« ForrigeFortsett »
ON PASTORAL POETRY.
HAIL Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd!
'Mang heaps o'clavers ; And och! o'er aft thy joes hae stary'd,
Mid a' thy favors !
Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,
To death or marriage;
But wi' miscarriage ?
In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Even Sappho's flame.
But thee, Theopocritus, wha matches ?
O’heathen tatters :
That ape their betters.
In this braw age o' wit and lear,
: And rural grace;
A rival place ?
Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan!
A chiel sae clever ;
But thou's for ever.
Thou paints auld nature to the nines,
Her griefs will tell !
In gowany glens thy burnie strays,
Wi' hawthorns gray,
At close o' day.
Thy rural loves are nature's sel ;
The sternest move. .
ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR,
Between the Duke of Argyle and the Earl of Mar.
“O CAM ye here the fight to shun,
« Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 66 Or ware ye at the Sherra-muir,
“ And did the battle see, man?"
Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
The red-coat lads wi' black cockades
To meet them were na slaw, man ;
The great Argyle led on his files,
'Till fey men died awa, man. . .i
But had you seen the philibegs,"
And skyrin tartan trews, man, i
And covenant true blues, man ;
They fled like frighted doos, man.
“ O how deil Tam can that be true ?.
“ The chace gaed frae the north, man; “ I saw myself, they did pursue
“ The horsemen back to Forth, man; “ And at Dunblane in my ain sight, “ They took the brig wi' a' their might, “ And straught to Stirling winged their flight; “ But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut; “ And mony a huntit, poor red-coat
“For fear amaist did swarf, man."