Forbye, he 'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, The cut of Adam's philibeg; The knife that nicket Abel's craig He'll prove you fully, It was a faulding jocteleg, Or lang-kail gullie.— But wad ye see him in his glee, Guid fellows wi' him; And port, O port! shine thou a wee, And then ye'll see him! Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose! Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose !— Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, They sair misca' thee; I'd take the rascal by the nose, Wad say, Shame fa' thee! TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, A VERY YOUNG LADY. WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. BEAUTEOUS rose-bud, young and gay, Blooming on thy early May, Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, Chilly shrink in sleety show'r! Never Boreas' hoary path, Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, Nor even Sol too fiercely view Thy bosom blushing still with dew! May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, Richly deck thy native stem; Till some ev'ning, sober, calm, And resign to parent earth The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. SONG. ANNA, thy charms my bosom fire, Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair, ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ. BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. SAD thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy alarms: Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms. Sweetly deckt with pearly dew Fair on Isabella's morn The sun propitious smil❜d; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Fate oft tears the bosom chords Dread Omnipotence alone, Can heal the wound he gave; Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. Mr Lord, I know, your noble ear How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, Dry-withering waste my foamy streams, The lightly-jumping glowri trouts, Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want o trees and shrubs. If, hapless chance! the linger lang, Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, As Poet B**** came by, He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. Here, foaming down the sleivy rocks, I am, altho' I say 't mysel, Would then my noble master please Deli, ed doubly then, my Lord, You wander on my banks, 1 And sten mony a grateful bird Return you tuneful thanks. Le sober laverock, warbling wild, Shall to the skies aspire; |