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O

In power an idiot, striving still to rise;
Though void of wisdom, arrogantly wise.
A slander fond from whispering lips to steal,
And fonder still those whispers to reveal.
Amid a group of tattling matrons set,

How flows his eloquence! how beams his wit!
With dark suspicion struck, he shakes his head,
Just hints what some folk were, what some folk did;
For nought delights him more than others woe;
To see them fall, or strive to lay them low.

In wide extremes his judgment loves to dwell;
If not in heaven you'll find it squat in hell;
Though long each station seldom he can keep,
Yet when he shifts, he does it at a leap.
If Spring, more mild than usual, sweet appear,
To wake the herbs and bless the opening year,
With words like these our ears eternal ring,
"Did ever mortal see so blest a Spring!"
But when rude frost, or cheerless rains descend,
When light'nings flash and roaring thunders rend;
He hears the storm, and pale with boding fear,
Declares that great, tremendous period near,
For storms like these no soul did ever hear.

Thrice blest are they who gain him as their friend,
Their matchless fame shall far and near extend;
They're saints, they're angels, but his friendship o'er,
They're poor, curst, vile, a villain, or a wh-e.

Second Opistle to Mr. James Kennedy.

a

Crail, January,

NAE doubt ye'll glowre whane'er ye leuk,
And see I'm maist at Scotland's neuk,
Whare owre the waves black swarms o' deuk

Soom far and near,

a A small fishing town near Fife-ness.

And laden't ships to try their luck,

For Holland steer.

And let them gang, for me-nae mair
My luck I'll try at selling ware,

I've sworn by a' aboon the air

To quat the pack,

Or deed I doubt baith me and gear

Wad gang to wrack.

Three year through muirs and bogs I've squattert, Wi' duddy claes and huggars tatter't,

Sleepit in barns, lee't, and clatter't,

Thrang sellin' claith,

And now wi' storms I've maist been batter't

And smoor't to death.

Nor think this droll, when sic a clash
O' snaw and sleet, and sic caul' trash,
Ilk day I hae out through to plash,

Owre muir and brae,

And ablins whiles but little cash,

Whilk maks ane wae.

'Twas just yestreen, as tired and flaw I waded hame through drifted snaw, Nae livin' creature, house or ha',

Perceived I cheery,

But muir and mountain, glen and shaw,

War sad and dreary.

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Mirk fell the night, and frae the wast
Loud roar't the bitter-biting blast,
The blatterin' hail, right fell and fast,
O'erscourged my face;
While owre the drifted heaps I past
Wi' weary pace.

As down a knowe my way I hel';
Nane wi' me but my lanely sel',
Whistlin' fu' blythe, trouth, sir, to tell
The mournfu' truth,

Down through a wreath o' snaw I fell,

* Maist to the mouth.

As soon's I fan' I yet was livin',

I raised me e'en wi' doolfu' grieving,
Gude fegs! I wish I'd yet been weavin';

For deed I doubt,

Sae deep I'm down and wedged sae stive in,

I'll ne'er win out.

But out at last I maun to speel,
Far mair than e'er I thought atweel,
Roun' for my pack I straight did feel,
But de'il-be-licket

I fan' or saw,-quoth I, fareweel,

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For death I'm pricket.

This is the last, the snellest lick,

That I'll e'er get frae Fortune's stick;

Now she may lift a stane or brick

And break my back,

Since her and Cloots has plann'd this trick

To steal my pack!

To keep you, sir, nae mair uneasy,

I'll tell you what, mayhap, will please ye, I gat my pack, quoth I, I'se heeze ye

Frae out the snaw, Nae de'il in a' the pit sal seize ye,

Till I'm awa'.

But I maun stop, for dull and dozin',
The glimmerin' wintry evening flows in,

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The short-lived day his reign is losin'

The scene to shift,

And Natures' winnock-brods are closin'

Across the lift.

Despondence, a Pastoral Ode.

IN THE MANNER OF SHENSTONE.

AH! where can the comfortless fly?
(Young Damon disconsolate said,
The tears starting fast from his eye,
As reclining he sat in the shade.)
Ah! where can the comfortless fly?
To whom shall the wretched repair?
Who hoping for happiness nigh,

Are met by approaching despair!

I hoped, but alas! 'twas in vain,

When forward through fate I explored,
That Fame would take wing with my strain,
And Plenty still smile at my board:
And oh! how my bosom did glow

To see that my sorrows would end!
That Fate would its blessings bestow,
To gladden my fair one and friend!
O then, when the woods were all mute,

And groves by the evening embrowned,
How I'd wake the slow mellow-toned flute,

While shepherds stood listening around;
They praised the soft, ravishing air,

That warbled so pleasing and free;
But a smile or a look from my fair,
Was more than their praises to me.
Blest prospects! far hence ye have fled,
And left me all friendless and poor;
Stern Poverty stalks round my shed,
And Ruin glares grim at the door.

Ah! where can the comfortless fly?
To whom shall the wretched repair?
Who hoping for happiness nigh,
Are met by approaching despair!

Ossian's Lament,

FROM MACPHERSON'S TRANSLATION.

HARD by a rock that from the mountain rose,
Where aged trees hung o'er their withered boughs,
Low on the moss, long lost to joy and peace,
Old Ossian sat, the last of Fingal's race;
Sightless his aged eyes, his visage pale,

And white his beard flowed in the waving gale;
Silent he listened to the northern breeze

That cheerless whistled through the leafless trees,
Grief in his soul began afresh to bleed,

And thus he mourned in deepest woe the dead :

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'How, like the monarch of the waving wood, Long beat by winds and lashed by tempests rude, How hast thou fall'n before the roaring gust, With all thy branches round thee in the dust! Where now is Fingal the renowned king?

Where Oscur brave, my son, young, fresh as Spring?
Where all my race, so fearless once and gay?
All, all alas! lie mouldering in the clay.
Here as I sit, to wail their hapless doom,
Around I grope and feel each warrior's tomb,
While, far below, the river's rushing sweep
Pours hoarsely roaring down each rocky steep.
"Ah! while thy once-known currents past me roll,
What, O lone river! say'st thou to my soul?
Back to my mind, worn with Misfortune's blast,
Thou bring'st the sad remembrance of the past.

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