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Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him,

She ran wi' speed:

A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him,

Than Mailie dead.

I WAT fhe was a sheep o' fenfe,

An' could behave herfel wi' menfe :

I'll fay't fhe never brak a fence,

Thro' thievifh 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,

For bits o' bread;

An' down the briny pearls rowe

For Mailie dead.

SHE

SHE was nae get o' moorland tips, Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips;

For her forbears were brought in ships,

Frae yont the Tweed:

A bonier fleesh ne'er crofs'd the clips

Than Mailie's dead.

WAE worth the man wha firft did fhape.

That vile, wanchancie thing a rape!

It maks guid fellows girn an' gape,

Wi chokin dread;

An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape

For Mailte dead.

O, A' ye Bards on bonie Doon!

An' wha on Ayr your chaunter's tune!

Come, join the melancholius croon

O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon!

His Mailie's dead!

To

To

J. S****

Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul !

Sweet'ner of Life, and solder of Society !

I owe thee much

BLAIR.

DEAR S****, the fleeeft, paukie thief,

That e'er attempted ftealth or rief.

Ye furely hae fome warlock-breef

Owre human hearts;

For ne'er a bofom yet was prief

Against your arts.

FOR me, I fwear by fun an' moon,

And ev'ry ftar that blinks aboon,

Ye've coft me twenty pair o' fhoon

Juft gaun to fee you;

And

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And ev'ry ither pair that's done,

Mair taen I'm wi' you.

THAT auld, capricious carlin, Nature,

To mak amends for ferimpet ftature,

She's turn'd you off, a human creature

On her first plan,

And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature,

She's wrote, the Man.

JUST now I've taen the fit o? rhyme,

My barmie noddle's working prime,

My fancy yerkit up fublime

Wi' hafty fummon:

Hae

ye a leifure-moment's time,

To hear what's comin?

SOME rhyme a neebor's name to lash;

Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash;

VOL. I.

M

Some

Some rhyme to court the countra clafb,

An' raise a din ;

For me, an aim I never fash;

I rhyme for fun.

THE ftar that rules my lucklefs lot,

Has fated me the ruffet coat,

An' damn'd my fortune to the groat;

But, in requit,

Has bleft me with a random fhot

O' countra wit.

THIS while my notions taen a fklent,

To try my fate in guid black prent;

But ftill the mair I'm that way bent,

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