Ha! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? Your impudence protects you sairly; I canna say but ye strunt rarely, Owre gauze and lace; Tho’, faith! I fear ye dine but sparely On sic a place. Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, Detested, shunn’d by saunt an’ sinner, How daur ye set your fit upon her— Sae fine a lady? Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner On some poor body. Swith! in some beggar’s haffet squattle; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle, Wi’ ither kindred, jumping cattle, In shoals and nations; Whaur horn nor bane ne’er daur unsettle Your thick plantations. Now haud you there, ye’re out o’ sight, Below the fatt’rels, snug and tight; Na, faith ye yet! ye’ll no be right, Till ye’ve got on it— The verra tapmost, tow’rin height O’ Miss’ bonnet. My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump an’ grey as ony groset: O for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I’d gie you sic a hearty dose o’t, Wad dress your droddum. I wad na been surpris’d to spy You on an auld wife’s flainen toy; Or aiblins some bit dubbie boy, On’s wyliecoat; But Miss’ fine Lunardi! fye! How daur ye do’t? O Jeany, dinna toss your head, An’ set your beauties a’ abread! Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie’s makin: Thae winks an’ finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takin. O wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us! It wad frae mony a blunder free us, An’ foolish notion: What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us, An’ ev’n devotion!
Inscribed On A Work Of Hannah More’s
Presented to the Author by a Lady. Thou flatt’ring mark of friendship kind, Still may thy pages call to mind The dear, the beauteous donor; Tho’ sweetly female ev’ry part, Yet such a head, and more the heart Does both the sexes honour: She show’d her taste refin’d and just, When she selected thee; Yet deviating, own I must, For sae approving me: But kind still I’ll mind still The giver in the gift; I’ll bless her, an’ wiss her A Friend aboon the lift.
Song, Composed In Spring
Tune—“Jockey’s Grey Breeks.”
Again rejoicing Nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues: Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep’d in morning dews. Chorus.—And maun I still on Menie doat, And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e? For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk, An’ it winna let a body be. In vain to me the cowslips blaw, In vain to me the vi’lets spring; In vain to me in glen or shaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing. And maun I still, &c. The merry ploughboy cheers his team, Wi’ joy the tentie seedsman stalks; But life to me’s a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks. And maun I still, &c. The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims, And ev’ry thing is blest but I. And maun I still, &c. The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, And o’er the moorlands whistles shill: Wi’ wild, unequal, wand’ring step, I meet him on the dewy hill. And maun I still, &c. And when the lark, ’tween light and dark, Blythe waukens by the daisy’s side, And mounts and sings on flittering wings, A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. And maun I still, &c. Come winter, with thine angry howl, And raging, bend the naked tree; Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, When nature all is sad like me! And maun I still, &c.