IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. RIDDEL'S BIRTH-DAY, OLD Winter, with his frosty beard, That brilliant gift will so enrich me, TO MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUMFRIES, WITH BOOKS THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair, EXTEMPORE TO MR. SYME, ON REFUSING TO DINE No more of your guests, be they titled or not, Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, TO MR. SYME, WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. O, HAD the malt thy strength of mind, Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. SONNET, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING SING on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough; So in lone Poverty's dominion drear Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, I thank thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies! What wealth could never give, nor take away! Yet come, thou child of poverty and care; The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. FRIEND of the Poet, tried and leal, Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal Wi' a' his witches Are at it, skelpin! jig and reel, In my poor pouches. I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, It would be kind; And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted,1 So may the auld year gang out moaning Domestic peace To thee and thine; and comforts crowning The hale design. POSTSCRIPT. Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, But by guid luck I lap a wicket, And turn'd a neuk. But by that health, I've got a share o't, A tentier3 way: Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't, SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED. THE friend whom wild from wisdom's way The fumes of wine infuriate send; (Not moony madness more astray ;) Who but deplores that hapless friend? Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, 1 Beat. 2 Waistcoat. 8 Wiser. POEM ON LIFE, ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER ;1 My honour'd Colonel, deep I feel The steep Parnassus, Surrounded thus by bolus pill, And potion glasses. O what a canty warld were it, As they deserve: (And aye a rowth,3 roast beef and claret; Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, I've found her still, Aye wav'ring like the willow wicker, 'Tween good and ill. Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, Wi' felon ire ; Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on,- Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair, To put us daft; Synes weave, unseen, thy spider snare Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by, And aft, as chance he comes thee nigh, Thy auld d-d elbow yeuks with joy, And hellish pleasure; Already, in thy fancy's eye, Thy sicker 10 treasure. en. 5 Cat. 10 Sure. Soon, heels-o'er-gowdy!1 in he gangs, And murd'ring wrestle, As, dangling in the wind, he hangs A gibbet's tassel. But lest you think I am uncivil, To plague you with this draunting drivel, I quat my pen: The Lord preserve us frae the Devil! TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY, ON RECEIVING I CALL no Goddess to inspire my strains, Thou orb of day! thou other paler light! EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. AN honest man here lies at rest, 1 Topsy turvy. |