An honest man’s the noblest work of God–Pope. When this worthy old sportman went out, last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian’s phrase, “the last of his fields,” and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph.–R.B., […]

The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer?Or what does he regard his single woes?But when, alas! he multiplies himself,To dearer serves, to the lov’d tender fair,To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him,To helpless children,–then, Oh then, he feelsThe point of misery festering in his heart,And weakly weeps his fortunes like a coward:Such, […]

Hail, thairm-inspirin’, rattlin’ Willie!Tho’ fortune’s road be rough an’ hillyTo every fiddling, rhyming billie,We never heed,But take it like the unback’d filly,Proud o’ her speed. When, idly goavin’, whiles we saunter,Yirr! fancy barks, awa we canter,Up hill, down brae, till some mischanter,Some black bog-hole,Arrests us; then the scathe an’ banterWe’re forced to thole. Hale be […]

Rusticity’s ungainly formMay cloud the highest mind;But when the heart is nobly warm,The good excuse will find. Propriety’s cold, cautious rulesWarm fervour may o’erlook:But spare poor sensibilityTh’ ungentle, harsh rebuke. 1786

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide,That nurse in their bosom the youth o’ the Clyde,Where the grouse lead their coveys thro’ the heather to feed,And the shepherd tends his flock as he pipes on his reed. Not Gowrie’s rich valley, nor Forth’s sunny shores,To me hae the charms o’yon wild, mossy moors;For there, […]

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm!How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend youFrom seasons such as these?–Shakespeare. When biting Boreas, fell and dour,Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r;When Phoebus gies a short-liv’d glow’r,Far south the lift,Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r,Or whirling drift: […]

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,Great chieftain o’ the pudding-race!Aboon them a’ yet tak your place,Painch, tripe, or thairm:Weel are ye wordy o’a graceAs lang’s my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill,Your hurdies like a distant hill,Your pin was help to mend a millIn time o’need,While thro’ your pores the dews distilLike amber bead. […]

Edina! Scotia’s darling seat!All hail thy palaces and tow’rs,Where once, beneath a Monarch’s feet,Sat Legislation’s sov’reign pow’rs:From marking wildly scatt’red flow’rs,As on the banks of Ayr I stray’d,And singing, lone, the lingering hours,I shelter in they honour’d shade. Here Wealth still swells the golden tide,As busy Trade his labours plies;There Architecture’s noble prideBids elegance and […]

My blessin’s upon thy sweet wee lippie!My blessin’s upon thy e’e-brie!Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie,Thou’s aye the dearer, and dearer to me! But I’ll big a bow’r on yon bonie banks,Whare Tay rins wimplin’ by sae clear;An’ I’ll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine,And mak thee a man like thy […]

Again the silent wheels of timeTheir annual round have driven,And you, tho’ scarce in maiden prime,Are so much nearer Heaven. No gifts have I from Indian coastsThe infant year to hail;I send you more than India boasts,In Edwin’s simple tale. Our sex with guile, and faithless love,Is charg’d, perhaps too true;But may, dear maid, each […]

Tune–“Killiercrankie.” Lord Advocate He clenched his pamphlet in his fist,He quoted and he hinted,Till, in a declamation-mist,His argument he tint it:He gaped for’t, he graped for’t,He fand it was awa, man;But what his common sense came short,He eked out wi’ law, man. Mr. Erskine Collected, Harry stood awee,Then open’d out his arm, man;His Lordship sat […]

As I cam by Crochallan,I cannilie keekit ben;Rattlin’, roarin’ WillieWas sittin at yon boord-en’;Sittin at yon boord-en,And amang gude companie;Rattlin’, roarin’ Willie,You’re welcome hame to me! 1787

Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came;The old cock’d hat, the grey surtout the same;His bristling beard just rising in its might,‘Twas four long nights and days to shaving night:His uncomb’d grizzly locks, wild staring, thatch’dA head for thought profound and clear, unmatch’d;Yet tho’ his caustic wit was biting-rude,His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 1787

Inscription for the Headstone of Fergusson the Poet [1] No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay,“No storied urn nor animated bust;”This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way,To pour her sorrows o’er the Poet’s dust. Additional Stanzas She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate;Tho’ all the powers of song thy fancy fired,Yet Luxury and Wealth […]

Gudewife of Wauchope–House, Roxburghshire. Gudewife, I Mind it weel in early date,When I was bardless, young, and blate,An’ first could thresh the barn,Or haud a yokin’ at the pleugh;An, tho’ forfoughten sair eneugh,Yet unco proud to learn:When first amang the yellow cornA man I reckon’d was,An’ wi’ the lave ilk merry mornCould rank my rig […]

Chorus.–My lady’s gown, there’s gairs upon’t,And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t;But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet,My lord thinks meikle mair upon’t. My lord a-hunting he is gone,But hounds or hawks wi’ him are nane;By Colin’s cottage lies his game,If Colin’s Jenny be at hame.My lady’s gown, etc. My lady’s white, my lady’s red,And kith and kin […]

The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn,Our lads gaed a-hunting ae day at the dawn,O’er moors and o’er mosses and mony a glen,At length they discover’d a bonie moor-hen. Chorus.–I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men,I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men;Take some on the wing, and some as they […]

[Spoken by Mr. Woods on his benefit-night, Monday, 16th April, 1787.] When, by a generous Public’s kind acclaim,That dearest meed is granted–honest fame;Waen here your favour is the actor’s lot,Nor even the man in private life forgot;What breast so dead to heavenly Virtue’s glow,But heaves impassion’d with the grateful throe? Poor is the task to […]

[The Nobleman is James, Fourteenth Earl of Glencairn.] Whose is that noble, dauntless brow?And whose that eye of fire?And whose that generous princely mien,E’en rooted foes admire? Stranger! to justly show that brow,And mark that eye of fire,Would take His hand, whose vernal tintsHis other works admire. Bright as a cloudless summer sun,With stately port […]

Dear _______, I’ll gie ye some advice,You’ll tak it no uncivil:You shouldna paint at angels mair,But try and paint the devil. To paint an Angel’s kittle wark,Wi’ Nick, there’s little danger:You’ll easy draw a lang-kent face,But no sae weel a stranger.–R. B. 1787