Auld Phoebus himself, as he peep’d o’er the hill,
     In spite at her plumage he tried his skill;
     He levell’d his rays where she bask’d on the brae—­
     His rays were outshone, and but mark’d where she lay. 
     I rede you,&c.

     They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill,
     The best of our lads wi’ the best o’ their skill;
     But still as the fairest she sat in their sight,
     Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight. 
     I rede you, &c.

Song—­My Lord A-Hunting

     Chorus.—­My lady’s gown, there’s gairs upon’t,
     And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t;
     But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet,
     My lord thinks meikle mair upon’t.

     My lord a-hunting he is gone,
     But hounds or hawks wi’ him are nane;
     By Colin’s cottage lies his game,
     If Colin’s Jenny be at hame. 
     My lady’s gown, &c.

     My lady’s white, my lady’s red,
     And kith and kin o’ Cassillis’ blude;
     But her ten-pund lands o’ tocher gude;
     Were a’ the charms his lordship lo’ed. 
     My lady’s gown, &c.

     Out o’er yon muir, out o’er yon moss,
     Whare gor-cocks thro’ the heather pass,
     There wons auld Colin’s bonie lass,
     A lily in a wilderness. 
     My lady’s gown, &c.

     Sae sweetly move her genty limbs,
     Like music notes o’lovers’ hymns: 
     The diamond-dew in her een sae blue,
     Where laughing love sae wanton swims. 
     My lady’s gown, &c.

     My lady’s dink, my lady’s drest,
     The flower and fancy o’ the west;
     But the lassie than a man lo’es best,
     O that’s the lass to mak him blest. 
     My lady’s gown, &c.

Epigram At Roslin Inn

     My blessings on ye, honest wife! 
     I ne’er was here before;
     Ye’ve wealth o’ gear for spoon and knife—­
     Heart could not wish for more. 
     Heav’n keep you clear o’ sturt and strife,
     Till far ayont fourscore,
     And while I toddle on thro’ life,
     I’ll ne’er gae by your door!

Epigram Addressed To An Artist

Dear _____, I’ll gie ye some advice,
You’ll tak it no uncivil: 
You shouldna paint at angels mair,
But try and paint the devil.

     To paint an Angel’s kittle wark,
     Wi’ Nick, there’s little danger: 
     You’ll easy draw a lang-kent face,
     But no sae weel a stranger.—­R.  B.

The Book-Worms

     Through and through th’ inspir’d leaves,
     Ye maggots, make your windings;
     But O respect his lordship’s taste,
     And spare his golden bindings.

On Elphinstone’s Translation Of Martial’s Epigrams