On Sensibility
Rusticity's ungainly form May cloud the highest mind; But when the heart is nobly warm, The good excuse will find. Propriety's cold, cautious rules Warm fervour may o'erlook: Butspare poor sensibility Th' ungentle, harsh rebuke.
Stanzas On Naething
To you, sir, this summons I've sent, Pray, whip tillthe pownieis freathing; But if you demand what I want, I honestly answer you-naething. Ne'er scorn a poor Poet like me, For idly just living and breathing, While people of every degree Are busy employed about-naething. Poor Centum-per-centum may fast, And grumble his hurdiestheir claithing, He'll
Tam Samson’s Elegy
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,
The Auld Farmer’s New-Year-Morning Salutation To His Auld Mare, Maggie
A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie! Hae, there's a rippto thy auld baggie: Tho' thou's howe-backit now, an' knaggie, I've seen the day Thou could hae gaenlike ony staggie, Out-owre the lay. Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, An' thy auld hide as white's a daisie, I've seen thee dappl't, sleek an' glaizie,
The Author’s Earnest Cry And Prayer
Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires, Wha represent our brughs an' shires, An' doucely manage our affairs In parliament, To you a simple poet's pray'rs Are humbly sent. Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse! Your Honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, To see her sittin on her arse Lowi' the dust, And scriechinhout prosaic
The Brigs Of Ayr
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush; The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill, Or deep-ton'd plovers grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill; Shall he-nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, To
Lines To An Old Sweetheart
Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear, Sweet early object of my youthful vows, Accept this markof friendship, warm, sincere, Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows. And when you read the simple artless rhymes, One friendly sigh for him-he asks nomore, Who, distant, burns in flaming torrid climes, Orhaply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar.