I’ve been at drucken writers’ feasts,
     Nay, been bitch-fou ’mang godly priests—­
     Wi’ rev’rence be it spoken!—­
     I’ve even join’d the honour’d jorum,
     When mighty Squireships of the quorum,
     Their hydra drouth did sloken.

     But wi’ a Lord!—­stand out my shin,
     A Lord—­a Peer—­an Earl’s son! 
     Up higher yet, my bonnet
     An’ sic a Lord!—­lang Scoth ells twa,
     Our Peerage he o’erlooks them a’,
     As I look o’er my sonnet.

     But O for Hogarth’s magic pow’r! 
     To show Sir Bardie’s willyart glow’r,
     An’ how he star’d and stammer’d,
     When, goavin, as if led wi’ branks,
     An’ stumpin on his ploughman shanks,
     He in the parlour hammer’d.

     I sidying shelter’d in a nook,
     An’ at his Lordship steal’t a look,
     Like some portentous omen;
     Except good sense and social glee,
     An’ (what surpris’d me) modesty,
     I marked nought uncommon.

     I watch’d the symptoms o’ the Great,
     The gentle pride, the lordly state,
     The arrogant assuming;
     The fient a pride, nae pride had he,
     Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,
     Mair than an honest ploughman.

     Then from his Lordship I shall learn,
     Henceforth to meet with unconcern
     One rank as weel’s another;
     Nae honest, worthy man need care
     To meet with noble youthful Daer,
     For he but meets a brother.

Masonic Song

     Tune—­“Shawn-boy,” or “Over the water to Charlie.”

     Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,
     To follow the noble vocation;
     Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another
     To sit in that honoured station. 
     I’ve little to say, but only to pray,
     As praying’s the ton of your fashion;
     A prayer from thee Muse you well may excuse
     ’Tis seldom her favourite passion.

     Ye powers who preside o’er the wind, and the tide,
     Who marked each element’s border;
     Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,
     Whose sovereign statute is order:—­
     Within this dear mansion, may wayward Contention
     Or withered Envy ne’er enter;
     May secrecy round be the mystical bound,
     And brotherly Love be the centre!

Tam Samson’s Elegy

          An honest man’s the noblest work of God—­Pope.

When this worthy old sportman went out, last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian’s phrase, “the last of his fields,” and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs.  On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph.—­R.B., 1787.

     Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? 
     Or great Mackinlay^1 thrawn his heel? 
     Or Robertson^2 again grown weel,
     To preach an’ read? 
     “Na’ waur than a’!” cries ilka chiel,
     “Tam Samson’s dead!”