IC a reptile was Wat,

Sic a miscreant slave,

That the worms ev'n damn'd him

When laid in his grave.

"In his flesh there's a famine,"

A starv'd reptile cries;
"An' his heart is rank poison,"
Another replies.

TO A LADY

WHO WAS LOOKING UP THE TEXT DURING SERMON.

AIR Maid you need not take the hint,

Nor idle texts pursue:

'Twas guilty sinners that he meant—
Not angels such as you.

SONGS.

SONGS.

THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE.*

TUNE-MISS FORBES'S FAREWELL TO BANFF, OR ETTRICK BANKS.'

WAS even-the dewy fields were
green,

On every blade the pearls hang; The Zephyrs wanton'd round the bean,

And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In every glen the Mavis sang,

All nature listening seem'd the while,

"The lass of Ballochmyle" was Miss Alexander; and this Song was sent to her in the following letter:

66

Mossgiel, 18th Nov. 1786. "Madam,-Poets are such outré beings, so much the children of wayward fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety than the sober sons of judgment and prudence. I mention this as an apology for the liberties that a nameless stranger has taken with you in the enclosed poem, which he begs leave to present you with. Whether it has poetical merit any way worthy of the theme, I am not the proper judge; but it is the best my abilities can produce; and what to a good heart will, perhaps, be a superior grace, it is equally sincere and fervent.

"The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I