THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER TO THE
NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.

My Lord, I know your noble ear
Woe ne'er assails in vain ;
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble Slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
Ånd drink my crystal tide.

The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts,
That thro' my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I'm scorching up so shallow,
They're left the whitening stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow.

Last day I grat2 wi' spite and teen,
As Poet Burns came by,
That to a Bard I should be seen
Wi' half my channel dry:
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
Even as I was he shor'd3 me;

But had I in my glory been,

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me.

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin;
There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roarin o'er a linn:

Enjoying large each spring and well
As Nature gave them me,
I am, altho' I say't mysel,
Worth gaun a mile to see.

Would then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes,

He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees,
And bonnie spreading bushes.

1 Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.-R. B.

2 Wept.

3 Offered.

▲ Going.

Delighted doubly then, my Lord,
You'll wander on my banks,
And listen mony a grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.

The sober laverock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire;

The gowdspink, Music's gayest child,
Shall sweetly join the choir:

The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,
The mavis mild and mellow;
The robin pensive Autumn cheer,
In all her locks of yellow :

This, too, a covert shall ensure,

To shield them from the storm;
And coward maukin1 sleep secure,
Low in her grassy form:

Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
To weave his crown of flow'rs;
Or find a sheltering safe retreat,
From prone-descending show'rs.

And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair,

Despising worlds with all their wealth
As empty, idle care:

The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms
The hour of heav'n to grace,
And birks extend their fragrant arms,
To screen the dear embrace.

Here haply too, at vernal dawn,
Some musing bard may stray,
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn,
And misty mountain, grey;
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,
Mild-chequering thro' the trees,
Rave to my darkly dashing stream,
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
My lowly banks o'erspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,
Their shadows' wat'ry bed!

1 Hare.

WHEN GUILFORD GOOD OUR PILOT STOOD. 161

Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest
My craggy cliffs adorn;
And, for the little songster's nest,
The close embow'ring thorn.

So may Old Scotia's darling hope,
Your little angel band,

Spring, like their fathers, up to prop
Their honour'd native land!
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken,
To social-flowing glasses,

The grace be-"Athole's honest men,
And Athole's bonnie lasses!"

WHEN GUILFORD GOOD OUR PILOT STOOD..

A FRAGMENT.

TUNE "GILLICRANKIE."

WHEN Guilford good our Pilot stood,

An' did our hellim thraw, man,

Ae night, at tea, began a plea,
Within America, man:
Then up they gat the maskin-pat,'
And in the sea did jaw,2 man;
An' did nae less, in full Congress,
Than quite refuse our law, man.

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes,
I wat he was na slaw, man;
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn,
And Carleton did ca', man;
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec,
Montgomery like did fa', man,
Wi' sword in hand, before his band,
Amang his en'mies a’, man.

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage
Was kept at Boston ha', man;
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe
For Philadelphia, man :

1 Tea-pot.

2 Jerk. The English Parliament having imposed an excise duty upon tea imported into North America, the East India Company sent several ships laden with that article to Boston, and the natives went on board by force of arms, and emptied the cargo into the sea.

M

Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin
Guid Christian bluid to draw, man;
But at New York, wi' knife an' fork,
Sir-loin he hacked sma', man.

an' whip,

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur
Till Fraser brave did fa', man;
Then lost his way, ae misty day,
In Saratoga shaw, man.

Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought,'
An' did the buckskins claw, man;
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save,
He hung it to the wa', man.

Then Montague, an' Guilford too,
Began to fear a fa', man;

And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure,
The German Chief to thraw, man:
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,
Nae mercy had at a', man;

An' Charlie Fox threw by the box,
An' lows'd his tinkler2 jaw, man.

Then Rockingham took up the game;
Till death did on him ca', man:
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,
Conform to Gospel law, man ;
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise,
They did his measures thraw, man;
For North an' Fox united stocks,

An' bore him to the wa', man.

Then Clubs an' Hearts were Charlie's cartes,
He swept the stakes awa', man,
Till the Diamond's Ace, of Indian race,
Led him a sair faux pas, man:
The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads,
On Chatham's boy did ca', man;

An' Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew,
Up, Willie, waur them a', man!"

Behind the throne then Grenville 's gone,
A secret word or twa, man;
While slee Dundas arous'd the class
Be-north the Roman wa', man:

An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith,
(Inspired Bardies saw, man),
Wi' kindling eyes cry'd, "Willie, rise!
Would I hae fear'd them a', man ?"

But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co.,
Gowff'd' Willie like a ba', man,

Till Suthrons raise, an' coost their claise
Behind him in a raw, man;

An' Caledon threw by the drone,

An' did her whittle draw, man;

An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' bluid,
To make it guid in law, man.

MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL.

O MEIKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty,
And meikle thinks my luve o my kin;
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie

My Tocher's the jewel has charms for him.
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree;
It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee;
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller,
He canna hae luve to spare for me.

Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny,
My Tocher's the bargain you wad buy;
But an ye be crafty, I'm cunnin',

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try.
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood,
Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree,

Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread,

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me.

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACHE; WRITTEN WHEN THE
AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY TORMENTED BY THAT
DISORDER.

My curse upon thy venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ;
And thro' my lugs2 gies monie a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance;

Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!