Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, And own his work indeed divine! V. There, watching high the least alarms, And mark'd with many a seamy scar: 1 VI. With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, I view that noble, stately dome, Where Scotia's kings of other years Fam'd heroes, had their royal home: Alas, how chang'd the times to come! Their royal name low in the dust! Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam! Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just! VII. Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, Haply my sires have left their shed, VIII. EDINA! Scotia's darling seat! EPISTLE EPISTLE то J. LAPRAIK, AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. April 1st, 1785. WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green, Inspire my muse, This freedom in an unknown frien' On fasten-een we had a rockin, Ye need na doubt; At length we had a hearty yokin There was ae sang, amang the rest, Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, That some kind husband had addrest To some sweet wife: It thrill'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, I've scarce heard ought describes sae weel, What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel; Thought I, Can this be Pope or Steele, 'Or Beattie's wark!' They tald me 'twas an odd kind chiel About Muirkirk. It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, He had ingine, That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, It was sae fine. That That set him to a pint of ale, Or rhymes and sangs he'd made himsel, "Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, He had few matches. Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, At some dyke-back, A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith To hear your crack. But, first an' foremost, I should tell, Amaist as soon as I could spell, I to the crambo-jingle fell, Tho' rude an' rough, Yet crooning to a body's sel, Does weel eneugh. I am nae poet, in a sense, But just a rhymer, like, by chance, An' hae to learning nae pretence, Yet, what the matter? Whene'er my muse does on me glance, I jingle at her. Your |