How ill exchang'd for riper times,
To see the follies, or the crimes,

Of others, or my own!

Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,

Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,

That active man engage!

The fears all, the tears all,

Of dim-declining age.

WILLIE CHALMERS.

Wr' braw new branks in mickle pride,
And eke a braw new brechan,
My Pegasus I'm got astride,

And up Parnassus pechin';

Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush,
The doited beastie stammers;

Then up he gets, and off he sets

For sake o' Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name
May cost a pair o' blushes;

I am nae stranger to your fame

Nor his warm urgèd wishes.

Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet,

His honest heart enamours,

And faith ye'll no be lost a whit,

Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers.

Auld Truth hersel might swear ye're fair,
Aud Honour safely back her,
And Modesty assume your air,
And ne'er a ane mistak' her:
And sic twa love-inspiring een
Might fire even holy palmers;
Nae wonder then they've fatal been
To honest Willie Chalmers.

60

70

IO

20

I doubt na fortune may you shore
Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie,
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore,

And band upon his breastie :
But oh! what signifies to you,
His lexicons and grammars;
The feeling heart's the royal blue,
And that's wi' Willie Chalmers,

Some gapin' glowrin' country laird
May warsle for your favour;
May claw his lug, and straik his beard,
And host up some palaver.

My bonnie maid, before ye wed
Sic clumsy-witted hammers,

Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp
Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers.

Forgive the Bard! my fond regard
For ane that shares my bosom
Inspires my muse to gie'm his dues,
For de'il a hair I roose him.
May powers aboon unite you soon,
And fructify your amours,

And every year come in mair dear
To you and Willie Chalmers.

30

40

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by!

But, with a frater-feeling strong,

Here heave a sigh.

Is there a man whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,

Wild as the wave;

Here pause—and, thro' the starting tear,
Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stain'd his name!

Reader, attend! whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit ;

Know prudent cautious self-control
Is wisdom's root.

EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE.

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

Your dreams an' tricks

Will send you, Korah-like a-sinkin',

Straught to auld Nick's.

30

20

ΙΟ

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

An' fill them fou;

And then their failings, flaws, an' wants,
Are a' seen thro'.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!

That holy robe, O 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 an' claithing
O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naithing
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, an' mair;
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,

I will expect

Yon sang; ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care,
And no neglect.

Tho', faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!
My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing!
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring,

An' danc'd my fill!

I'd better gane an' sair'd the king
At Bunker's Hill.

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun,
I gaed a roving wi' the gun,

An' brought a paitrick to the grun',
A bonnie hen;

And, as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane would ken.

ΙΟ

20

30

40

The poor wee thing was little hurt;
I straikit it a wee for sport,

Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't;

But, Deil-may-care!

Somebody tells the poacher-court

I was suspected for the plot;

I scorn'd to lie;

So gat the whissle o' my groat,

An' pay't the fee.

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale,
An' by my pouther an' my hail,
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

The game shall

I vow an' swear!
pay, o'er moor an' dale,
For this, niest year.

As soon's the clockin'-time is by,
An' the wee pouts begun to cry,
Lord, I'se hae sportin by an' by,

For my gowd guinea;
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye
For 't, in Virginia.

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! "Twas neither broken wing nor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame

Scarce thro' the feathers; An' baith a yellow George to claim,

An' thole their blethers!

It pits me aye as mad's a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient:

Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,

Your most obedient.

60

70