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An' bodies drank his skill'd oration,
Like stories tauld by inspiration;
Whane'er Disease took dealin' wi' them,
They ca'd the Doctor ay to see them,
An' he was weel to be commendit,
For close an' constant he attendit.
Whane'er he cam', wi' great surprise,
He wad hae lifted up his eyes,
Wi'"Bless ye, Sirs, I really wonner
Ye didna think to ax me sooner;
Ye're really ill, I hae a notion,

Pray let me fin' your pulse's motion;
But sin' we canna help it now,

We'se try what Physic's power can do.”
Or may be, "Bless ye, Sirs, yer bluid
'S corrupted wi' unhalesome food."
Syne wad prescribe, to clear them from it,
An Ipecacuanha vomit ;

Or Glauber's salts, or purge o' jalap,
Wad gar'd their vera entrails wallop.
Rowth o' lang crabbit words to cant in,
War never to the Doctor wantin';
The patient gap'd an' thought it Greek,
'Twas hauf the cure to hear him speak:
Yet spite o' a' his care about them,

He had his faes,-an' wha's without them?

Some said, that thro' a searit conscience, He liv'd by speakin' lies an' nonsense,

An' that his essence maist revivin',
Gar'd fowk whiles tyne the gaet o' livin'.
But whether that was just a clatter,
The Doctor's dead, there's little matter;
An' sin' he buried in the dust is,
He'll hardly rise to sue for justice:
His want o't here we needna mane,
We're sure he'll get it whar he's gane.

SONG.

THO' GALLIA HER ENSIGN, &c.

THO' Gallia her Ensign of war has unfurl'd
It never shall wave on our sea-circl❜d Isle ;
Those boasts and bravadoes that bully the world,

O'er Britain's stern features induce but a smile. While the life blood of valour each patriot warms, Our en'mies in vain ev'ry threat may employ, The league of a Million of Freemen in arms,

What power shall dissolve, what aggression destroy?

As a rock in the ocean, that rears its huge form,

Unshaken the billowy surge can sustain,

As Albion's white cliffs, that have long bay'd the storm,

And dash'd back the sprayas it rose from the main: The sons of our Island shall thus brave their foes, Our Soldiers on shore, and our Tars on the sea; Wild War in its front has no terrors for those,

Who know how to die, when they cannot be free.

EPISTLE

To MR. J**** K******.

THE lines that ye sent o'er the lawn,
For whilk ye sall be thankit,
Gin gloamin' hours, reek'd EBEN's haun',
Row'd toshly up, an' frankit.

Down on a chair your friend did sit,

Right blyth, nae doubt, to view them,

Nor stap'd till ance frae head to fit,

He glowr'd completely thro' them,

Wi' joy, that day.

Nae chield in a' the crambo tribe,'

Sic pleasure e'er coud lend me;

As ye afford, without a gybe,
Whan lumps o' rhime ye send me.
I'm new come frae Dumbarton side,
Whar I had gane to travel,
And am as sair about the stride,
As gin I had the gravel,

Or waur, this day.

Right keen some Highlan' hills to speel,
I to the North gaed roamin',
Attendit by a Surgeon chiel',

Wha liv'd ayont Loch Lomon'.

As we had nought but wearin' graith,
We clamb the braes like tarries,

But war wi' rain maist drown'd to death,
Tho' we had on bavaries,

Fu' side, that day.

Gay Lomon', by thy verdant mound,

How sweet it is to rove;

Whan flowers are bloomin' a' around,.

An' Nature woos to love!

Here Echo's voice shall aft be heard,
Thy happy dales alang,

Repeat the notes o' Leven's Bard,

An' tell the milk maid's sang,

Sae sweet, ilk day.

O Leven's Bard! thy honour'd name

To me shall still be dear;

Nor let this little help to Fame,

Be reckon'd insincere.

Tho' on fair Latium's distant shore,

Thy head in death be laid,

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