The primrose I will pu’, the firstling o’ the year,
     And I will pu’ the pink, the emblem o’ my dear;
     For she’s the pink o’ womankind, and blooms without a peer,
     And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

     I’ll pu’ the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view,
     For it’s like a baumy kiss o’ her sweet, bonie mou;
     The hyacinth’s for constancy wi’ its unchanging blue,
     And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

     The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,
     And in her lovely bosom I’ll place the lily there;
     The daisy’s for simplicity and unaffected air,
     And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

     The hawthorn I will pu’, wi’ its locks o’ siller gray,
     Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o’ day;
     But the songster’s nest within the bush I winna tak away
     And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

     The woodbine I will pu’, when the e’ening star is near,
     And the diamond draps o’ dew shall be her een sae clear;
     The violet’s for modesty, which weel she fa’s to wear,
     And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.

     I’ll tie the Posie round wi’ the silken band o’ luve,
     And I’ll place it in her breast, and I’ll swear by a’ above,
     That to my latest draught o’ life the band shall ne’er remove,
     And this will be a Posie to my ain dear May.

On Glenriddell’s Fox Breaking His Chain

     A Fragment, 1791.

     Thou, Liberty, thou art my theme;
     Not such as idle poets dream,
     Who trick thee up a heathen goddess
     That a fantastic cap and rod has;
     Such stale conceits are poor and silly;
     I paint thee out, a Highland filly,
     A sturdy, stubborn, handsome dapple,
     As sleek’s a mouse, as round’s an apple,
     That when thou pleasest canst do wonders;
     But when thy luckless rider blunders,
     Or if thy fancy should demur there,
     Wilt break thy neck ere thou go further.

     These things premised, I sing a Fox,
     Was caught among his native rocks,
     And to a dirty kennel chained,
     How he his liberty regained.

     Glenriddell!  Whig without a stain,
     A Whig in principle and grain,
     Could’st thou enslave a free-born creature,
     A native denizen of Nature? 
     How could’st thou, with a heart so good,
     (A better ne’er was sluiced with blood!)
     Nail a poor devil to a tree,
     That ne’er did harm to thine or thee?

     The staunchest Whig Glenriddell was,
     Quite frantic in his country’s cause;
     And oft was Reynard’s prison passing,
     And with his brother-Whigs canvassing
     The Rights of Men, the Powers of Women,
     With all the dignity of Freemen.