But some day ye may gnaw your nails,
An' curse your folly sairly,
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales,

Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie

By night or day.

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known

To mak a noble aiver;

So, ye may doucely fill a throne,

For a' their clishmaclaver:

There, him at Agincourt wha shone,
Few better were or braver;

And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John2,
He was an unco shaver

For monie a day.

For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg,
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter,
Although a ribbon at your lug
Wad been a dress completer:
As ye disown yon paughty dog
That bears the keys of Peter,
Then, swith! an' get a wife to hug,
Or, trouth; ye'll stain the mitre
Some luckless day.

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn,
Ye've lately come athwart her;
A glorious galley3, stem an' stern,
Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter;
But first hang out, that she'll discern
Your hymeneal charter,

Then heave aboard your grapple airn,

An', large upo' her quarter,

1 King Henry V. 3 Alluding to the sailor's amour.

Come full that day.

2 Sir John Falstaff: vide Shakspeare. newspaper account of a certain royal

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a'

Ye royal lasses dainty,

Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw,
And gie you lads a-plenty:
But sneer nae British Boys awa,
For kings are unco scant aye;
An' German gentles are but sma',
They're better just than want aye
On onie day.

God bless you a'! consider now
Ye're unco muckle dautet;

But, ere the course o' life be thro',
be bitter sautet:
An' I hae seen their coggie fou,

It

may

That yet hae tarrow't at it;
But or the day was done, I trow,
The laggen they hae clautet

Fu' clean that day.

THE VISION.

DUAN FIRST'.

THE sun had clos'd the winter day,
The curlers quat their roaring play,
An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way

To kail-yards green,

While faithless snaws ilk step betray

Whare she has been.

4 Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a digressive poem. See his Cath-Loda, vol. ii. of M'Pherson's translation.

The thresher's weary flingin-tree
The lee-lang day had tired me;
And whan the day had clos'd his ee,
Far i' the west,

Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie,

I gaed to rest.

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek,
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek,
The auld clay biggin ;

An' heard the restless rattons squeak

About the riggin.

All in this mottie, misty clime,
I backward mus'd on wasted time,
How I had spent my youthfu' prime,
An' done nae-thing,

But stringin blethers up in rhyme,

For fools to sing.

Had I to guid advice but harkit,
I might, by this, hae led a market,
Or strutted in a bank, an' clarkit

My cash account;

While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, Is a' th' amount.

I started, mutt'ring, blockhead! coof!
And heav'd on high my waukit loof,
To swear by a' yon starry roof,

Or some rash aith,

That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof

Till my last breath-

When click! the string the snick did draw! And jee! the door gaed to the wa';

An' by my ingle-lowe I saw,

Now bleezin bright,

A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw,

Come full in sight.

Ye needna doubt, I held my whisht;
The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht;
I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht

In some wild glen;

When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, And stepped ben.

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs
Were twisted, gracefu' round her brows;
I took her for some Scottish Muse,

By that same token;

An' come to stop those reckless vows,

Wou'd soon been broken.

A hair-brain'd, sentimental trace,'

Was strongly marked in her face;

A wildly-witty, rustic grace

Her

Shone full upon her;

eye, e'en turn'd on empty space,

Beam'd keen with honour.

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen;

Till half a leg was scrimply seen;

And such a leg!

my bonnie Jean
Could only peer it;

Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean,

Nane else cam near it.

Her mantle large, of greenish hue,
My gazing wonder chiefly drew;

Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw
A lustre grand;

And seem'd, to my astonish'd view,

A well known land.

Here, rivers in the sea were lost;
There, mountains to the skies were tost:
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast,
With surging foam;

There, distant shone Art's lofty boast,

The lordly dome.

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods; There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds:

Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods,

On to the shore;

And many a lesser torrent scuds,

With seeming roar.

Low, in a sandy valley spread,
An ancient borough rear'd her head;
Still, as in Scottish story read,

She boasts a race,

To ev'ry nobler virtue bred,

And polished grace.

By stately tow'r or palace fair,

Or ruins pendent in the air,

Bold stems of heroes, here and there,

I could discern;

Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare,

With feature stern.