Should the poor be flattered?-Shakespeare. O Death! thou tyrant felland bloody! The meikledevil wi' a woodie Haurlthee hameto his black smiddie, O'er hurcheonhides, And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie Wi' thy auld sides! He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn, The ae best fellow e'er was born! Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel'shall mourn, By

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, As Burnet, lovely from her native skies; Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low. Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? In richest ore the brightest jewel set! In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown,

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, As ever trod on airn; But now she's floating down the Nith, And past the mouth o'Cairn. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, An' rode thro' thickand thin; But now she's floating down the Nith, And wanting even the skin. Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,

For lords orkings I dinnamourn, E'en let them die-for that they're born: But oh! prodigious to reflec'! A Towmont, sirs, is ganeto wreck! O Eighty-eight, in thy sma'space, What dire events hae taken place! Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us! In what a picklethou has left us! The Spanish empire's tint a head, And

Strait is the spot and green the sod From whence my sorrows flow; And soundly sleeps the ever dear Inhabitant below. Pardon my transport, gentle shade, While o'er the turf I bow; Thy earthy house is circumscrib'd, And solitary now. Not one poor stone to tell thy name, Ormake thy virtues known: But what avails

The lamp of day, with-ill presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. Lone as I wander'd byeach cliff and dell, Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train;^1 Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd well,^2 Ormould'ring ruins

An honest man's the noblest work of God-Pope. Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? Or great Mackinlay^1thrawn his heel? Or Robertson^2again grown weel, To preach an' read? "Na' waurthan a'! cries ilka chiel, "Tam Samson's dead!" Kilmarnock langmay grunt an' grane, An' sigh, an' sab, an' greether lane, An' cleedher bairns, man, wife, an' wean,

Now Robin lies in his last lair, He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair; Cauldpoverty, wi' hungry stare, Naemair shall fear him; Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, E'er maircome near him. To tell the truth, they seldom fash'dhim, Except the moment that they crush'd him; For suneas chance or fate had hush'd 'em Tho'

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' sauttears trickling down your nose; Our bardie's fate is at a close, Past a' remead! The last, sad cape-stane o' his woes; Poor Mailie's dead! It's nothe loss o' warl's gear, That could saebitter draw the tear, Ormakour bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed: He's lost a friend