Nae heathen name shall I prefix, FraePindus orParnassus; Auld Reekiedings them a' to sticks, For rhyme-inspiring lasses. Jove's tunefu' dochters three times three Made Homer deep their debtor; But, gienthe bodyhalf ane'e, Nine Ferriers waddone better! Last day my mindwas in a bog, Down George's Street I stoited; A creeping cauldprosaic fog My very sense [...]
Again the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driven, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heaven. Nogifts have I from Indian coasts The infant year to hail; I send you more than India boasts, In Edwin's simple tale. Our sex with guile, and faithless love, Is charg'd, perhaps [...]
Whose is that noble, dauntless brow? And whose that eye of fire? And whose that generous princely mien, E'enrooted foes admire? Stranger! to justly show that brow, And mark that eye of fire, Would take His hand, whose vernal tints His other works admire. Bright as a cloudless summer sun, With stately port he moves; [...]
Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, My savage journey, curious, I pursue, Tillfam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. - The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, The woods wild scatter'd, clothe [...]
Here Stuarts once in glory reigned, And laws for Scotland's weal ordained; Butnow unroof'd their palace stands, Their sceptre's sway'd byother hands; Fallen indeed, and to the earth Whence groveling reptiles take their birth. The injured Stuart line is gone, A race outlandish fills their throne; Anidiot race, to honour lost; Who know them best [...]
The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn, Our lads gaeda-hunting aeday at the dawn, O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen, At length they discover'd a bonie moor-hen. Chorus.-I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men, I rede you, beware at the hunting, young men; Take some on the wing, and [...]
My lord, I know your noble ear Woe ne'er assails in vain; Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear Your humble slave complain, How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, In flaming summer-pride, Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, And drink my crystal tide.^1 The lightly-jumping, glowrin' trouts, That thro' my waters play, If, in their random, wanton spouts, [...]
Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name Shall nolonger appear in the records of Fame; Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible, Says, the more 'tis a truth, sir, the more 'tis a libel!