'en for a saunt,

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons,
Seize your spir'tual guns,

foes more

(Rev. Mr Shepherd,

[Muirkirk)

once

timber

saint

rope

Ammunition you never can need;

Your hearts are the stuff,

Will be powther enough,

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns,

Wi' your priest-skelping turns,

Why desert ye your auld native shire?
Though your Muse is a gipsy,

Yet were she e'en tipsy,

She could ca' us nae waur than we are.

powder

call, worse

THE WHISTLE.

I SING of a whistle, a whistle of worth,

I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North,
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king
And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring.

Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal,

(see Ossian)

The god of the bottle sends down from his hall-
This whistle's your challenge-to Scotland get o'er,

And drink them DEAD DRUNK, sir! or ne'er see me more!"

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,

What champions ventured, what champions fell;
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill.

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Skarr,
Unmatched at the bottle, unconquered in war,
He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea-
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gained,
Which now in his house has for ages remained;
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again have renewed.

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw:
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel, so skilled in old coins;
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.
Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret, try which was the man.

"By the gods of the ancients!" Glenriddel replies,
"Before I surrender so glorious a prize,
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er."

Sir Kobert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,
But he ne'er turned his back on his foe-or his friend,
Said. Toss down the whistle, the prize of the field,
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die, or he'd yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;

But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame
Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame.

A bard was selected to witness the fray,

And tell future ages the feats of the day;

A bard who detested all sadness and spleen,

And wished that Parnassus a vineyard had been.