IN this strange land, this uncouth clime,
A land unknown to prose or rhyme ;
Where words ne'er crost the Muse's heckles,
Nor limpit in poetic shackles;
A land that prose did never view it,
Except when drunk he stacher't through it;
Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek,
Hid in an atmosphere of reek,
I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk,
I hear it-for in vain I leuk.-
The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel,
Enhusked by a fog infernal:
Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures,
I sit and count my sins by chapters;
For life and spunk like ither Christians,
I'm dwindled down to mere existence,
Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies,
Wï' nae kend face but Jenny Geddes.
Jenny, my Pegasean pride!
Dowie she saunters down Nithside,
And ay a westlin leuk she throws,
While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose !
Was it for this, wi' canny care,
Thou bure the Bard through many a shire?
At howes or hillocks never stumbled,
And late or early never grumbled ?-
O, had I power like inclination,
I'd heeze thee up a constellation,
To canter with the Sagitarre,
Or loup the ecliptic like a bar;
Or turn the pole like any arrow;
Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow,
Down the zodiac urge the race,
And cast dirt on his godship's face;
For I could lay my bread and kail
He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail.—
Wi' a' this care and a' this grief,
And sma', sma' prospect of relief,
And nought but peat reek i' my head,
How can I write what ye can read?—
Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June,
Ye'll find me in a better tune;
But till we meet and weet our whistle,
Tak this excuse for nae epistle.
TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY.
LONG life, my Lord, an' health be yours,
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors;
Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar,
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o' a life
She likes-as lambkins like a knife.
Faith, you and Applecross were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight,
I doubt na'! they wad bid nae better
Than let them ance out owre the water
Than up amang thae lakes and seas
They'll mak' what rules and laws they please;
Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin,
May set their Highland bluid a ranklin';
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery fearless lead them,
Till God knows what may be effected
When by such heads and hearts directed-
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to Patrician rights aspire !
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile,
An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance,
To cowe the rebel generation,
An' save the honour o' the nation?
They an' be d- -d! what right hae they
To meat or sleep, or light o' day !
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them?
But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna' say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
An' tirl the hallions to the birses;
Yet while they're only poind't and herriet,
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit ;
But smash them! crash them a' to spails!
An' rot the dyvors i' the jails!
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour !
Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober!
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!
An' if the wives an' dirty brats
E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts
Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas',
Frightin' awa your deucks an' geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An gar the tatter'd gypsies pack
Wi' a' their bastarts on their back!
Go on, my lord! I lang to meet you,
An' in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right hanʼ assign'd your seat
'Tween Herod's hip an' Polycrate,-
Or if you on your station tarrow
Between Almagro and Pizarro,
A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't ;
An' till ye come-Your humble servant,
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY.
Now Kennedy, if foot or horse
E'er bring you in by Mauchline Corss.
Lord man, there's lasses there wad force
A hermit's fancy,
And down the gate in faith they're worse
And mair unchancy.
But as I'm sayin' please step to Dow's
And taste sic gear as Johnny brews,
Till some bit callan brings me news
That you are there,
And if we dinna had a bouze
Ise ne'er drink mair.
It's no I like to sit an' swallow,
Then like a swine to puke an' wallow,
But gie me just a true good fallow
Wi' right ingine,
And spunkie ance to make us mellow,
And then we'll shine.
Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk,
Wha rate the wearer by the cloak,
An 'sklent on poverty their joke,
Wi' bitter sneer,
Wi' you no friendship I will troke
Nor cheap nor dear.
But if, as I'm informed weel,
Ye hate as ill's the vera De'il,
The flinty hearts that canna feel
Come, Sir, here's tae you;
Hae there's my haun' I wiss you weel,
And gude be wi' you.
ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ.
OF ARNISTON, LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF
THE COURT OF SESSION.
LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains ;
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan;
The hollow caves return a sullen moan.
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