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 she was a sheep o' sense,

An' could behave herfel wil mense :

I'll say't she never brak a fence,

Thro thievish greed.

Our Bardie, lanely, keeps the Spence

Sin' Mailie's dead.

Or, if he wanders up the howe,
Her living image in her gowe,
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe,

For bits o' bread,

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 fleesb ne'er cross'd the clips

Than Mailie's dead.

WAE worth the man wha firft did shape
That vile, wanchancie thing a rape!
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, ,

Wr chokin dread;

An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape

For Mailie 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

DEAR S****, the sleeest, 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 fun an' moon,

And ev'ry star that blinks aboon,

Ye've cost me twenty pair o'fhoon

Just gaun to see you ;

And

And ev'ry ither pair that's done,

Mair taen I'm wi' you.

THAT auld, capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpet stature, 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 sublime

Wi' hafty fummon: Hae ye a leisure-moment's time,

To hear what's comin?

SOME rhyme a neebor's name to lalh ; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash; VOL. I. M

Some

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 rnles my luckless lot,

Has fated me the russet coat,

An' damn'd my fortune to the groat;

But, in requit,

Has bleft me with a random shot

O'countra wit,

This while my notions 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 shaw your folly.

THERE's