LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose,
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose;
Our Bardie's fate is at a close,

Past a' remead;

The last sad cape-stane of his woes;

Poor Mailie's dead!

Its no the loss o' warl's gear,
That could sae bitter draw the tear,

Or mak our Bardie, dowie, wear

The mourning weed;

He's lost a friend and neebor dear,

In Mailie dead.

Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him; A lang half-mile she could descry him ;

Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him,
She ran wi' speed:

A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him,
Than Mailie dead.

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, An' could behave hersel wi' mense: I'll say't, she never brak a fence,

Thro' thievish greed.

Our Bardie, lanely, keeps the spence

Sin' Mailie's dead,

Or, if he wanders up the howe,

Her living image in her

yowe,

Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe,

For bits o' bread,

An' down the briny pearls rowe

For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorland tips, Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips;

For her forbears were brought in ships

Frae yont the Tweed:

A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips

Than Mailie's dead.

Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing—a rape ! It maks guid fellows girn an' gape,

Wi' chokin dread;

An Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape,

For Mailie dead.

O, a' ye Bards on bonie Doon! An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune! Come, join the melancholious croon

O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon!

His Mailie dead!

F 4

ΤΟ

J. S****.

Friendship! Mysterious cement of the soul!
Sweet'ner of Life and solder of Society!
I owe thee much.

BLAIR.

DEAR S****, the sleest, paukie thief,
That e'er attempted stealth or rief,
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef

Owre human hearts;

For ne'er a bosom yet was prief

Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an' moon, And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon

Just gaun to see you;

And ev'ry ither pair that's done,
Mair taen I'm wi' you.

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She's turn'd you off, a human creature On her first plan,

And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature,

She's wrote, the Man.

Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, My barmie noddle's working prime,

My fancy yerkit up sublime

Hae

Wi' hasty summon :

ye a leisure-moment's time

To hear what's comin ?

Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash;

Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash; Some rhyme to court the countra clash,

An' raise a din 1;

For me, an aim I never fash ;

I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckless lot

Has fated me the russet coat,