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Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamex
Warlocks and witches;
Ye midnight bes.
Its tauid he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa’n than fled; But now he's quat the spurtle-blade,
And dog-skin wallet, And ta'en the-antiquarian trade,
I think they call it.
He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets*, Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,
A towmont gude; And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,
Before the food.
Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder; Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender; That which distinguished the gender
O' Balaam's ass ; A broom-stick of the witch of Endor,
Weel shod wi' brass.
Forbye, he'll shape you af fu' gleg
He'll prove you fully,
Or lang-kail gullie.
But wad ye see him in his glee,
Gude fellows wi' him ;
* Vide his Treatise on ancient armour and weapons.
Ara portO port! shine thou a wee,
And then ye'll see lim!
Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose! Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose!Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,
They sair misca' thee; I'd take the rascal by the nose,
Wad say, shame fa' thee.
TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS,
A VERY YOUNG LADY.
Written on the blank leaf of a book, presented to
her by the author.
Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay,
Mayst thou long, sweet crimson gem,
Anna, thy charms my bosom fire,
And waste my soul with care ;
When fated to despair !
To hope may be forgiv'n ;
So much in sight of Heav'n.
ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER,
THE DEATH OF JOHN MʻLEOD, ESQ.
Brother to a young lady, a particular friend of
Sad thy tale, thou idle page,
And rueful thy alarms :
From Isabella's arms.
Sweetly deckt with pearly dew
The morning rose may blow; But cold successive noontide blasts
May lay its beauties low.
Fair on Isabella's morn
The sun propitious smil'd;
Succeeding hopes beguild.
Fate oft tears the bosom chords
That nature finest strung : So Isabella's heart was form'd,
And so that heart was wrung.
Dread Omnipotence, alone,
Can heal the wound he gave;
To scenes beyond the grave.
Virtue's blossoms there shall blow,
And fear no withering blast ; There Isabella's spotless worth
Shall happy be at last,
THE HUMBLE PETITION OF
TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.
My lord, I know your noble ear
Woe ne'er assails in vain;
Your humble slave complain,
In flaming summer-pride,
And drink my crystal tide.
The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts
That thro' my waters play,
They near the margin stray ;
I'm scorching up so shallow,
In gasping death to wallow.
Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,
As poet B**** came by,
* Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.
That, to a bard I should be seen
Wi' half my channel dry: A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
Even as I was, he shor'd me But had I in my glory been,
He, kneeling, wad ador'd me.
Here, foaming down the skelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin;
Wild-roaring o'er a linn :
As nature gave them me, I am, altho' I say't mysel,
Worth gaun a mile to see.
Would then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes, He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, .
And bonnie spreading bushes. Delighted doubly then, my lord,
You'll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.
The sober laverock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire ;
Shall sweetly join the choir :
The mavis mild and mellow; The robin pensive autumn cheer,
In all her locks of yellow :
This, too, a covert shall ensure,
To shield them from the storm ;
Low in her grassy form:
To weave his crown of flow'rs;
From prone descending show'ss.