He gaed wi’ Jeanie to the tryste,
     He danc’d wi’ Jeanie on the down;
     And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist,
     Her heart was tint, her peace was stown!

     As in the bosom of the stream,
     The moon-beam dwells at dewy e’en;
     So trembling, pure, was tender love
     Within the breast of bonie Jean.

     And now she works her mammie’s wark,
     And aye she sighs wi’ care and pain;
     Yet wist na what her ail might be,
     Or what wad make her weel again.

     But did na Jeanie’s heart loup light,
     And didna joy blink in her e’e,
     As Robie tauld a tale o’ love
     Ae e’ening on the lily lea?

     The sun was sinking in the west,
     The birds sang sweet in ilka grove;
     His cheek to hers he fondly laid,
     And whisper’d thus his tale o’ love: 

     “O Jeanie fair, I lo’e thee dear;
     O canst thou think to fancy me,
     Or wilt thou leave thy mammie’s cot,
     And learn to tent the farms wi’ me?

     “At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge,
     Or naething else to trouble thee;
     But stray amang the heather-bells,
     And tent the waving corn wi’ me.”

     Now what could artless Jeanie do? 
     She had nae will to say him na: 
     At length she blush’d a sweet consent,
     And love was aye between them twa.

Lines On John M’Murdo, Esq.

     Blest be M’Murdo to his latest day! 
     No envious cloud o’ercast his evening ray;
     No wrinkle, furrow’d by the hand of care,
     Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair! 
     O may no son the father’s honour stain,
     Nor ever daughter give the mother pain!

Epitaph On A Lap-Dog

     Named Echo

     In wood and wild, ye warbling throng,
     Your heavy loss deplore;
     Now, half extinct your powers of song,
     Sweet Echo is no more.

     Ye jarring, screeching things around,
     Scream your discordant joys;
     Now, half your din of tuneless sound
     With Echo silent lies.

Epigrams Against The Earl Of Galloway

     What dost thou in that mansion fair? 
     Flit, Galloway, and find
     Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave,
     The picture of thy mind.

     No Stewart art thou, Galloway,
     The Stewarts ’ll were brave;
     Besides, the Stewarts were but fools,
     Not one of them a knave.

     Bright ran thy line, O Galloway,
     Thro’ many a far-fam’d sire! 
     So ran the far-famed Roman way,
     And ended in a mire.

     Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway! 
     In quiet let me live: 
     I ask no kindness at thy hand,
     For thou hast none to give.

Epigram On The Laird Of Laggan