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As eager runs the market-crowd,
When, "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow. Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane' o' the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they darena cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettleAe spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain grey tail : The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
1 It is a well-known fact, that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any farther than the middle of the next running stream.-It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back.
DRAWN BY R.WE STALL R.A.ENGRAVED BY W.FINDEN; PUBLISHED BY
JOHN SHARPE, DUKE STREET, PICCADILLY;
A WOUNDED HARE
LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT.
INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art,
Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains, To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.
Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,
And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.
ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,
ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS.
WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
While Summer with a matron grace
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
While Autumn, benefactor kind,
While maniac Winter rages o'er
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, ‚'
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:
So long, sweet Poet of the year,
Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;
While Scotia, with exulting tear,
Proclaims that Thomson was her sou.