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ON THE LATE

CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS
THROUGH SCOTLAND,

Collecting the Antiquities of that Kingdom.

HEAR, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's;
If there's a hole in a' your coats,

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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
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,
O' stature short, but genius bright,

That's he, mark weel

And wow! he has an unco sleight

O' cauk and keel.

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin',
Or kirk deserted by its riggin,

It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in

Some eldritch part,

Wi' deils, they say, L―d save's! colleaguin At some black art.—

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer,

Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamor,

And you, deep read in hell's black grammar,

Warlocks and witches;

Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,

Ye midnight b-es.

' 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;
But now he's quat the spurtle blade,

And dog-skin wallet,

And ta'en the-Antiquarian trade,

I think they call it.

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets;
Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets2,
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,
A towmont guid;

And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,
Before the Flood.

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished the gender

O' Balaam's ass;

A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor,
Weel shod wi' brass.

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg,
The cut of Adam's philibeg;

The knife that nicket Abel's craig,

He'll prove you fully,

It was a faulding jocteleg,

Or lang-kail gullie.—

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!

? Vide his Treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapons.

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose!-
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,

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,
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r!
Never Boreas' hoary path,
Never Eurus' pois'nous breath,
Never baleful stellar lights,
Taint thee with untimely blights!
Never, never reptile thief

Riot on thy virgin leaf!

gay,

Nor even Sol too fiercely view
Thy bosom blushing still with dew!
Mayst thou long, sweet crimson gem,
Richly deck thy native stem;
Till some ev'ning, sober, calm,
Dropping dews, and breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings;

220 ON THE DEATH OF JOHN, M'LEOD, ESQ.

Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,
Shed thy dying honours round,
And resign to parent earth

The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.

ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER,

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ.

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR
FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S.

SAD thy tale, thou idle page,

And rueful thy alarms :

Death tears the brother of her love

From Isabella's arms.

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew
The morning rose may blow;
But cold successive noontide blasts
May lay its beauties low.

Fair on Isabella's morn
The sun propitious smil'd;

But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
Succeeding hopes beguil❜d.

Fate oft tears the bosom chords
That nature finest strung:
So Isabella's heart was form'd,
And so that heart was wrung.

Dread Omnipotence, alone,

Can heal the wound he gave;
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes
To scenes beyond the grave.

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow,

And fear no withering blast; There Isabella's spotless worth Shall happy be at last.

THE

HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER'
To the Noble Duke of Athole.

My Lord, I know your noble ear
Woe ne'er assails in vain ;
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble Slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts,
That thro' my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I'm scorching up to shallow,
They're left the whitening stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow.

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,

As Poet B**** cam by,
That, to a bard I should be seen
Wi' half my channel dry:

1 Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.

VOL. I.

U

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