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 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; 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; O' Balaam's ass; 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, 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! 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, Riot on thy virgin leaf! gay, Nor even Sol too fiercely view 220 ON THE DEATH OF JOHN, M'LEOD, ESQ. Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 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 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 Fair on Isabella's morn But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Fate oft tears the bosom chords Dread Omnipotence, alone, Can heal the wound he gave; 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' My Lord, I know your noble ear The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts, Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, As Poet B**** cam by, 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 |