Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright,

Ayont the lough;

Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight,
Wi' waving sugh.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,

Each bristled hair stood like a stake,
When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick—quaick—
Amang the springs,

Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake,

On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags,
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked speed;

And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
Owre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain,
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain;
For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen,

By witching skill;

An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen

As yell's the Bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse,
On young Guidman, fond, keen, an' crouse;
When the best wark-lume i' the house,

By cantrip wit,

Is instant made no worth a louse,

Just at the bit.

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,

An' float the jinglin icy-boord,

Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,

By your direction,

An' nighted travellers are allured

To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is: The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise.

When masons' mystic word an' grip In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell!

The youngest brother ye wad whip

Aff straught to hell!

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' a' the soul of love they shared,

The raptured hour,

Sweet on the fragrant, flowery swaird,

In shady bower:

Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog!

Ye came to Paradise incog.

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue,

(Black be your fa!)

An' gied the infant warld a shog,

'Maist ruin'd a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz

'Mang better fo'k,

An' sklented on the man of Uzz.

Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
An' brak him out o' house an' hall,

While scabs and blotches did him gall,

Wi' bitter claw,

An' lowsed his ill-tongued, wicked scawl,

Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,

Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,
Sin' that day Michael* did you pierce,
Down to this time,

Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin,
A certain bardie's rantin, drinkin,

Some luckless hour will send him linkin, To your black pit;

But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,

An' cheat you yet.

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!
Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken-

Still hae a stake

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

Ev'n for your sake!

DESPONDENCY. AN ODE.

Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care,

A burden more than I can bear,

I sit me down and sigh:

O life! thou art a galling load,
Along a rough, a weary road,

To wretches such as I!

* Vide Milton, Book VI.

Dim backward as I cast my view,
What sickening scenes appear!
What sorrows yet may pierce me through,
Too justly I may fear!

Still caring, despairing,

Must be my bitter doom;
My woes here shall close ne'er,
But with the closing tomb!

Happy, ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard!

Even when the wished end's deny'd,
Yet while the busy means are ply'd,
They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,
Unfitted with an aim,

Meet every sad returning night,
And joyless morn the same;
You, bustling, and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I, listless, yet restless,
Find every prospect vain.

How blest the Solitary's lot,
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,
Within his humble cell,

The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,
Beside his crystal well!

Or, haply, to his evening thought,
By unfrequented stream,

The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint-collected dream:

While praising, and raising

His thoughts to heaven on high,
As wandering, meandering,

He views the solemn sky.

Than I, no lonely hermit placed
Where never human footstep traced,
Less fit to play the part;
The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop, and just to move,
With self-respecting art:

But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys,
Which I too keenly taste,

The Solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be blest!
He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here must cry here,
At perfidy ingrate !

Oh! enviable, early days,

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze,
To care, to guilt unknown!

How ill exchanged for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes,

Of others, or my own!

Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,

That active man engage!
The fears all, the tears all,
Of dim-declining age!