O Thou whom Poetry abhors,
     Whom Prose has turned out of doors,
     Heard’st thou yon groan?—­proceed no further,
     ’Twas laurel’d Martial calling murther.

Song—­A Bottle And Friend

     There’s nane that’s blest of human kind,
     But the cheerful and the gay, man,
     Fal, la, la, &c.

     Here’s a bottle and an honest friend! 
     What wad ye wish for mair, man? 
     Wha kens, before his life may end,
     What his share may be o’ care, man?

     Then catch the moments as they fly,
     And use them as ye ought, man: 
     Believe me, happiness is shy,
     And comes not aye when sought, man.

     Lines Written Under The Picture Of The Celebrated Miss Burns

     Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing,
     Lovely Burns has charms—­confess: 
     True it is, she had one failing,
     Had a woman ever less?

Epitaph For William Nicol, Of The High School, Edinburgh

     Ye maggots, feed on Nicol’s brain,
     For few sic feasts you’ve gotten;
     And fix your claws in Nicol’s heart,
     For deil a bit o’t’s rotten.

Epitaph For Mr. William Michie

     Schoolmaster of Cleish Parish, Fifeshire.

     Here lie Willie Michie’s banes;
     O Satan, when ye tak him,
     Gie him the schulin o’ your weans,
     For clever deils he’ll mak them!

     Boat song—­Hey, Ca’ Thro’

     Up wi’ the carls o’ Dysart,
     And the lads o’ Buckhaven,
     And the kimmers o’ Largo,
     And the lasses o’ Leven.

     Chorus.—­Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’,
     For we hae muckle ado. 
     Hey, ca’ thro’, ca’ thro’,
     For we hae muckle ado;

     We hae tales to tell,
     An’ we hae sangs to sing;
     We hae pennies tae spend,
     An’ we hae pints to bring. 
     Hey, ca’ thro’, &c.

     We’ll live a’ our days,
     And them that comes behin’,
     Let them do the like,
     An’ spend the gear they win. 
     Hey, ca’ thro’, &c.

Address To Wm. Tytler, Esq., Of Woodhouselee

     With an Impression of the Author’s Portrait.

     Revered defender of beauteous Stuart,
     Of Stuart, a name once respected;
     A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart,
     But now ’tis despis’d and neglected.

     Tho’ something like moisture conglobes in my 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.