An' when you think upo' your mither, An' bid him burn this cursed tether, POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose, Past a' remead; The last sad cape-stane of his woes; Poor Mailie's dead! Its no the loss o' warl's gear, The mourning weed: He's lost a friend and neebór dear, In Mailie dead. Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him; 1 wat she was a sheep o' sense, Thro' thievish greed. Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence Sin' Mailie's dead. Or, if he wanders up the howe, Her living image in her yowe, Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, An' down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead. She was nae get o' moorland tips, Frae yont the Tweed; A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips Than Mailie dead. Wae worth the man wha first did shape Wi' choken dread: An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, For Mailie's dead. O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! O' Robin's reed! Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul! I owe thee much. BLAIR. 222 2 DEAR S****, the sleest paukie thief, Owre human hearts; For ne'er a bosom yet was prief Against your arts. For me, I swear by sun an' moon, Just gaun to see you; And ev'ry ither pair that's done, Mair taen I'm wi' you. That auld capricious carlin, Nature, On her first plan, And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature, She's wrote, the Man. Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, Wi' hasty summon; Hae ye a leisure-moment's time To hear what's comin? Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash; An' raise a din; For me, an aim I never fash; I rhyme for fun. The star that rules my luckless lot, An' damn'd my fortune to the groat; But in requit, Has blest me wi' a random shot O' countra wit. This while my notion's taen a sklent, Something cries, Hoolie ! I red you, honest man, tak tent! Ye'll shaw your folly. There's ither poets, much your betters, future ages; Now moths deform, in shapeless tetters, Their unknown pages.' Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang, An' teach the lanely heights an' howes My rustic sang. I'll wander on, with tentless heed Then, all unknown, I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead, Forgot and gone! But why o' death begin a tale? Heave care o'er side! And large, before enjoyment's gale, Let's tak the tide. This life, sae far's I understand, Where pleasure is the magic wand, Maks hours like minutes, hand-in-hand, That, wielded right, Dance by fu' light. The magic wand then let us wield; Wi' wrinkl'd face, Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field, Wi creepin pace. When ance life's day draws near the gloamin, An' social noise; An' farewecì dear deluding woman, The joy of joys! O Life! how pleasant in thy morning, We frisk away, Like school-boys, at th' expected warning, We wander there, we wander here, Amang the leaves; And tho' the puny wound appear, Short while it grieves. Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot, But care or pain; And, haply, eye the barren hut With high disdain. With steady aim, some fortune chase; And seize the prey: Then canie, in some cozie place, They close the day. And others, like your humble servan', They zig-zag on; Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin, They aften groan. Alas! what bitter toil an' straining But truce with peevish poor complaining! E'en let her gang! Beneath what light she has remaining, Let's sing our sang. My pen I here fling to the door, And kneel, 'Ye Pow'rs! (and warm implore) In all her climes, Grant me but this, I ask no more, Ay rowth o' rhymes. Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, And maids of honour; |