O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay, Nor quit for me the trembling spray, A hapless lover courts thy lay, Thy soothing, fond complaining. Again, again that tender part, That I may catch thy melting art; For surely that wadtouch her heart Whakills me wi'disdaining. Say, was thy little mate unkind, And heard thee as the

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, orsome such matter, 'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; So sought a poet, roosted near the skies, Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; Said, nothing like his works was ever

While virgin Springby Eden's flood, Unfolds her tender mantle green, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, Or tunes Eolian strains between. While Summer, with a matron grace, Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace The progress of the spiky blade. While Autumn, benefactor kind, ByTweed erects his aged head, And

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected; A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart, But now 'tis despis'd and neglected. Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let noone misdeem me disloyal; A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more if that

Fair fa'your honest, sonsieface, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race! Aboonthem a' yet tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weelare ye wordyo'a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdieslike a distant hill, Your pin was help to mend a mill In time o'need, While thro' your pores the dews

Edina! Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once, beneath a Monarch's feet, Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs: From marking wildly scatt'red flow'rs, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in they honour'd shade. Here Wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy Trade

My curse upon your venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang, An' thro' my luggies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance, Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines! When fevers burn, or argues freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeezes, Our neibor's sympathy can ease us, Wi'pitying moan; Butthee-thou hell o' a' diseases-

O ye whaare sae guidyoursel', Sae pious and saeholy, Ye've nought to do but markand tell Your neibours' fauts and folly! Whaselife is like a weel-gaunmill, Supplied wi' store o' water; The heaped happer's ebbing still, An'still the clapplays clatter. Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals That frequent pass douceWisdom's door

Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, Unskaithedby hunger'd Highland boors; Lord grant me nae duddie, desperate beggar, Wi' dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger, May twinauldScotland o' a life She likes-as butchers like a knife. Faith you and Applecross were right To keep the Highland hounds in sight: I doubt na! they wadbidnae better,

O Thou! whatever title suit thee- Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Whain yon cavern grim an' sootie, Clos'd under hatches, Spairges about the brunstanecootie, To scaud poor wretches! Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be; I'm sure sma'pleasure it can gie, Ev'n to a deil, To skelpan' scaudpoor