Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,
Been snaw white seventeen-hunder linen!
Their breeks o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush o' guid blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal,
Louping and flinging on a cummock,
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.
But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie;
There was a winsome wench and walie,
That night enlisted in the core,
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore;
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and beer,
And kept the country-side in fear.)
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worr,
In longitude tho' sorely stanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie-
Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance o' witches!
But here my muse her wing maun cour,
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was and strang,)
And how Tam stood like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd;
Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main :
Till first ae caper, syne anither,

Tam tint his reason a' thegither,

And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" And in an instant all was dark:

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,

When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,

When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,

Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow.
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'!
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane (140) o' the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they darena cross!
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!

For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle,
But little wist she Maggie's mettle-
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail;
The carline caught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son take heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think! ye may buy the joys over dear-
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

Tragic Fragment. (141)

ALL devil as I am, a damned wretch,
A harden'd, stubborn, unrepenting villain,
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness;
And with sincere tho' unavailing sighs,
I view the helpless children of distress.
With tears indignant I behold th' oppressor
Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction,
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.
Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you;
Ye whom the seeming good think sin to pity;
Ye poor, despis'd, abandon'd vagabonds,
Whom vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to ruin.
-Oh, but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends,
I had been driven forth like you forlorn,
The most detested, worthless wretch among

you!

Winter, a Dirger. (142)

THE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;

Or the stormy north sends driving forth

The blinding sleet and snaw:

While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast" (143),

The joyless winter day

Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,

My griefs it seems to join;

The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,
Because they are thy will!

The Calf.

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN. (147) On his Text, MAL. iv. 2.- "And they shall go forth, and grow up, like CALVES of the stall." RIGHT, Sir! your text I'll prove it true,

Though Heretics may laugh;
For instance, there's yoursel' just now,
God knows, an unco calf!

And should some patron be so kind,
As bless you wi' a kirk,

I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find,
Ye're still as great a stirk.
But, if the lover's raptur'd hour
Shall ever be your lot,
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly power
You e'er should be a Scot!

Tho', when some kind, connubial dear,
Your but-and-ben adorns,

The like has been that you may wear
A noble head of horns.

And in your lug, most reverend James,
To hear you roar and rowte,

Few men o' sense will doubt your claims
To rank amang the nowte.

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead,
Below a grassy hillock,

Wi' justice they may mark your head---
"Here lies a famous bullock!"

The Twa Verds,

OR THE HOLY TULZIE. (148)

Он а' ye pious godly flocks,
Weel fed on pastures orthodox,

Wha now will keep you frae the fox,
Or worrying tykes,
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks,
About the dykes?

'The twa best herds in a' the wast,
'That e'er gae gospel horn a blast,
'These five and twenty simmers past,
Oh! dool to tell,
Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast

Atween themsel.

Oh, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell,
How could you raise so vile a bustle,

Ye'll see how New-Light herds will whistle,

And think it fine :

The L's cause ne'er got sic a twistle
Sin' I ha'e mine.

O, Sirs! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit
Your duty ye wad sae negleckit,

Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit,
To wear the plaid,

But by the brutes themselves eleckit, To be their guide.

What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank,
Sae hale and hearty every shank!
Nae poison'd sour Arminian stank,
He let them taste,

Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they drank-
Oh sic a feast!

The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod,
Well kenn'd his voice through a' the wood,
He smelt their ilka hale and rod,
Baith out and in,

And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid,
And sell their skin.

What herd like Russell (149) tell'd his tale,
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale,
He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail,
O'er a' the height,
And saw gin they were sick or hale,
At the first sight.

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub,
Or nobly fling the gospel club,
And New-Light herds could nicely drub,

Or pay their skin;
Could shake them o'er the burning dub,
Or heave them in.

Sic twa-Oh! do I live to see't,
Sic famous twa should disagreet,
And names like villain, hypocrite,
Ilk ither gi'en,

While New-Light herds, wi' laughin' spite,

Say neither's lyin' !

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld,

There's Duncan (150), deep, and Peebles,

And mony a ane that I could tell,
Wha fain would openly rebel,
Forbye turn-coats amang oursel.

