TO ROBERT GRAHAM, Esq.,

OF FINTRA.

LATE crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, About to beg a pass for leave to beg; Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest :) Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail? (It soothes poor misery, heark'ning to her tale,) And hear him curse the light he first survey'd, And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade?

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; Of thy caprice maternal I complain. The lion and the bull thy care have found, One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground:

Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious guards his cell.

Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, In all th' omnipotence of rule and power.Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug,

The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug.

Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts.

But Oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard, To thy poor, fenceless, naked child-the Bard! A thing unteachable in world's skill, And half an idiot too, more helpless still. No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun; No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun; No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, And those, alas! not Amalthea's horn; No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur, Clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur, In naked feeling, and in aching pride, He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side: Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, And scorpion critics careless venom dart.

Critics-appall'd I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame: Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes; He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose.

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, By blockheads' daring into madness stung; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must

wear:

Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife The hapless poet flounders on thro' life.

I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear! Already one strong hold of hope is lost, Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust; (Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, And left us darkling in a world of tears :) O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r! Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare! Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown; And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down! May bliss domestic smooth his private path; Give energy to life; and soothe his latest breath,

With many a filial tear circling the bed death!

LAMENT

FOR

JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN.

THE wind blew hollow frae the hills,
By fits the sun's departing beam
Look'd on the fading yellow woods

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream;

of

Beneath a craigy steep, a bard,

Laden with years and meikle pain, In loud lament bewail'd his lord, Whom death had all untimely ta'en.

He lean'd him to an ancient aik,

Whose trunk was mould'ring down wi years;

His locks were bleached white wi' time'
His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears!
And as he touch'd his trembling harp,
And as he tun'd his doleful sang,
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves,
To echo bore the notes alang.

"Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, The reliques of the vernal quire! Ye woods that shed on a' the winds

The honours of the aged year! A few short months, and glad and gay, Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e; But notcht in all revolving time Can gladness bring again to me.

"I am a bending aged tree,

That long has stood the wind and But now has come a cruel blast,

And my last hald of earth is gane : Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring. Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; But I maun lie before the storm,

And ithers plant them in my room.

"I've seen sae mony changefu' years

On earth I am a stranger grown; I wander in the ways of men, Alike unknowing and unknown: Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd,

I bear alane my lade o' care, For silent, low, on beds of dust, Lie a' that would my sorrows share

"And last (the sum of a' my griefs')

My noble master lies in clay; The flow'r amang our barons bold, His country's pride, his count yr sha In weary being now I pine,

For a' the life of life is dead, And hope has left my aged ken. On forward wing for ever fed

"Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!
The voice of wo and wild despair;
Awake, resound thy latest lay,
Then sleep in silence evermair!
And thon, my last, best, only friend,
That fillest an untimely tomb,

Accept this tribute from the bard

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom.

"In poverty's low, barren vale,
Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round;
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye,
Nae ray of fame was to be found:
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun
That melts the fogs in limpid air,
The friendless bard and rustic song,
Became alike thy fostering care.

"O! why has worth so short a date?
While villains ripen gray with time!
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great,
Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime!
Why did I live to see that day?
A day to me so full of wo!
O! had I met the mortal shaft
Which laid my benefactor low!

"The bridegroom may forget the bride Was made his wedded wife yestreen; The monarch may forget the crown

That on his head an hour has been; The mother may forget the child

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,

And a' that thou hast done for me!"

LINES

SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD,

OF WHITEFOORD, BART.,

WITH THE FOREGOING POEM.

THOU, Who thy honour as thy God rever'st, Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st,

To thee this votive offering I impart,
The tearful tribute of a broken heart.
The friend thou valued'st, I the patron lov'd;
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd.
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone,
And tread the dreary path to that dark world
unknown.

TAM O'SHANTER.

A TALE.

Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke. GAWIN DOUGLAS.

WHEN chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate;

While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' gettin fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warmi.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr, ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr whom ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses.)

O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was nae sober, That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on, That at the L-d's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. She prophesy'd, that late or soon,

Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon;
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises !

But to our tale: Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right; Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter; And ay the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious; Wi favours, secret, sweet, and precious: The souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy; As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow-falls in the river,
A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,

That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.-
Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling show'rs rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd: That night, a child might understand, The deil had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,

Tam skelp on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet:
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.—

By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel.— Before him Doon pours all his floods; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods The lightnings flash from pole to pole; Near and more near the thunders roll; When, glimmering thro' the groaning tree., Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze;

Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing; And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou canst make us scorn! Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil!The swats sac ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventur'd forward on the light; And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight!

Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillon brent new frae France,

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.

A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.-
Coffins stood round like open presses,
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;
And by some devilish cantraip slight,
Each in its cauld hand held a light,-
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer's banes in gibbet airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;
A thief, new cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted;
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o' life bereft,
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious The piper loud and louder blew; The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans A' plump and strapping, in their teens; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping an' flinging on a crummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, There was ae winsome wench and walie, That night inlisted in the core, (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore! For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear.)

But here my muse her wing maun cour; Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was and strang) And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very e'en enrich'd; Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out," Weel done, Cutty-sark!" And in an instant all was dark: And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their bykę
As open pussie's mortal foes,

When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When, "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow.

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Kate soon will be a wofu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane of the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettleAe spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain gray tail: The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son, tak heed:

*It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any farther than the middle of the next running stream.-It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with hogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back

Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,
Remember Tam o' Santer's mare.

ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME,

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT.

INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art, And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye: May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!

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 ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.

ADDRESS

TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS.

WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,

Unfolds her tender mantle green, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood Or tunes Eolian strains between:

While Summer with a matron grace
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
Yet oft, delighted, stops, to trace
The progress of the spiky blade:

While Autumn, benefactor kind,

By Tweed erects his aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind,

Each creature on his bounty fed: