Tho something like moisture conglobes in my A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal; A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne; My fathers have fallen to right it; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it. Still in prayers for K-G-I most heartily join, The Q, and the rest of the gentry, Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; Their title's avow'd by my country. But why of this epocha make such a fuss, The pride of her kindred the heroine grew. Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, "Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall rue!" With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn? But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. THE following Poem was written to a Gentleman, who had sent him a Newspaper, and offered to continue it free of Expense. KIND Sir, I've read your paper through, Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. HAIL, Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd! 'Mang heaps o' clavers; And och o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, Mid a' thy favours! Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, While loud the trump's heroic clang, |