WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF

OF ONE OF MISS HANNAH MORE'S WORKS, WHICH SHE HAD GIVEN HIM.

THOU flattering mark of friendship kind, Still may thy pages call to mind

The dear, the beauteous donor:
Though sweetly female every part,
Yet such a head, and more the heart,
Does both the sexes honour.

She showed her tastes refined and just
When she selected thee,

Yet deviating own I must,

For so approving me.

But kind still, I'll mind still

The giver in the gift;

I'll bless her and wiss her
A Friend above the Lift.

INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET. THERE'S death in the cup-sae beware! Nay, more—there is danger in touching; But wha can avoid the fell snare?

The man and his wine's sae bewitching!

THE BOOK-WORMS.

THROUGH and through the inspired leaves,
Ye maggots, make your windings;
But, oh! respect his lordship's taste,
And spare his golden bindings.

ON ROBERT RIDDEL.

To Riddel, much-lamented man,
This ivied cot was dear;

Reader, dost value matchless worth?
This ivied cot revere.

WILLIE CHALMERS.

Wı' 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 urged wishes.
Your bonie 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,
And Honour safely back her,
And Modesty assume your air,
And ne'er a ane mistak' her:

And sic twa love-inspiring e’en
Might fire even holy Palmers;
Nae wonder then they've fatal been
To honest Willie Chalmers.

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' countra laird,
May warsle for your favour;
May claw his lug, and straik his beard,

And host up some palaver.

My bonie 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.

TO JOHN TAYLOR.

WITH Pegasus upon a day,
Apollo weary flying,

Through frosty hills the journey lay,
On foot the way was plying.

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus
Was but a sorry walker ;
To Vulcan then Apollo goes,
To get a frosty calker.

Obliging Vulcan fell to work,

Threw by his coat and bonnet,
And did Sol's business in a crack;
Sol paid him with a sonnet.

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead,
Pity my sad disaster;

My Pegasus is poorly shod

I'll pay you like my master.

LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK NOTE.

WAE worth thy power, thou cursed leaf!

Fell source o' a' my woe and grief!
For lack o' thee I've lost my lass!
For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass.
I see the children of affliction
Unaided, thro' thy curs'd restriction.
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile,
Amid his hapless victim's spoil.

For lack o' thee I leave this much-lov'd shore,
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.

THE LOYAL NATIVES' VERSES.

YE sons of sedition, give ear to my song,

Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell pervade every throng,

With Crackn the attorney, and Mundell the quack, Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack.

These verses were handed over the table to Burns at a convivial meeting, and he endorsed the subjoined reply:

BURNS-EXTEMPORE.

YE true 'Loyal Natives,' attend to my song,
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long ;
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt;
But where is your shield from the darts of contempt?

REMORSE.

OF all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,
Beyond comparison the worst are those

That to our folly or our guilt we owe.
In every other circumstance, the mind
Has this to say It was no deed of mine;'
But when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added-' Blame thy foolish self!'
Or worser far, the pangs of keen Remorse;
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt—
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involvèd others;
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us,
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!
O burning hell! in all thy store of torments,
There's not a keener lash!

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart