Rattlin’, Roarin’ Willie^1
Rattlin', Roarin' Willie^1 As I cambyCrochallan, I canniliekeekit ben; Rattlin', roarin' Willie Was sittin at yon boord-en'; Sittin at yonboord-en, And amanggudecompanie; Rattlin', roarin' Willie, You're welcome hameto me!
Prologue
When, by a generous Public's kind acclaim, That dearest meed is granted-honest fame; Waen here your favour is the actor's lot, Nor even the man in private life forgot; What breast so deadto heavenly Virtue's glow, But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe? Poor is the task to please a barb'rous throng, It needs no
Impromptu On Carron Iron Works
We camna here to view your warks, In hopes to be mairwise, But only, lest we gangto hell, It may be naesurprise: Butwhen we tirl'd at your door Your porter doughtnahear us; Saemay, shou'd we to Hell's yetts come, Your billy Satan sairus!
Inscription For The Headstone Of Fergusson The Poet^1
No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, "No storied urn nor animated bust;" This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way, To pour her sorrows o'er the Poet's dust. Additional Stanzas She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate; Tho' all the powers of song thy fancy fired, Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in state,
Lady Onlie, Honest Lucky
A' The lads o' Thorniebank, When they gaeto the shore o' Bucky, They'll step in an'taka pint Wi'Lady Onlie, honest Lucky. Chorus.-Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, Brews gude ale at shore o' Bucky; I wish her sale for her gudeale, The best on a'the shoreo' Bucky. Her house sae bien, her curchsaeclean I watshe is a
Lines On The Fall Of Fyers Near Loch-Ness.
Among the heathy hills and ragged woods The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods; Tillfull he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. As high in airthe bursting torrents flow, As deep recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rockthe whitening sheet descends, And viewles Echo's ear, astonished, rends.
Lines Written Under The Picture Of The Celebrated Miss Burns
Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing, Lovely Burns has charms-confess: True it is, she had one failing, Had a woman ever less?
On The Death Of John M’Leod, Esq
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 The morning rose may blow; Butcold successive noontide blasts May lay its beauties low. Fair on Isabella's morn The sun propitious smil'd; But, long erenoon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil'd.
My Lord A-Hunting
Chorus.-My lady's gown, there's gairsupon't, And gowden flowers sae rare upon't; But Jenny's jimpsand jirkinet, My lord thinks meiklemairupon't. My lord a-hunting he is gone, But hounds orhawks wi'him are nane; ByColin's cottage lies his game, If Colin's Jenny be at hame. My lady's gown, &c. My lady's white, my lady's red, And kith and