Yet do not my folly reprove ;

She was fair—and my passion begun; She smiled—and I could not but love :

She is faithless—and I am undone. Pastoral. Part 4

Let the gulld fool the toils of war pursue,
Where bleed the many to enrich the few.

The Judgment of Hercules. Lines 158, 159.

Life has its bliss for these, when past its bloom,
As wither'd roses yield a late perfume.
Serene, and safe from passion's stormy rage,
How calm they glide into the port of age !

Ibid.

Lines 430-433.

Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round,

Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found, The warmest welcome at an inn.

Lines written on the window of an inn at Henley.

Here, in cool

grot
and
mossy

cell,
We rural fays and fairies dwell ;
Though rarely seen by mortal eye,
When the pale moon, ascending high,
Darts through yon limes her quivering beams,
We frisk it near these crystal streams.

Lines inscribed on a Tablet in the Gardens at the

Poet's residence, “The Leasowes."

Our hame
Where sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonnie lasses.

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 melt for ever.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

If heaven a draught of heav'nly pleasure spare,

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale !

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : Princes and lords are but the breath of kings :

“ An honest man's the noblest work of God.” *

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil !

For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent ! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content !

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell,
Some wee short hour ayont the twal.

Death and Dr. Hornbook.

Then gently scan your brother man,

Still gentler sister woman ;
Tho' they may gang a kennin' wrang,
To step aside is human.

Address to the Unco Guid.

*

Pope's Essay on Man. See Quotations from Pope.

Then at the balance let's be mute,

We never can adjust it;
What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted.

Address to the Unco Guid.

A Miction's sons are brothers in distress ;
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss !

A Winter Ivight.

My curse upon thy venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd guņs alang ;
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang
Wi' gnawing vengeance.

Address to the Toothache,

a

O wad some power the giftie gie us,
To see oursels as others see us !
It wad frae mony a blunder free us

And foolish notion. Lines to a Louse.

Hear, Land of Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groats ;
If there's a hole in a' your coats,

I rede you tent it:
A chiel's

amang you
And, faith, he 'll prent it.
Lines on Captain Grose's Peregrinations

through Scotland.

takin' notes,

Gather gear by ev'ry wile

That's justify'd by honour ; Not for to hide it in a hedge,

Nor for a train attendant ; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent.

Epistle to a Young Friend.

O, my

a

luve's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June, O, my luve's like the melodie, That's sweetly play'd in tune.

Song. A Red Red Rose. ,

Man, whose heaven-erected face

The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn.

Man was made to Mourn. A Dirge.

In durance vile here must I wake and weep,
And all my frowzy couch in sorrow steep.

Epistle from Esopus to Maria.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears

Her noblest work she classes, O; Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, An' then she made the lasses, O.

Song. Green Grow the Rashes.