“My patriot falls:  but shall he lie unsung,
     While empty greatness saves a worthless name? 
     No; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue,
     And future ages hear his growing fame.

     “And I will join a mother’s tender cares,
     Thro’ future times to make his virtues last;
     That distant years may boast of other Blairs!”—­
     She said, and vanish’d with the sweeping blast.

Impromptu On Carron Iron Works

     We cam na here to view your warks,
     In hopes to be mair wise,
     But only, lest we gang to hell,
     It may be nae surprise: 
     But when we tirl’d at your door
     Your porter dought na hear us;
     Sae may, shou’d we to Hell’s yetts come,
     Your billy Satan sair us!

To Miss Ferrier

     Enclosing the Elegy on Sir J. H. Blair.

     Nae heathen name shall I prefix,
     Frae Pindus or Parnassus;
     Auld Reekie dings them a’ to sticks,
     For rhyme-inspiring lasses.

     Jove’s tunefu’ dochters three times three
     Made Homer deep their debtor;
     But, gien the body half an e’e,
     Nine Ferriers wad done better!

     Last day my mind was in a bog,
     Down George’s Street I stoited;
     A creeping cauld prosaic fog
     My very sense doited.

     Do what I dought to set her free,
     My saul lay in the mire;
     Ye turned a neuk—­I saw your e’e—­
     She took the wing like fire!

     The mournfu’ sang I here enclose,
     In gratitude I send you,
     And pray, in rhyme as weel as prose,
     A’ gude things may attend you!

Written By Somebody On The Window

Of an Inn at Stirling, on seeing the Royal Palace in ruin.

     Here Stuarts once in glory reigned,
     And laws for Scotland’s weal ordained;
     But now unroof’d their palace stands,
     Their sceptre’s sway’d by other hands;
     Fallen indeed, and to the earth
     Whence groveling reptiles take their birth. 
     The injured Stuart line is gone,
     A race outlandish fills their throne;
     An idiot race, to honour lost;
     Who know them best despise them most.

The Poet’s Reply To The Threat Of A Censorious Critic

My imprudent lines were answered, very petulantly, by somebody, I believe, a Rev. Mr. Hamilton.  In a Ms., where I met the answer, I wrote below:—­

     With Esop’s lion, Burns says:  Sore I feel
     Each other’s scorn, but damn that ass’ heel!

The Libeller’s Self-Reproof^1

     Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name
     Shall no longer appear in the records of Fame;
     Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible,
     Says, the more ’tis a truth, sir, the more ’tis a libel!