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I call no Goddess to inspire my strains
I gat your letter, winsome Willie.
I hold it, Sir, my bounden duty
I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend
I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth
I'm threetimes doubly o'er your debtor.
Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art

Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge and claw
Kind Sir, I've read your paper through.

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose
Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg
Let other Poets raise a fracas
Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize

My curse upon thy venom'd stang
My honour'd Colonel, deep I feel.
My Lord, I know your noble ear

My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected friend.
Nae heathen name shall I prefix

No more of your guests, be they titled or not.
No more, ye warblers of the wood-no more!
No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay
No song nor dance I bring from yon great city
Now Nature hangs her mantle green
Now Robin lies in his last lair.

O a' ye pious godly flocks

O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
O, had the malt thy strength of mind
O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine

O Thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above
O Thou Great Being! what Thou art

O thou pale Orb, that silent shines

O Thou, the first, the greatest friend

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause

O Thou, wha in the Heavens dost dwell

O thou! whatever title suit thee

O Thou, who kindly dost provide.

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ye wha are sae guid yoursel.

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O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying

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Old Winter with his frosty beard

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prove

it true

Sad thy tale, thou idle

page.

Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear

Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care

Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in John Knox.

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart

Right, Sir! your text I'll

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Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came.

Sing on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough

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Still anxious to secure your partial favour
Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way.
The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare
The man, in life wherever plac'd

The simple bard, rough at the rustic plough
The sun had clos'd the winter day
The wind blew hollow frae the hills

The wintry west extends his blast.
Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among
Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair

This Day Time winds th' exhausted chain
This wot ye all whom it concerns.
Thou of an independent mind

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st.

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Thou whom chance may hither lead.

Thou's welcome, wean ! mishanter fa' me

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'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend

"Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle.

"Twas where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd

Upon a simmer Sunday morn

Upon that night, when Fairies light

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What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on

III

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When chill November's surly blast

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When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird

When Nature her great master-piece design'd
While at the stook the shearers cow'r
While briers an' woodbines budding green.
While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things
While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake
While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood
While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw
Whose is that noble, dauntless brow?
Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene
Why, ye tenants of the lake.
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie.

Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires.

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Your News and Review, Sir, I've read through and through, Sir 290

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LONDON:

R. CLAY, SON, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS,

BREAD STREET HILL.

POEMS BY ALEXANDER SMITH.

POEMS.

Fourth Edition. Fcp. 8vo. 2s. 6d.