Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush

That sings on Cessnock banks unseen,
While his mate sits nestling in the bush ;
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een.

But it's not her air, her form, her face,
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen;
'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace,
An' chiefly in her rogueish een.

50

THE DEAN OF FACULTY.

DIRE was the hate at old Harlaw
That Scot to Scot did carry ;
And dire the discord Langside saw
For beauteous hapless Mary:

But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot,

Or were more in fury seen, Sir,

Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job-
Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir.

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore,
Among the first was number'd;
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store,
Commandment the tenth remember'd.

Yet simple Bob the victory got,
And won his heart's desire;

Which shews that heaven can boil the pot,
Tho' the devil piss in the fire.

Squire Hal besides had, in this case,

Pretensions rather brassy,

For talents to deserve a place

Are qualifications saucy;

So their worships of the Faculty,

Quite sick of merit's rudeness,

Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see,

To their gratis grace and goodness.

IO

20

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight
Of a son of Circumcision,

So may be, on this Pisgah height,
Bob's purblind mental vision;

Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet,
Till for eloquence you hail him,

And swear he has the Angel met
That met the Ass of Balaam.

In

your heretic sins may ye live and die, Ye heretic eight and thirty!

But accept, ye sublime Majority,

My congratulations hearty.

With your Honours and a certain King,
In your servants this is striking—

The more incapacity they bring,
The more they're to your liking.

COULD AUGHT OF SONG.

COULD aught of song declare my pains,
Could artful numbers move thee,
The Muse should tell, in labour'd strains,
O Mary, how I love thee!

They who but feign a wounded heart
May teach the lyre to languish ;
But what avails the pride of art,
When wastes the soul with anguish?

Then let the sudden bursting sigh
The heart-felt pang discover ;
And in the keen, yet tender eye,
O read th' imploring lover!

For well I know thy gentle mind
Disdains art's gay disguising;
Beyond what fancy e'er refin'd,
The voice of nature prizing.

O LEAVE NOVELS.

O LEAVE novéls, ye Mauchline belles,
Ye're safer at your spinning wheel;
Such witching books are baited hooks
For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel.

Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,

They make your youthful fancies reel;
They heat your brains, and fire your veins,
And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel.

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung;
A heart that warmly seems to feel;
That feeling heart but acts a part,

"Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.

The frank address, the soft caress,
Are worse than poison'd darts of steel;
The frank address, and politesse,

Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.

ΙΟ

ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUMOURIER.

YOU'RE welcome to Despots, Dumourier ;
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier;

How does Dampière do?

Aye, and Bournonville too?

Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier?

I will fight France with you, Dumourier;

I will fight France with you, Dumourier;
I will fight France with you,

I will take my chance with you;
By my soul I'll dance a dance with

you, Dumourier. IO

Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about,

Till freedom's spark is out,

Then we'll be damn'd no doubt, Dumourier.

SWEETEST MAY.

SWEETEST May, let Love incline thee;
Take a heart which he designs thee;
As thy constant slave regard it;
For its faith and truth reward it.

THE WINTER IT IS PAST.

THE winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last,
And the small birds sing on every tree;

Now every thing is glad, while I am very sad,
Since my true love is parted from me.

The rose upon the brier, by the waters running clear, May have charms for the linnet or the bee;

Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest, But my true love is parted from me.

FRAGMENT.

HER flowing locks, the raven's wing.
Adown her neck and bosom hing;
How sweet unto that breast to cling,
And round that neck entwine her!

Her lips are roses wet wi' dew!
O, what a feast her bonnie mou!
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner!

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.

THE small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale; The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning, And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale:

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, While the lingering moments are number'd by care? No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.