Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chames, And you deep read in hell's black grammar, Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, Ye midnight bes. Its 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 : And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder; A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, Weel shod wi' brass. Forbye, he'll shape you af 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, Gude fellows wi' him; * Vide his Treatise on ancient armour and weapons. Ant porty O port! shine thou a wee, And then ye'll see him! 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 gay, Blooming on thy early May, Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! Never Boreas' hoary path, Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, Taint thee with untimely blights! Never, never reptile thief Riot on thy virgin leaf! Nor even Sol too fiercely view Thy bosom blushing still with dew! Mayst thou long, sweet crimson gem, And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings; Shed thy dying honours round, And resign to parent earth The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. SONG. Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, Yet in thy presence, lovely fair, So much in sight of Heav'n. 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 Fate oft tears the bosom chords And so that heart was wrung. Dread Omnipotence, alone, Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 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 ; The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts, Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, * Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs. That, to a bard I should be seen He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. Here, foaming down the skelvy rocks, Would then my noble master please The sober laverock, warbling wild, The gowdspink, music's gayest child, The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, The robin pensive autumn cheer, This, too, a covert shall ensure, To shield them from the storm; Here shall the shepherd make his seat, |