Scenes so abhorrent to my heart! "Tis thine to pity and forgive.

POEM ON LIFE,

Addressed to colonel De Peyster, Dumfries, 1796.

My honoured colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the poet's weal;
Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel

The steep Parnassus,

Surrounded thus by bolus, pill,

And potion glasses.

O what a canty warld were it,

Would pain and care, and sickness spare it;
And fortune favour worth and merit,

As they deserve:

(And aye a rowth roast beef and claret;

Syne wha would starve?)

Dame life, tho' fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and frippery deck her;
Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker

I've found her still,

Aye wavering like the willow wicker,

'Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like bawd'rons by a rattan,
Our sinfu' saul to get a claute on,

Wi' felon ire;

Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on,

He's off like fire.

Ah! Nick, ah Nick, it is na fair,
First showing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,

To put us daft;

Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare

O' hell's damned waft.

Poor man the flie, aft bizzes by,

And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld damned elbow yeuks wi' joy,
And hellish pleasure;

Already in thy fancy's eye,

Thy sicker treasure.

Soon heels o'er gowdie! in he gangs,
And like a sheep-head on a tangs,

Thy girning laugh enjoys his

pangs

And murdering wrestle,

As dangling in the wind he hangs

A gibbet's tassel.

But lest you think I am uncivil,

To plague you with this draunting drivel,
Abjuring a' intentions evil,

My curse upon your venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang;
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang,

Wi' gnawing vengeance;

Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,

Like racking engines!

When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes,

Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;

But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases,

Aye mocks our groan!

Adown my beard the slavers trickle!
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets keckle,
To see me loup;

While, raving mad, I wish a heckle

Were in their doup.

O' a' the num'rous human dools,
Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools,
Sad sight to see!

The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools,
Thou bear'st the gree.

Where'er that place by priests ca'd hell,
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell,
And ranked plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu' raw,
Thou, tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell
Amang them a'!

O thou grim mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes of discord squeel, 'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel

In gore a shoe-thick ;

Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal

A towmond's tooth-ache!

SONG.

Tune-" Morag."

wha is she that lo'es me,

And has my heart a keeping?

O sweet is she that lo'es me,
As dews o' summer weeping,
In tears the rose buds steeping.

CHORUS.

O that's the lassie o' my heart,
My lassie ever dearer,

O that's the queen o' woman kind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her.

If thou shalt meet a lassie,

In grace and beauty charming,
That e'en thy chosen lassie,

Ere while thy breast sae warming,
Had ne'er sie powers alarming.
O that's, c.

If thou hadst heard her talking,
And thy attentions plighted,
That ilka body talking,

But her by thee is slighted;
And thou art all delighted.
O that's, &'c.

If thou hast met this fair one;
When frae her thou hast parted,

If every other fair one

But her thou hast deserted,
And thou art broken hearted.-

O that's the lassie o' my heart,
My lassie ever dearer,

O that's the queen o' woman kind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her.

SONG.

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss,
O'er the mountains he is gane;

And with him is a' my bliss,

Nought but griefs with me remain.

Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw,
Plashy sleets and beating rain!
Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw,
Drifting o'er the frozen plain.

When the shades of evening creep O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, Sound and safely may he sleep, Sweetly blythe his waukening be!

He will think on her he loves,
Fondly he'll repeat her name;
For where'er he distant roves,
Jockey's heart is still at hame.

SONG.

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, The frost of hermitage might warm; My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, Might charm the first of human kind. I love my Peggy's angel air, Her face so truly, heavenly fair, Her native grace so void of art, But I adore my Peggy's heart.

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, The kindling lustre of an eye; Who but owns their magic sway, Who but knows they all decay! The tender thrill, the pitying tear, The generous purpose, nobly dear, The gentle look, that rage disarms, These are all immortal charms.