I'll roar than, I'll soar than,
Out through the vera cluds,
Though hung roun', and clung roun',
Wi' stenchers and wi' duds.
Owre highlan' hills I've roved this while,
Far to the north, whare mony a mile
Ye'll naething see but heather;
And now-and-than a wee bit cot,
Bare, hunkerin' on some danely spot,
Whare ither words they blether.
Last owk there on a winnock-sole,
I fan some aul' newspaper,
And though 'twas riven in mony a hole,
Yet, fegs, it made me caper;
Whan scanin't, I fan'in't
Some rhyme I ne'er had seen,
How nature ilk creature
Maks canty, blythe, and bien.
Ha, Eben! hae I catcht ye here,
Quoth I, in unco glee and cheer,
While their nainsels a' gapet,
And speer't right droll, gin she was mine,
And whareabouts me did her tine?
(While aff the sang I clippet,)
Some bawbies bury't a' the plea,
Though they afore war sweer o't,
Sae aff I came in clever key,
Resolved to let you hear o't;
Now farewell, my braw chiel,
Lang tune the reed wi' spirit;
Let asses spit clashes,
Fools canker aye at merit.
First Epistle to Mr. William Mitchell.
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;
Ance mair frae aff a lanely plain,
Whare warlocks wauk at e'en,
And witches dance, I'll raise my strain
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
By a' that e'er thou sung,
'Till Mitchell's cheerfu' sang thou hear,
To chain thy tuneless tongue-
Its sworn! I saw her frowning rear
Her arm, and while it hung
Aloft in air, glens that lay near,
And rocks re-echoing rung
Consent this day.
Yet wha can, daunerin' up thir braes,
No fin' his heart a' dancin',
While herdies sing wi' huggert taes,
And wanton lambs are prancin',
Or down the spreadin' vale to gaze,
Whare glitt'rin' burns are glancin',
And sleepin' lochs, ower whase smooth face
Wild fowl sport the expanse in,
Ilk bonny day.
Here mountains raise their heathery backs,
Ranged huge aboon the lift,
In whase dark bowels, for lead tracts,
Swarmed miners howk and sift;
High ower my head the sheep in packs,
I see them mice-like skift,
The herd maist like anes finger, wauks
Aboon yon fearfu' clift
Scarce seen this day.
Here mills rin thrang, wi' whilk in speed
They melt to bars the ore in;
Nine score o' fathoms shanks down lead,
To let the hammerin' core in,
Whare hun'ers for a bit o' bread
Continually are borin';
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,
Wi' holes and caverns digget,
In lanely raws, withouten pride,
Their bits o' huts are bigget;
Nae kecklin' hens about the door,
E'er glad their cheerless lucky,
They pick the pyles o' leaden ore,
Whilk to poor heedless chucky
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,
Through mony a glen rins trottin',
Amang the stanes and sunny rills
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,
And down aboon some heather,
Saft on the brae my pack I laid,
Till twa-three lumps I'd gather;
But wae-be-till't, had I foreseen
Things war to turn sae doolfu',
I ne'er had waded there sae keen,
Though sure to fin a shoolfu'
And mair that day.
As through the stream, wi' loutin' back,
Thrang stanes and sand I threw out,
A Toop, who won'ert at my pack,
Cam down to take a view o't;
A tether-length he back did gae,
And cam wi' sic a dash,
That hale-sale hurlan' down the brae,
It blatter't wi' a blash
Though earthquakes, hail and thun'er's blaze
Had a' at ance surroundet,
I wudna' glowr't wi' sic amaze,
Nor been half sae confoundet!
Wi' waefu' heart, before it sank,
I haul't it out a' clashing,
And now they're bleaching on the bank,
A melancholy washing
To Dr. Taylor of Paisley,
WRITTEN WHEN SICK.
WHEN dread Disease assaults our trembling breath,
Wrings every nerve and paves the way for death,
Raves through our vitals, merciless to save,
Boils in each vein and points us to the grave;
Racked with the pain, despairing at the view,
We fly for help to pitying Heaven and you.
Oft have I thought, while health flowed in my breast,
Ere sleepless nights my weary heart opprest,
That should pale Sickness sternly me invade
I'd scorn her rage if Taylor lent his aid.
Roused at the name, lo! disappointed Death,
In vain wild-wrenching to dislodge the breath,
Starts from the lonely couch-grasps up his dart,
And sullen-shrinking owns thy healing art.
Amid those numbers that implore your care,
That hope, by you, sweet health again to share,
Here I unhappy stand, with sadness prest,
And pined by ills that bind my lab'ring breast;
But should these woes that now I'm forced to bear,
Fly from your touch, and with them ev'ry fear;
Should your blest skill expunge this threat'ning pain,
And I resume my former health again,
This grateful heart your goodness shall revere
Next that almighty God, whose hand you are.
Cuscous,
A REAL CHARACTER.
I hate the man who builds his fame
On ruins of another's name.
EUSEBUS, fond a patriot to commence,
With self-conceit supplies his want of sense.
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