Whene'er to drink you are inclin❜d, ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art, Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROX- WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, While Summer with a matron grace While Autumn, benefactor kind, While maniac Winter rages o'er The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows: So long, sweet Poet of the year, Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that Thomson was her son. ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS Collecting the Antiquities of that Kingdom. HEAR, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, I rede you tent it: A chield's amang you taking notes, And, faith, he'll prent it. If in your bounds ye chance to light That's he, mark weel And wow! he has an unco sleight O' cauk and keel. By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin', It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in Some eldritch part, Wi' deils, they say, L-d save's! colleaguin Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, And you, deep read in hell's black grammar, Warlocks and witches; Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, Ye midnight bes. Vide his Antiquities of Scotland. 218 CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS. It's tauld he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa'n than fled; And dog-skin wallet, And ta'en the-Antiquarian trade, I think they call it. He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets; And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder; A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, The knife that nicket Abel's craig, He'll prove you fully, It was a faulding jocteleg, But wad ye see him in his glee, For meikle glee and fun has he, Then set him down, and twa or three Guid fellows wi' him; And port, O port! shine thou a wee, And then ye'll see him! 2 Vide his Treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapous. Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose! They sair misca' thee; I'd take the rascal by the nose, Wad say, Shame fa' thee! TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, A very young Lady. WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. BEAUTEOUS rose-bud, young and Blooming in thy early May, Never mayst thou, lovely flow'r, gay, Nor even Sol too fiercely view |