Part 59

Where every science, every nobler art, That can inform the mind or mend the heart, Is known; as grateful nations oft have found, Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. Philosophy, no idle pedant dream, Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason’s beam; Here History paints with elegance and force The tide of Empire’s fluctuating course; Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan, And Harley rouses all the God in man. When well-form’d taste and sparkling wit unite With manly lore, or female beauty bright, (Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace Can only charm us in the second place), Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, As on this night, I’ve met these judges here! But still the hope Experience taught to live, Equal to judge—you’re candid to forgive. No hundred—headed riot here we meet, With decency and law beneath his feet; Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom’s name: Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame.

O Thou, dread Power! whose empire-giving hand Has oft been stretch’d to shield the honour’d land! Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire; May every son be worthy of his sire; Firm may she rise, with generous disdain At Tyranny’s, or direr Pleasure’s chain; Still Self-dependent in her native shore, Bold may she brave grim Danger’s loudest roar, Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more.

The Bonie Moor-Hen

The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn, Our lads gaed a-hunting ae day 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 some as they spring, But cannily steal on a bonie moor-hen.

Sweet—brushing the dew from the brown heather bells Her colours betray’d her on yon mossy fells; Her plumage outlustr’d the pride o’ the spring And O! as she wanton’d sae gay on the wing. I rede you, &c.

Auld Phoebus himself, as he peep’d o’er the hill, In spite at her plumage he tried his skill; He levell’d his rays where she bask’d on the brae— His rays were outshone, and but mark’d where she lay. I rede you,&c.

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill, The best of our lads wi’ the best o’ their skill; But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight. I rede you, &c.

Song—My Lord A-Hunting

Chorus.—My lady’s gown, there’s gairs upon’t, And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t; But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet, My lord thinks meikle mair upon’t.

My lord a-hunting he is gone, But hounds or hawks wi’ him are nane; By Colin’s cottage lies his game, If Colin’s Jenny be at hame. My lady’s gown, &c.

My lady’s white, my lady’s red, And kith and kin o’ Cassillis’ blude; But her ten-pund lands o’ tocher gude; Were a’ the charms his lordship lo’ed. My lady’s gown, &c.

Out o’er yon muir, out o’er yon moss, Whare gor-cocks thro’ the heather pass, There wons auld Colin’s bonie lass, A lily in a wilderness. My lady’s gown, &c.

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, Like music notes o’lovers’ hymns: The diamond-dew in her een sae blue, Where laughing love sae wanton swims. My lady’s gown, &c.

My lady’s dink, my lady’s drest, The flower and fancy o’ the west; But the lassie than a man lo’es best, O that’s the lass to mak him blest. My lady’s gown, &c.

Epigram At Roslin Inn

My blessings on ye, honest wife! I ne’er was here before; Ye’ve wealth o’ gear for spoon and knife— Heart could not wish for more. Heav’n keep you clear o’ sturt and strife, Till far ayont fourscore, And while I toddle on thro’ life, I’ll ne’er gae by your door!

Epigram Addressed To An Artist

Dear _____, I’ll gie ye some advice, You’ll tak it no uncivil: You shouldna paint at angels mair, But try and paint the devil.

To paint an Angel’s kittle wark, Wi’ Nick, there’s little danger: You’ll easy draw a lang-kent face, But no sae weel a stranger.—R. B.

The Book-Worms

Through and through th’ inspir’d leaves, Ye maggots, make your windings; But O respect his lordship’s taste, And spare his golden bindings.

On Elphinstone’s Translation Of Martial’s Epigrams

O Thou whom Poetry abhors, Whom Prose has turned out of doors, Heard’st thou yon groan?—proceed no further, ’Twas laurel’d Martial calling murther.

Song—A Bottle And Friend

There’s nane that’s blest of human kind, But the cheerful and the gay, man, Fal, la, la, &c.

Here’s a bottle and an honest friend! What wad ye wish for mair, man? Wha kens, before his life may end, What his share may be o’ care, man?

Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man: Believe me, happiness is shy, And comes not aye when sought, man.