"But than, reflect what blissful gluts

O' parritch ye ha'e buried
Within the caverns o' yer guts,

While wi' me ye ha'e tarried;

What dawds o' cheese, frae out yer clauts,

Wi' fury ye ha'e worried;

How aft lain dozin out yer wits,

Disdaining to be hurried

By ought, that day."

"Gude guide's!" quo' I, "thou's get the gree

O' wallets, de'ils, or witches:

A speaking Pack's owre learnt for me,
Or ane that steers and fitches.

What kens, but thou may master be,
And haul me through the ditches,
Or may-be learn (preserves!) to flee,
And lea' me in the clutches

O' rags, some day."

"Ungratefu' sinner! think how aft

I've filt yer pouch wi' catter” "For gudesake whisht! we're baith gane daft, It's nonsense a' this splutter.

Come to my shouthers, warp and waft,

Nae mair we'll flyte and chatter;'

Sae aff I trudged alang the craft,

And ended a' the clatter,

In peace, that day.

Character drawn from Life,

AND ADDRESSED TO ITS OWNER.

GREAT Son of Bacchus! and of drowsy sloth!
Thou human maggot, thou insipid moth!
Whose whole ambition is in bed to snore,

Whose life is liquor, and whose soul's a roar.

Through thy dark skull ne'er peept a ray of light; 'Tis black as chaos, and eternal night;

Confusion's dizzy seat,-the pregnant source,
Where Nonsense issues with resounding force;
Where floods on floods, from morn to Ev'ning pours,
Wrapt up in laughs and loud unchristian roars.

When Sunday summons grave religious fools,
To pore o'er books, or drink the pulpit rules,
From vulgar bounds thou bravely dares to tread,
And spends thy Sunday gloriously in bed.
There thinks, perhaps, or dreams of sin and death,
This maxim holding as a point of faith,

"To heaven there's many ways, and 'tis confest, Who finds the smoothest, surely finds the best."

On God, or temple, no respect thou puts: An inn's thy temple, and thy God's thy guts.

A father's precepts, or a mother's tears, His plain example, or her meddling fears, Shall thou regard? No, 'twere past utt'rance low, Such fools as mothers or old sires to know. When at thy honour they advance their horns, Thou d-ns her nonsense,-all his maxims scorns; Comes home mad drunk, and, O immortal B—— ! Kicks up a dust, and knocks thy mother down!

Thunder-Storm.

HOT Summer reign'd, and the bright orb of day
High over head roll'd on his cloudless way;
No rains appear'd to cheer the parched earth,
Nor dewy evenings swell'd the oaten birth,
Nor cooling breezes, curl'd along the streams,
Where youths repair'd, to shun the scorching beams;

Ten thousand insects swarm the sultry air,

Crowd in each room, and haunt us ev'ry where;

While, mute, the warblers to the groves retreat,
And seek the shade, to shun the burning heat.

Two sick'ning months had thus roll'd joyless by, While heat reign'd tyrant from the vaulted sky, Again the sun rose in the flaming east,

And pour'd his rays o'er earth and ocean's breast; But ere yon high meridian he had gain'd, Surrounding clouds his dark'ning visage stain'd: Clouds piled on clouds, in dismal huge array, Swell from the south, and blot the face of day. O'er the bleak sky a threat'ning horror spreads; The brooks brawl hoarser from their distant beds: The coming storm, the woodland natives view, Stalk to the caves, or seek the sheltering yew; There, pensive droop, and eye the streaming rain, While light'ning sweeps, and thunder shakes the plain.

Dire is the state of the old wand'ring swain, Who sees the storm, and hurries o'er the plain; The plain, far waste, unknown to human tread, The gloom, fast mingling, dismal o'er his head. No cottage near, to shield his hoary age; All earth denies him refuge from its rage. 'Tis black around! swift from the threat'ning skies, A sudden flash darts on his startled eyes. Trembling he stops, but how aghast his soul, When bursting, harsh, rebounding thunders roll! The loud'ning roar confounds his tortured ear, His distant friends call forth the briny tear; Till (hapless swain!) the fiery bolt of death, Extends him lifeless o'er the with'ring heath.

The low-hung clouds, broke by this mighty sound, Pour down a deluge, o'er the gaping ground: Each slate, each tile, teems with a streaming rill; Thick falls the clattering torrent-thicker still; While through the wat'ry element, the flash Of vivid light'ning, blazes on the sash;

While follows, slow, the loud tremendous roar,
As heav'n itself was in dread fragments tore.
Down hurls the boiling brook-hush'd is the breeze-
Brooks rise to rivers-rivers swell to seas
Smooth-gliding Cart, theme of my infant song,
Swell'd, broad and brown, resistless pours along,
In winding majesty, where Damon's dome,
Half launch'd, detains big whit'ning hills of foam;
Then raves, loud thund'ring o'er the ragged rocks,
Sweeps headlong down tumult'ous planks and blocks,
While crowds of millers gaze and tear their dusty
locks.

Thus foaming Cartha swells from shore to shore,
While distant counties listen to her roar.

Lone, on her banks, the rain-soak'd fisher strays,
Intent and mindless of the involved rays,
Though the bleak heav'ns emit their wat'ry store,
With rapid force, and lash the foamy shore;
Calm and undaunted, 'mongst his lines he works,
And through red light'ning eyes the floating corks.
Slow pass'd the day, till dreadful night o'erspread
A dismal darkness o'er each mortal's head;
No moon appear'd, no star beam'd to the eye,
Uproar raved monarch through the affrighted sky;
Stern Thunder storm'd imperious from his throne,
Hail furious flew and sweepy light'ning shone.

Shrunk to the close recesses of the room, Assembled neighbours sat, in solemn gloom; All eye, to catch the frequent startling flash, All ear, when roar'd the awe-impressing crash; Fear sat on ev'ry brow, and Guilt, distrest, Believed each bolt directed to his breast.

Kind is that pow'r whose dread commanding voice, Lulls the loud tempest's wild discordant noise. With us he bids best blessings long delay, While harsh disasters post in speed away.

Soon as young morn gain'd on the sulky night, A beauteous prospect met th' enraptured sight: The pearly dew-drops twinkled on the spray, And larks, ascending, welcomed in the day; Bright Phoebus ush'ring from his wat'ry bed, Superbly rose and cheer'd the drooping mead; Fleet fled the shades of night, waked from the grove, Glad chant the birds, soft coos the hermit dove; High from the blue expanse his glory pours, Boundless, abroad, and dyes the glitt'ring flow'rs; Lambs dance, and brooks, melodious, murm'ring run; Creation smiles, and hails the glorious sun.

ON THE LONG EXPECTED DEATH OF A WRETCHED MISER.

Wealth he has none, who mourns his scanty store,
And, midst of plenty, starves, and thinks he's poor.

Wr' branchin' birk your winnocks hing,

POPE.

Whang down the cheese owre heaps o' bread; Roun' wi' the blue, and roar and sing, For comsheugh auld F. -s is dead.

Hech! is he dead? then ilka chiel

May now be fear't for Death's fell nips, Since he wha faced the vera De'il,

Has fa'n beneath the spectre's grips.

Whare will the god o' gowden ore,
Light on a box wi' sic a dog,
To guard by night and day his store,
Since John's laid cauld below the fug?

His fearsome blue Kilmarnock cowl,
His cloutet hose, and sarks, and bedding,
Wi' weel-swall't social vermin foul-

I saw them a' flung to the midding.