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Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots,
I rede you tent it:
And, faith, he'll prent it.
If in your bounds ye chance to light ., ,T Dil Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, Inglo stesso Tod'I O'stature short, but genius bright,
That's he, mark weel- wurde And wow! he has an unco sleight
O' cauk and keel.
By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,
Some eldrich part,
At some black art.
Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer,
Warlocks and witches;
Ye midnight b
It's tauld he was a sodger bred,
VOITA Join us. And dog-skin wallet,
I think they call it.
He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets;
A towmont guid;
Before the Flood.
Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ;
O’ Balaam's ass;
1.' Weel shod wi' brass.
Forbye, he'll shape you aff fu' gleg,
He'll prove you fully,
Or lang-kail gullie.
But wad ye see him in his glee,
Guid fellows wi' him :
And then ye'll see him!
Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and
They sair misca’ thee;
Wad say, Shame fa’ thee!
WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRE
SENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR.
Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay,
May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem,
ON READING, IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH OF JOHN MʻLEQD, ESQ. BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND
OF THE AUTHOR's.
SAD thy tale, thou idle page,
And rueful thy alarms:
From Isabella's arms.
The morning rose may blow;
May lay its beauties low.
The sun propitious smil'd;
Succeeding hopes beguil'd.
That nature finest strung:
po jebul Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes
To scenes beyond the grave.
And fear no withering blast; 1 19
Shall happy be at last.