"Dark was the night ere thro' the rustling wood,
Groping my way, I gained the level moor;
There, as I trod along, methought I heard
Some rumbling noise before me on the heath,
As stones confined within a coffin make.
Approaching nearer, plainly I beheld
(If e'er these eyes were capable of sight)
A monstrous rolling bulk, three times as large
As any ox, that ever grazed the hill;
Within my view it kept, till vent'ring near,
And stopping short to guess what it might be,
With two deep groans it vanished from my sight.
"Feeble as death I fled, and soon I reached The cottage on the hill; but ere my tongue Could tell the sad disaster, flat I fell
For dead upon the floor. With much kind care They brought me back to life, and these two hours
There pale I sat, my vigour to regain.
But never, never shall I e'er dispute
The dread existence of those wandering fiends;
This night these eyes have witnessed such horrors,
As would have terrified and put to flight
The priest himself, and boldest man on earth."
He ceased, and Ralph, with looks that sparkled joy,
Explained the mystery dread. A burst of mirth,
In laughter loud, convulsed their every nerve,
Forth from his shaggy budget Ralphus drew,
In gleesome mood, his pipes; the swelling bag
Awoke the warlike yell and sounding drone,
The hoary swain sat smiling in his chair,
Up sprung the host and flung around the floor,
The wondering youngsters laughed to see their sire,
And mirth and music echoed through the cot.
Delivered by the author in the Pantheon, Edinburgh, in a debate on the question-" Whether is Diffidence, or the Allurements of Pleasure, the greatest bar to the Progress in Knowledge.
HECH! but it's awfu' like to rise up here,
Where sic a sight o' learned folks' pows appear!
Sae mony piercing een a' fixed on ane,
Is maist enough to freeze me to a stane!
But it's a mercy-mony thanks to fate,
Pedlars are poor, but unco seldom blate.
(Speaking to the President.)
This question, sir, has been right well disputed,
And meikle, weel-a-wat's been said about it:
Chiels, that precisely to the point can speak,
And gallop o'er lang blauds of kittle Greek,
Ha'e sent frae ilka side their sharp opinion,
And peeled it up as ane wad peel an ingon.a
I winna plague you lang wi' my poor spale,
But only crave your patience to a tale:
By which ye'll ken on whatna side I'm stannin',
As I perceive your hindmost minute's rinnin'.
There lived in Fife, an auld, stout, warldly chiel, Wha's stomach kend nae fare but milk and meal; A wife he had, I think they ca'd her Bell, And twa big sons, amaist as heigh's himsel'. Rab was a gleg, smart cock, with powdered pash; Ringan, a slow, feared, bashfu', simple hash.
a The question had been spoken upon both sides before this tale was recited, which was the last opinion given on the debate.
Baith to the college gaed. At first spruce Rab,
At Greek and Latin, grew a very dab:
He beat a' round about him, fair and clean,
And ilk ane courted him to be their frien';
Frae house to house they harled him to dinner,
But cursed poor Ringan for a hum-drum sinner.
Rab talked now in sic a lofty strain,
As though braid Scotland had been a' his ain;
He ca'd the kirk the church, the yirth the globe,
And changed his name, forsooth, frae Rab to Bob.
Whare'er ye met him, flourishing his rung,
The haill discourse was murdered wi' his tongue.
On friends and faes wi' impudence he set,
And rammed his nose in every thing he met.
The college now, to Rab, grew douf and dull,
He scorned wi' books to stupify his skull;
But whirled to plays and balls, and sic like places,
And roared awa' at fairs and kintra races:
Sent hame for siller frae his mother Bell,
And caft a horse, and rade a race himsel';
Drank night and day, and syne, when mortal fu',
Rowed on the floor, and snored like ony sow;
Lost a' his siller wi' some gambling sparks,
And pawned, for punch, his Bible and his sarks;
Till, driven at last to own he had eneugh,
Gaed hame a' rags to haud his father's pleugh.
Poor hum-drum Ringan played anither part,
For Ringan wanted neither wit nor art:
Of mony a far-aff place he kent the gate;
Was deep, deep learned, but unco, unco blate.
He kend how mony mile 'twas to the moon,
How mony rake wad lave the ocean toom;
Where a' the swallows gaed in time of snaw;
What gars the thunders roar, and tempests blaw;
Where lumps o' siller grow aneath the grun',
How a' this yirth rows round about the sun;
In short, on books sae meikle time he spent,
Ye cou❜dna speak o' aught, but Ringan kent.
Sae meikle learning wi' sae little pride,
Soon gained the love o' a' the kintra side;
And Death, at that time, happening to nip aff
The parish minister-a poor dull calf,
Ringan was sought he cou'dna' say them nay,
And there he's preaching at this very day.
Now, Mr. President, I think 'tis plain,
That youthfu' diffidence is certain gain.
Instead of blocking up the road to knowledge,
It guides alike, in commerce or at college;
Struggles the bursts of passion to controul,
Feeds all the finer feelings of the soul;
Defies the deep laid stratagems of guile,
And gives even innocence a sweeter smile;
Ennobles all the little worth we have,
And shields our virtue even to the grave.
How vast the diff'rence then, between the twain, Since pleasure ever is pursued by pain.
Pleasure's a syren, with inviting arms,
Sweet is her voice and powerful are her charms;
Lured by her call we tread her flowery ground,
Joy wings our steps and music warbles round;
Lulled in her arms we lose the flying hours,
And lie embosomed 'midst her blooming bowers,
Till-armed with death, she watches our undoing,
Stabs while she sings, and triumphs in our ruin.
Watty and Meg, or the Wife Reformed.
We dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake.
KEEN the frosty winds were blawing,
Deep the snaw had wreathed the ploughs,
Watty, wearied a' day sawing,
Daunert down to Mungo Blue's.
Dryster Jock was sitting cracky,
Wi' Pate Tamson o' the Hill,
"Come awa'," quo' Johnny, "Watty!
Haith we'se hae anither gill."
Watty glad to see Jock Jabos,
And sae mony neibours roun';
Kicket frae his shoon the snawba's,
Syne ayont the fire sat down.
Owre a broad wi' bannocks heapet,
Cheese, and stoups, and glasses stood;
Some were roaring, ithers sleepit,
Ithers quietly chewt their cude.
Jock was selling Pate some tallow,
A' the rest a racket hel',
A' but Watty, wha, poor fallow !
Sat and smoket by himsel'.
Mungo filled him up a toothfu’,
Drank his health and Meg's in ane,
Watty, puffing out a mouthfu’,
Pledged him wi' a dreary grane.
"What's the matter, Watty, wi' you?
Trouth your chafts are fa'ing in!
Something's wrang-I'm vexed to see you—
Gudesake! but ye're desperate thin!"
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