1 Make.

5 Need.

For me! before a monarch's face,
Ev'n there I winna flatter;
For neither pension, post, nor place,
Am I your humble debtor :
So, nae reflection on your grace,
Your kingship to bespatter;
There's mony waur been o' the race,
And aiblins 2 ane been better

Than you this day.

'Tis very true, my sov'reigu king,
My skill may weel be doubted:
But facts are chiels that winna ding 3
An' downa be disputed:

Your royal nest, beneath your wing,
Is e'en right reft an' clouted,*

And now the third part of the string,
An' less, will gang about it

Than did ae day.

Far be 't frae me that I aspire
To blame your legislation,
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,
To rule this mighty nation!
But faith! I muckle doubt, my Sire,

Ye 've trusted ministration

To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre

Wad better fill their station

Than courts yon day.

And now ye 've gi'en auld Britain peace,
Her broken shins to plaster;

Your sair taxation does her fleece,

Till she has scarce a tester :

For me, thank God! my life's a lease,
Nae bargain wearing faster,

Or, faith! I fear, that wi' the geese
I shortly boost to pasture

? Maybe.

"I' the craft some day.

3 Be put down.

Torn and patched. The American Colonies were lost.

6 Field.

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent!

While nobles strive to please ye,

Will ye accept a compliment

A simple poet gi'es ye?

Thae bonnie bairntime, Heaven has lent,

Still higher may they heeze

ye

In bliss, till Fate some day is sent,

For ever to release ye

Frae care that day.

For you, young potentate o' Wales,

I tell your Highness fairly,

Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails,
I'm tauld ye 're driving rarely ;

But some day ye may gnaw your nails,

An' curse your folly sairly,

That e'er ye brak Diana's pales,

Or rattled dice wi' Charlie,

By night or day.

457

3 Wag.

* Osnaburgh gave the title of Bishop to George the Third's second son.

5 Proud.

Duke of Clarence.

Get off, i.e. "make haste."

8 Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain royal sailor's amour.

-BURNS.

Caressed.

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD.

An' I ha'e seen their coggie' fou,
That yet ha'e tarrow't at it;
But or the day was done, I trow,
The laggen3 they ha'e clautet
Fu' clean that day.

459

ODE.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD, OF AUCHINCRUIVE.

DWELLER in yon dungeon dark,
Hangman of creation! mark
Who in widow-weeds appears,
Laden with unhonoured years,
Noosing with care a bursting purse,
Baited with many a deadly curse!

STROPHE.

View the withered beldam's face-
Can thy keen inspection trace

Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace?
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows,

Pity's flood there never rose.

See those hands, ne'er stretched to save,

Hands that took-but never gave.

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest,

Lo! there she goes-unpitied and unblest!
She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!

ANTISTROPHE.

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes,
(A while forbear, ye torturing fiends,)
Scest thou whose step unwilling hither bends?
No fallen angel, hurled from upper skies;

"Tis thy trusty quondam mate,

Doomed to share thy fiery fate,
She, tardy, hell-ward plies.

EPODE.

Are they of no more avail,

Ten thousand glittering pounds a year?
In other worlds can Mammon fail,
Omnipotent as he is here?

O, bitter mockery of the pompous bier,
While down the wretched vital part is driven!
The cave-lodged beggar, with a conscience clear,
Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to heaven.

1 Little wooden dish.
3 The bottom and side.

2 Murmured.

4 Scraped.

THE KIRK'S ALARM.'

[A SATIRE.]

A ballad tune--" Push about the brisk bowl."

ORTHODOX, Orthodox,

Wha believe in John Knox,

Let me sound an alarm to your conscience,
There's a heretic blast

Has been blawn i' the wast,

That what is not sense must be nonsense.

And

your

D'rymple mild,5 D'rymple mild,
Though your heart's like a child,
life like the new-driven snaw;
Yet that winna save ye,

Auld Satan must have ye,

For preaching that three 's ane an' twa.

Rumble John, Rumble John,
Mount the steps wi' a groan,

Cry the book is wi' heresy crammed;
Then lug out your ladle,

Deal brimstone like adle,"

And roar every note of the damned.

Written in behalf of Dr. M'Gill, who had been accused of heretical opinions. See note at the end of the poem.

2 Dr. M'Gill.

3 John Ballantine, Esq., Provost of Ayr. Mr. Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr. He defended Dr. M'Gill in the Synod.

The Rev. Dr. William Dalrymple, senior minister of the Collegiate Church of Ayr.

The Rev. John Russell.

7 Putrid water.