The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,

And owre the moorlands whistles shill,
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step
I meet him on the dewy hill.

And maun I still, &c.

And when the lark, 'tween light 'and dark,

Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

And maun I still, &c.

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,

And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my chearless soul,

When nature all is sad like me!

And maun I still on Menie doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her ele!
For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk,

An' it winna let a body be*.


Tune, “ Roslin Castle."

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast,

* We cannot presume to alter any of the poems of our bard, and more especially those printed under his own direction; yet it is to be regretted that this chorus, which is not of his own composition, should be attached to these fine stanzas, as it perpetually interrupts the train of sentiment which they excite.


Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain;
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatter'd coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The autumn mourns her rip'ning corn
By early winter's ravage torn;
Across her placid, azure sky,
She sees the scowling tempest fly :
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

III. 'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 'Tis not that fatal deadly shore ; Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear, The wretched have no more to fear : But round my heart the ties are bound, That heart transpierc'd with many a wound; These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.

IV. Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, Her heathy moors and winding vales ; The scenes where wretched fancy roves, Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes ! My peace with these, my love with those The bursting tears my heart declare, Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr. Vol. III.



Tune, “ Gilderoy."

From thee, Eliza, I must go,

And from my native shore ;
The cruel fates between us throw

A boundless ocean's roar :
But boundless oceans, roaring wide,

Between my love and me,
They never, never can divide

My heart and soul from thee;

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,

The maid that I adore !
A boding voice is in mine ear,

We part to meet no more!
But the last throb that leaves my heart,

While death stands victor by,
That throb, Eliza, is thy part,

And thine that latest sigh !

To the Brethren of St. James's Lodge,


Tune, “Goodnight and joy be wi' you



Adieu ! a heart-warm, fond adieu !

Dear brothers of the mystic tye !
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few,

Companions of my social joy! Tho' I to foreign lands must hie,

Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba',

With melting heart, and brimful eye,

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'.

Oft have I met your social band,

And spent the chearful, festive night;
Oft, honour'd with supreme command,

Presided o'er the sons of light : And by that hieroglyphic bright,

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! Strong mem’ry on my heart shall write

Those happy scenes when far awa'!

May freedom, harmony, and love,

Unite you in the grand design,
Beneath th' omniscient eye above,

The glorious Architect divine !
That you may keep th' unerring line,

Still rising by the plummet's law,
Till order bright completely shine,

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'.

And you farewell! whose merits claim,

Justly, that highest badge to wear !
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name,

To masonry and Scotia dear! A last request permit me here,

When yearly ye assemble a', One round, I ask it with a tear,

To him, the bard that's far awa.


! Prepare, my dear brethren, to the taverni

let's fly."


No churchman am I for to rail and to write,
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,

No sly man of business contriving a snare,
For a big-belly'd bottle is the whole of my care,

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow;

1 scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.


III. Here passes the squire on his brother-his horse ; There centum per centum, the cit with his purse ; But see you the crown how it waves in the air, There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care.

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ;
For sweet consolation to church I did flys
I found that old Solomon proved it fair,
That a big-belly'd bottle 's a cure for all care.

V. I once was persuaded a venture to make ; A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

VI. “ Life's cares they are comforts*"-a maxim laid

down By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the

black gown; And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; For a big-belly'd bottle 's a heav'n of care.

A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge.

Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow,
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ;
May every true brother of the compass and square
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care.

* Young's Night Thoughts.

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