Ayr, gurgling, kiss’d his pebbled shore,
     O’erhung with wild-woods, thickening green;
     The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar,
     ’Twin’d amorous round the raptur’d scene: 
     The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
     The birds sang love on every spray;
     Till too, too soon, the glowing west,
     Proclaim’d the speed of winged day.

     Still o’er these scenes my mem’ry wakes,
     And fondly broods with miser-care;
     Time but th’ impression stronger makes,
     As streams their channels deeper wear,
     My Mary! dear departed shade! 
     Where is thy blissful place of rest? 
     See’st thou thy lover lowly laid? 
     Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

Epistle To Dr. Blacklock

     Ellisland, 21st Oct., 1789.

     Wow, but your letter made me vauntie! 
     And are ye hale, and weel and cantie? 
     I ken’d it still, your wee bit jauntie
     Wad bring ye to: 
     Lord send you aye as weel’s I want ye! 
     And then ye’ll do.

     The ill-thief blaw the Heron south! 
     And never drink be near his drouth! 
     He tauld myself by word o’ mouth,
     He’d tak my letter;
     I lippen’d to the chiel in trouth,
     And bade nae better.

     But aiblins, honest Master Heron
     Had, at the time, some dainty fair one
     To ware this theologic care on,
     And holy study;
     And tired o’ sauls to waste his lear on,
     E’en tried the body.

     But what d’ye think, my trusty fere,
     I’m turned a gauger—­Peace be here! 
     Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear,
     Ye’ll now disdain me! 
     And then my fifty pounds a year
     Will little gain me.

     Ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies,
     Wha, by Castalia’s wimplin streamies,
     Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,
     Ye ken, ye ken,
     That strang necessity supreme is
     ‘Mang sons o’ men.

     I hae a wife and twa wee laddies;
     They maun hae brose and brats o’ duddies;
     Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is—­
     I need na vaunt
     But I’ll sned besoms, thraw saugh woodies,
     Before they want.

     Lord help me thro’ this warld o’ care! 
     I’m weary sick o’t late and air! 
     Not but I hae a richer share
     Than mony ithers;
     But why should ae man better fare,
     And a’ men brithers?

     Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van,
     Thou stalk o’ carl-hemp in man! 
     And let us mind, faint heart ne’er wan
     A lady fair: 
     Wha does the utmost that he can,
     Will whiles do mair.

     But to conclude my silly rhyme
     (I’m scant o’ verse and scant o’ time),
     To make a happy fireside clime
     To weans and wife,
     That’s the true pathos and sublime
     Of human life.