An honest man here lies at rest
As I stood by yon roofless tower
As Mailie an' her lambs thegither
A' ye wha live by soups o' drink
Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay
Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes
But rarely seen since Nature's birth
Dear Smith, the sleest, paukie thief
Dweller in yon dungeon dark
Edina! Scotia's darling seat! .
Expect na, Sir, in this narration
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face.
Fill me with the rosy wine
Friend of the Poet tried and leal
Guid-mornin to your Majesty!
Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie
Hail, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd
Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil?
Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots
Here Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct
Here sowter **** in death does sleep
My curse upon thy venom'd stang
My honor'd colonel, deep I feel
My Lord, I know, your noble ear.
My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend!
No more of your guests, be they titled or not
No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more
Now Nature hangs her mantle green
Old Winter with his frosty beard
Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care
O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody!
O had the malt thy strength of mind
O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine
O Thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above!
O Thou great Being, what thou art
✪ Thou pale orb, that silent shines
O Thou, the first, the greatest friend!
O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause
O Thou! whatever title suit thee
O Thou, who kindly dost provide
0 ye wha are sae guid yoursel
ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains
Revered defender of beauteous Stuart
Right Sir! your text I'll prove it true.
Sad thy tale, thou idle page
Say, sages, what's the charm on earth
Sensibility, how charming.
The man in life, wherever plac'd
The poor man weeps-here G- -n sleeps
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough
To Crochallan came.
'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle
Upon a simmer Sunday morn
Upon that night, when fairies light
Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r
Wee sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie
When biting Boreas, fell and doure
When chapman billies leave the street
When chill November's surly blast.
When death's dark stream I ferry o'er
While briers an' woodbines budding green
While new-ca'd kye rout at the stake
While virgin spring, by Eden's flood
While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw
Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know .
Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene?
Why, ye Tenants of the lake
With musing deep, astonish'd stare
Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires
'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil,
Upon a bonnie day in June,
When wearing thro' the afternoon,
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.
The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar,
Was keepit for his Honor's pleasure:
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for Cod.
His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar:
But tho' he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride na pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messin.
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.
The tither was a ploughman's collie,
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland sang,
Was made lang syne-Lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an' faithful tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
* Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal.
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