THE sun had clos'd the winter day, The Curlers quat their roarin play, An' hunger'd Maukin taen her way

To kail-yards green,

While faithless snaws ilk step betray Whare she has been.

The thresher's weary flingin-tree
The lee-lang day had tired me;
And whan the day had clos'd his e'e,
Far i' the west,

Ben i' the Spence, right pensivelie,
I gaed to rest.

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs
Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows,
I took her for some Scottish Muse,
By that same token;
And come to stop these reckless vows,
Would soon been broken.

A 'hair-brain'd, sentimental trace,'
Was strongly marked in her face;
A wildly-witty, rustic grace

Shone full upon her;

Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, Beam'd keen with Honour.

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, Till half a leg was scrimply seen; And such a leg! my bonie Jean Could only peer it;

Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean,
Nane else came near it.

Her mantle large, of greenish hue,
My gazing wonder chiefly drew;
Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling,

threw

Here, rivers in the sea were lost; There, mountains to the skies were tost: Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast With surging foam;

There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, The lordly dome.

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods;

There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds,
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods,
On to the shore;

And many a lesser torrent scuds,
With seeming roar.

Low, in a sandy valley spread,
An ancient Borough rear'd her head;
Still, as in Scottish story read,

She boasts a Race,

To ev'ry nobler virtue bred,
And polish'd grace.

By stately tow'r or palace fair,
Or ruins pendent in the air,

Bold stems of Heroes, here and there,
I could discern ;

Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare,

With feature stern.

My heart did glowing transport feel,
To see a Race heroic wheel,
And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel
In sturdy blows;

While back-recoiling seem'd to reel
Their Suthron foes.

His COUNTRY'S SAVIOUR, mark him well!

Bold Richardton's heroic swell;
The Chief on Sark who glorious fell,
In high command;

And He whom ruthless fates expel
His native land.

There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid,
I mark'd a martial Race, pourtray'd
In colours strong;
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd
They strode along.

Thro' many a wild, romantic grove,
Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove,
(Fit haunts for Friendship or for Love
In musing mood,)
An aged Judge, I saw him rove,
Dispensing good.

With deep-struck reverential awe
The learned Sire and Son I saw,
To Nature's God and Nature's law
They gave their lore:
This, all its source and end to draw;
That, to adore.

Brydon's brave Ward I well could spy,
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye;
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by,
To hand him on,

Where many a Patriot name on high,
And Hero shone.

WITH musing-deep, astonish'd stare,
I view'd the heavenly-seeming Fair;
A whisp'ring throb did witness bear,
Of kindred sweet,
When with an elder Sister's air
She did me greet.

'All hail! my own inspired Bard!
In me thy native Muse regard!
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard,
Thus poorly low!
I come to give thee such reward
As we bestow.

'Know, the great Genius of this land
Has many a light, aërial band,
Who, all beneath his high command,
Harmoniously,

As Arts or Arms they understand,
Their labours ply.

"They Scotia's Race among them share ;
Some fire the Soldier on to dare;
Some rouse the Patriot up to bare
Corruption's heart :
Some teach the Bard, a darling care,
The tuneful art.

O YE wha are sae guid yoursel,
Sae pious and sae holy,

Ye've nought to do but mark and tell
Your Neebour's fauts and folly!
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supply'd wi' store o' water,
The heapet happer's ebbing still,
And still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable Core,

As counsel for poor mortals,
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door,
For glaikit Folly's portals;

I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
Would here propone defences,
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.

SOLOMON.-Eccles. vii 16.

Ye see your state wi' their's compar'd,
And shudder at the niffer,
But cast a moment's fair regard,
What maks the mighty differ;
Discount what scant occasion gave
That purity ye pride in,

And (what's aft mair than a' the lave)
Your better art o' hiding.

Think, when your castigated pulse
Gies now and then a wallop,
What raging must his veins convulse.
That still eternal gallop:
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,
Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o' baith to sail,
It maks an unco leeway.