May He who gives the rain to pour, And wings the blast to blaw, Protect thee frae the driving shower, The bitter frost and snaw!

May He, the friend of woe and want,
Who heals life's various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother plant,
And heal her cruel wounds !

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast,
Fair on the summer morn:
Now feebly bends she in the blast,
Unshelter'd and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
Unscath'd by ruffian hand!
And from thee many a parent stem
Arise to deck our land!

TO RUIN.

All hail! inexorable lord!

At whose destruction-breathing word
The mightiest empires fall!
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,
The ministers of grief and pain,
A sullen welcome, all!
With stern-resolved, despairing eye,

I see each aimed dart;
For one has cut my dearest tie,
And quivers in my heart.

Then lowering and pouring,

The storm no more I dread ; Tho' thickening and blackening Round my devoted head.

And, thou grim power, by life abhorred,
While life a pleasure can afford,
Oh! hear a wretch's prayer!
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid;
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,
To close this scene of care!
When shall my soul, in silent peace,
Resign life's joyless day;

My weary heart its throbbings cease,
Cold mouldering in the clay ?
No fear more, no tear more,
To stain my lifeless face;
Enclasped, and grasped

Within thy cold embrace !

Dear S****, the sleest, paukie thief,
That e'er attempted stealth or rief,
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef

Owre human hearts;

For ne'er a bosom yet was prief

Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an' moon,
And every star that blinks aboon,
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon

Just gaun to see you;

And every ither pair that's done,

Mair taen I'm wi' you.

That auld capricious carlin, Nature,
To mak amends for scrimpit stature,
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature
On her first plan,

And in her freaks, on every feature,

She's wrote, the Man.

Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme,
My barmie noddle's working prime,
My fancie yerkit up sublime

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;
Some rhyme to court the countra clash,

An' raise a din;

For me, an aim I never fash;

I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,

An' damn'd my fortune to the groat;

Has bless'd me wi'

But in requit,

random shot

O' countra wit.

This while my notion's taen a sklent,
To try my fate in guid black prent;
But still the mair I'm that way bent,

Something cries, "Hoolie!

I red you, honest man, tak tent!

Ye'll show your folly.

"There's ither poets, much your betters,
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters,
Hae thought they had insured their debtors,
A' future ages;

Now moths deform in shapeless tetters

Their unknown pages."

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs,
To garland my poetic brows!

Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs

Are whistling thrang,

An' teach the lanely heights an' howes

My rustic sang.

I'll wander on, wi' tentless heed
How never-halting moments speed,
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;

Then, all unknown,

I'll lay me wi' th' inglorious dead,

Forgot and gone!

But why o' death begin a tale?

Just now we're living sound and hale;
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,

Heave care owre side!

And large, before enjoyment's gale,

Let's tak the tide.

This life, sae far's I understand,

Is a' enchanted fairy land,

Where pleasure is the magic wand,

That, wielded right,

Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand,

Dance by fu' light.

The magic-wand then let us wield;
For, ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd,
See crazy, weary, joyless eild,

Wi' wrinkled face,

Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field,

Wi' creepin pace.

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin,

Then fareweel vacant careless roamin;

1

An' fareweel chearfu' tankards foamin,'

An' social noise;

An' fareweel dear deluding woman,

The joy of joys!

O Life! how pleasant in thy morning,
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning !
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning,
We frisk away,

Like school-boys, at th' expected warning,
To joy and play.

We wander there, we wander here,

We eye the rose upon the brier,

Unmindful that the thorn is near,

And though the

Among the leaves;

puny wound appear,

Short while it grieves.

Some, lucky, find a flowery spot,

For which they never toil'd nor swat;
They drink the sweet, and eat the fat,

But care or pain;

And, haply, eye the barren hut

Wi' high disdain.

Wi' steady aim, some Fortune chase;
Keen Hope does every sinew brace;
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,

And seize the prey :

Then cannie, in some cozie place,

They close the day.

And others, like your humble servan',

Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin;

To right or left, eternal swervin,

They zig-zag on;