There's Smith for ane,

I doubt he's but a grey-nick quill,
And that ye'll fin'.

Oh! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills,
By mosses, meadows, moors and fells,
Come, join your counsel and your skills
To cowe the lairds,

And get the brutes the powers themsels
To choose their herds.

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance,

And Learning in a woody dance,

And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, That bites sae sair,

Be banish'd o'er the sea to France:

Let him bark there.

What was I, or my generation,
That I should get sic exaltation,
I wha deserve sic just damnation,
For broken laws,
Five thousand years 'fore my creation,
Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell,
Thou might hae plunged me into hell,
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail,

In burnin' lake,
Where damned devils roar and yell,
Chain'd to a stake.

Yet I am here a chosen sample;
To show thy grace is great and ample;
I'm here a pillar in thy temple,

Strong as a rock,

A guide, a buckler, an example,

To a' thy flock.

Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 'Cause he's sae gifted;

If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne,
Until thou lift it.

Lord, bless thy chosen in this place,
For here thou hast a chosen race:
But God.confound their stubborn face,
And blast their name,

Wha bring thy elders to disgrace
And public shame.

Lord, mind Gaw'n Hamilton's deserts,
He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes,
Yet has sae mony takin' arts,

Wi' grat and sma',

Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare,
For their misdeeds.

Oh Lord my God, that glib-tongu'd Aikin,
My very heart and saul are quakin',
To think how we stood groanin', shakin'
And swat wi' dread,
While he wi' hingin' lips and snakin',
Held up his head.

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him,
Lord, visit them wha did employ him,
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em,

Nor hear their pray'r;
But for thy people's sake destroy 'em,
And dinna spare.

But, Lord, remember me and mine,
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine,
That I for gear and grace may shine,

Excell'd by nane,

And a' the glory shall be thine,

Amen, Amen!

Epitaph on Valy Willie.

HERE Holy Willie's sair-worn clay
Taks up its last abode;

His soul has ta'en some other way,
I fear the left-hand road.

Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun,
Poor, silly body, see him;
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun',
Observe wha's standing wi' him.

Your brunstane devilship, I see,

Has got him there before ye;
But haud your nine-tail cat a wee,
Till ance you've heard my story.
Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye hae nane;
Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er,
And mercy's day is gaen.
But hear me, sir, deil as ye are,

Look something to your credit;
A coof like him wad stain your name,
If it were kent ye did it.

Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion
She'll ne'er get better.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
But now she's got an unco ripple;
Haste, gie' her name up i' the chapel,
Nigh unto death;
See, how she fetches at the thrapple,
And gasps for breath.

Enthusiasm's past redemption,
Gane in a galloping consumption,
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption,
Will ever mend her.

Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
Death soon will end her.

"Tis you and Taylor (161) are the chief,
Wha are to blame for this mischief,
But gin the Lord's ain fouk gat leave,
A toom tar-barrel
And twa red peats wad send relief,
And end the quarrel.

Epistle tu John Rankine,
ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. (162)

Он rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin'!
There's mony godly folks are thinkin',

Your dreams (163) and tricks

Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin',
Straught to Auld Nick's.

Ye hae sae mony cracks and cants,
And in your wicked, drunken rants,
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,

And fill them fou (164);
And then their failings, flaws, and wants,
Are a' seen through.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!
That holy robe, oh dinna tear it!
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it,

The lads in black!
But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
Rives't aff their back.

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing, It's just the blue-gown badge and claithing O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething

To ken them by,
Frae ony unregenerate heathen
Like you or I.

I've sent you here some rhyming ware,
A' that I bargain'd for, and mair;
Sae, when you hae an hour to spare,

Good speed and furder to you, Johnny, Guide health, hale han's, and weather bonny; Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny

The staff o' bread,
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' hran'y
To clear your head.

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs and naggs
Like drivin' wrack;
But may the tapmast grain that wags
Come to the sack.

I'm bizzie too, and skelpin' at it,
But bitter, daudin' showers hae wat it,
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it
Wi' muckle wark,

And took my jotteleg and whatt' it,
Like ony clark.