I'll roar than, I'll soar than, Out through the vera cluds, Though hung roun', and clung roun', Owre highlan' hills I've roved this while, And though 'twas riven in mony a hole, Whan scanin't, I fan'in't Some rhyme I ne'er had seen, Maks canty, blythe, and bien. Ha, Eben! hae I catcht ye here, Now farewell, my braw chiel, Fools canker aye at merit. First Epistle to Mr. William Mitchell. Leadhills, April HAIL! kind, free, honest-hearted swain, My ne'er forgotten frien', Wha aft has made me since wi' pain, We parted dight my e'en; Till to your bield bedeen It sound this day. Wide muirs that spread wi' purple sweep, Beneath the sunny glowe; Hills swelled vast here-there dark glens deep Whare brooks embosomed rowe; Cots hingin' ower the woody steep, Bields reekin' frae the howe, Wild scenes like these, a blissfu' heap, Has driven't in my powe To write this day. Be this thy last, my Muse, and swear 'Till Mitchell's cheerfu' sang thou hear, To chain thy tuneless tongue- And rocks re-echoing rung Yet wha can, daunerin' up thir braes, While herdies sing wi' huggert taes, And wanton lambs are prancin', O Or down the spreadin' vale to gaze, Here mountains raise their heathery backs, In whase dark bowels, for lead tracts, The herd maist like anes finger, wauks Scarce seen this day. Here mills rin thrang, wi' whilk in speed Nine score o' fathoms shanks down lead, Glowre down a pit you'd think, wi' dread, That gangs o' deils war roarin' Frae h- that way. Alangst the mountain's barren side, Is death that day. a a The truth of this has been often fatally experienced by the inhabitants of these wild mountains. A wimplan burn atween the hills, Aft bits o' gowd are gotten; Thought I“ Three yeer through closs and trance, And doors I've been decoy't, Now fortune's kussen me up a chance, And fegs I sal employ't Right thrang this day." Sae up the burn, wi' glee I gade, Till twa-three lumps I'd gather; And mair that day. As through the stream, wi' loutin' back, A Toop, who won'ert at my pack, That hale-sale hurlan' down the brae, It blatter't wi' a blash I' the burn that day! Though earthquakes, hail and thun'er's blaze Had a' at ance surroundet, I wudna' glowr't wi' sic amaze, I haul't it out a' clashing, And now they're bleaching on the bank, A melancholy washing To me this day. To Dr. Taylor of Paisley, WRITTEN WHEN SICK. WHEN dread Disease assaults our trembling breath, Oft have I thought, while health flowed in my breast, Ere sleepless nights my weary heart opprest, Amid those numbers that implore your care, This grateful heart your goodness shall revere Cuscous, A REAL CHARACTER. I hate the man who builds his fame EUSEBUS, fond a patriot to commence, With self-conceit supplies his want of sense. GAY. |