Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chames,
Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamor,

And you deep read in hell's black grammar,
Warlocks and witches;

Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,

Ye midnight bes.

Its tauld 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 flood.

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 o' the witch of Endor,

Weel shod wi' brass.

Forbye, he'll shape you af fu' gleg

The cut of Adam's philibeg;

The knife that nicket Abel's craig

He'll prove you fully,

It was a faulding jocteleg,

Or lang-kail gullie.

But wad ye see him in his glee,
For meikle glee and fun has he,
Then set him down, and twa or three

Gude fellows wi' him;

* Vide his Treatise on ancient armour and weapons.

Ant porty O port! shine thou a wee,

And then ye'll see him!

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,

Blooming on thy early May,

Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r,

Chilly shrink in sleety show'r !

Never Boreas' hoary path,

Never Eurus' pois'nous breath,
Never baleful stellar lights,

Taint thee with untimely blights!

Never, never reptile thief

Riot on thy virgin leaf!

Nor even Sol too fiercely view

Thy bosom blushing still with dew!

Mayst thou long, sweet crimson gem,
Richly deck thy native stem;
"Till some ev'ning, sober, calm,
Dropping dews, and breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,

And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings;
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,

Shed thy dying honours round,

And resign to parent earth

The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.

SONG.

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire,
And waste my soul with care;
But ah! how bootless to admire,
When fated to despair!

Yet in thy presence, lovely fair,
To hope may be forgiv❜n;
For sure 'twere impious to despair,

So much in sight of Heav'n.

ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER,

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ.

Brother to a young lady, a particular friend of the author's.

Sad thy tale, thou idle page,

And rueful thy alarms:

Death tears the brother of her love

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;

But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
Succeeding hopes beguil'd.

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 ;
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes
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

BRUAR WATER*

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.

My lord, I know your noble ear

Woe ne'er assails in vain ;
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts,
That thro' my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I'm scorching up so shallow,
They're left the whitening stanes amang,
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;
There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o'er a linn:
Enjoying large each spring and well
As nature gave them me,
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;

The gowdspink, music's gayest child,
Shall sweetly join the choir :

The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,
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;
And coward maukin sleep secure,
Low in her grassy form:

Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
To weave his crown of flow'rs;
Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat,
From prone descending show'rs.