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Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,
And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd, rends.
Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless
show'rs,

The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, lours.
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils,
And still below the horrid cauldron boils-

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BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD,

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY

DISTRESS.

SWEET Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love,
And ward o' mony a pray'r,

What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

November hirples o'er the lea,
Chill, on thy lovely form;
And gane, alas, the shelt'ring tree,
Should shield thee frae a storm.

May He who gives the rain to pour,
And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving show'r,
The bitter frost and snaw!

May He, the friend of woe and want,
Who heals life's various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother plant,
And heal her cruel wounds!

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast,

Fair on the summer morn :
Now feebly bends she in the blast,
Unshelter'd and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
Unscath'd by ruffian hand!
And from thee many a parent stem
Arise to deck our land!

SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

A Brother Poet '.

AULD NEEBOR,

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor,
For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter;
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye

flatter,

Ye speak sae fair;

For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter,

Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;
Lang may your elbuck jink an' diddle,
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle

O' war'ly cares,

Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle

Your auld gray

hairs.

But, Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit;
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;

An' gif it's sae ye sud be licket

Until ye fyke;

Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit,

Be hain't wha like.

This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, published

at Kilmarnock, 1789.

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink,
Rivin the words to gar them clink;

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink Wi' jads or masons;

An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think

Braw sober lessons.

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,
Commend me to the Bardie clan;
Except it be some idle plan

O' rhymin clink,

The devil-haet, that I sud ban!

They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin,
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin;
But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

An' while ought's there,

Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin,
An' fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,
At hame, a-field, at wark or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie!
Tho' rough an' raplock be her measure,
She's seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie :
The warl' may play you mony a shavie;
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye,
Tho' e'er sae puir,

Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie
Frae door to door.

THE INVENTORY.

IN ANSWER TO

A Mandate by a Surveyor of the Taxes.

SIR, as your mandate did request, here a faithfu' list,

I send you

My horses, servants, carts, and graith,
To which I'm free to tak my aith.
Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle,
As ever drew before a pettle;

My hand-a-fore', a guid auld has-been,
And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen;
My hand-a-hin2, a guid brown filly,
Wha aft has borne me safe from Killie 3,
And your auld borough mony a time,
In days when riding was nae crime:
But ance when in my wooing pride
I like a blockhead boost to ride,
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to,
(Lord, pardon a' my sins an' that too!)
I play'd my filly sic a shavie,
She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie.
My fur-a-hin+, a guid grey beast,
As e'er in tug or tow was traced:
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty,
A damn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie.

The fore-horse on the left-hand in the plough. 2 The hindmost on the left-hand in the plough. 3 Kilmarnock.

4 The hindmost horse on the right-hand in the plough.

Forby a cowte, of cowtes the wale,
As ever ran before a tail;

An' he be spar'd to be a beast,
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least.
Wheel carriages I hae but few,
Three carts, and twa are feckly new;
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token,
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken;
I made a poker o' the spindle,
And my auld mither brunt the trundle.
For men, I've three mischievous boys,
Run-deils for rantin and for noise;
A gadsman ane, a thresher t'other,
Wee Davoc hauds the nowte in fother.
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly,
And often labour them completely,
And aye on Sundays duly nightly,
I on the questions tairge them tightly,
Till faith wee Davoc's grown sae gleg,
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg,)
He'll screed you aff effectual calling,
As fast as ony in the dwalling.

I've nane in female servant station,
Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation!
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is,
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses;
For weans I'm mair than weel contented,
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted;
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,
She stares the daddie in her face,
Eneugh of ought ye like but grace.
But her, my bonnie, sweet, wee lady,
I've said enough for her already,

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