For fear, by foes, that they should lose Their cogs o' brose; all crying woes, And so it goes you see, man.
They've lost some gallant gentlemen,
Amang the Highland clans, man;
I fear my lord Panmure is slain,
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man:
Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right;
But mony bade the world guid-night;
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,
By red claymores, and muskets' knell,
Wi' dying yell, the tories fell,
And whigs to hell did flee, man.
To run the twelvemonth's length again:
THIS day, Time winds th' exhausted chain,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
I see the old, bald-pated fellow,
Adjust the unimpair'd machine,
To wheel the equal, dull routine..
The absent lover, minor heir,
In vain assail him with their prayer,
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's with the hounds
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila 's fair Rachel's care to-day,
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares a minute borrow-
-That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-
And join with me a-moralizing,
This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver?
"Another year is gone for ever."
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
"The passing moment 's all we rest on!"
Rest on-for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may-a few years must-
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes-all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
Hang matters of eternal weight;
That future life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone;
We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay;
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire.
HERE lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam:
Want only of wisdom denied her respect, Want only of goodness denied her esteem.
ANSWER to a Mandate sent by the Surveyor of the Windows, Carriages, &c. to each Farmer, ordering him to send a signed List of his Horses, Servants, Wheel-Carriages, &c., and whether he was a married Man or a Bachelor, and what Children they had.
SIR, as your mandate did request,
I send you here a faithfu' list,
My horses, servants, carts, and graith,
To which I'm free to tak my aith.
Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle,
As ever drew before a pettle.
My hand a fore, a guid auld has-been,
And wight and wilfu' a' his days seen;
My hand a hin, a guid brown filly,
Wha aft hae borne me safe frae Killie,
And your old borough mony a time,
In days when riding was nae crime:
My fur a hin, a guid gray beast,
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd:
The fourth, a Highland Donald hasty,
A d-mn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastie.
For-by a cowt, of cowts the wale,
As ever ran before a tail;
An' he be spar'd to be a beast,
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least.
Wheel carriages I hae but few,
Three carts, and twa are feckly new;
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token,
Aeleg and baith the trams are broken;
I made a poker o' the spindle,
And my auld mither brunt the trundle.
For men, I've three mischievous boys,
Run-deils for rantin and for noise;
A gadsman ane, a thrasher t'other,
Wee Davoc hauds the nowte in fother.
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly,
And often labour them completely,
And ay on Sundays duly nightly,
I on the questions tairge them tightly.
Till faith wee Davoc's grown sae gleg,
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg,)
He'll screed you off effectual calling,
As fast as ony in the dwalling.
I've nane in female servant station,
Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation!
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is,
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses;
For weans I'm mair than well contented,
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted;
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,
She stares the daddie in her face,
Enough of ought ye like but grace.
But her, my bonnie, sweet, wee lady
I've said enough for her already,
And if ye tax her or her mither,
By the L-d ye'se get them a' thegither!
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