But now they'll busk' her like a fright,
Willie's awa!

.2

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd,
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd;2
They durst nae mair than he allow'd,
That was a law:

We've lost a birkie3 weel worth gowd,
Willie's awa!

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks and fools,*
Frae colleges, and boarding-schools,
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools,"
In glen or shaw ;6

.6

He who could brush them down to mools,"
Willie's awa!

The brethren o' the Commerce-chaumers
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamor;
He was a dictionar and grammar

Amang them a';

I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer,
Willie's awa!

Nae mair we see his levee door

9

Philosophers and poets pour,
And toothy critics by the core,
In bloody raw!

The adjutant o' a' the score,

Willie's awa!

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face,
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace;
M'Kenzie, Stuart, such a brace

10

As Rome ne'er saw

They a' maun meet some ither place,
Willie's awa!

Poor Burns-e'en Scotch drink canna quicken,
He cheeps11 like some bewilder'd chicken,

1 Dress.-2 Frightened.-3 Clever fellow.-4 Foolish, thoughtless young persons.-5 Mushrooms.—6 A small wood in a hollow.-7 Dust.

8 The Chamber of Commerce of Edinburgh, of which Mr. C. was secretary. • Many literary gentlemen were accustomed to meet at Mr. C.'s house at breakfast.

10 Must.-11 Chirps.

Scared frae its minnie1 and the clecken2
By hoodie-craw;3

Grief's gien1 his heart an unco kickin',
Willie's awa!

Now every sour-mou'd, girnin' blellum,*
And Calvin's fock' are fit to fell him;
And self-conceited critic skellum

8

His quill may draw;

He wha could brawlie9 ward their bellum,"
Willie's awa!

Up wimpling," stately Tweed I've sped,
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,

And Ettrick banks now roaring red,
While tempests blaw;

But every joy and pleasure 's fled,
Willie's awa!

May I be slander's common speech;
A text for infamy to preach;
And, lastly, streekit out to bleach
In winter snaw;

12

When I forget thee! Willie Creech,
Tho' far awa!

May never wicked fortune touzle him!
May never wicked men bamboozle him!
Until a pow13 as auld's Methusalem!

13

He canty claw!15

Then to the blesséd, new Jerusalem,
Fleet wing awa!

LIBERTY.-A FRAGMENT.

THEE, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among—
Thee famed for martial deed and sacred song-
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of freedom fled?

1 Mother.-2 Brood.-3 The pewit-gull.-4 Given.-5 Grinning.-6 A talking fellow.- People.-8 A worthless fellow. Finely.-10 Their ill-nature. -11 Meandering.-12 Stretched.-13 Head.-14 Old.-15 Cheerfully scratch.

Immingled with the mighty dead!

Beneath that hallow'd turf where Wallace lies!

Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep;
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,
Nor give the coward secret breath.-
Is this the power in freedom's war
That wont to bid the battle rage?
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate,
Crushing the despot's proudest bearing,
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate,
Braved usurpation's boldest daring!

One quenched in darkness like the sinking star,
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age.

THE VOWELS.-A TALE.

'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are plied, The noisy domicile of pedant pride;

Where Ignorance her darkening vapor throws,
And cruelty directs the thickening blows;
Upon a time, Sir Abece the great,
In all his pedagogic powers elate,

His awful chair of state resolves to mount,
And call the trembling vowels to account.
First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight,
But, ah! deform'd, dishonest to the sight!
His twisted head look'd backward on his way,
And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ai!
Reluctant, E stalk'd in; with piteous grace
The justling tears ran down his honest face!
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own,
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne!
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound;
And next the title following close behind,
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd.
The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded Y!
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply:
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round,
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground!

In rueful apprehension enter'd O,
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe;
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert,
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art:
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U,
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew!
As trembling U stood staring all aghast,
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast,
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right,
Baptized him eu, and kick'd him from his sight.

FRAGMENT,

Inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox.

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite;
How virtue and vice blend their black and their white;
How genius, the illustrious father of fiction,
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction—
I sing: If these mortals, the critics, should bustle,

I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle.

But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory At once may illustrate and honor my story.

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits;

Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits;
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong,
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong;
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright,
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right;
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the Muses,

For using thy name offers fifty excuses.

Good L―d, what is man! for as simple he looks, Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks; With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil.

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labors, That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbors:

Mankind are his show-box-a friend, would you know him?

Pull the string, ruling passion, the picture will show him. What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system,

One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd him; For, spite of his fine, theoretic positions,

Mankind is a science defies definitions.

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, And think human nature they truly describe;

Have you found this, or t'other? there's more in the wind,

As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find.
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan,
In the make of that wonderful creature call'd Man,
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim,
Nor even two different shades of the same,
Though, like as was ever twin brother to brother,
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other.

SKETCH.1

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,
And still his precious self his dear delight;
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets,
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets:

A man of fashion too, he made his tour,
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive l'amour;
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve,
Polish they grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love.
Much specious lore but little understood;
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood;
His solid sense-by inches you must tell,
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell;
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend,

Still making work his selfish craft must mend.

1 This sketch seems to be one of a series, intended for a projected work, under the title of "The Poet's Progress." This character was sent as a specimen, accompanied by a letter, to Professor Dugald Stewart, in which it is thus noticed: "The fragment beginning 'A little, upright, pert, tart,' &c., I have not shown to any man living, till I now show it to you. It forms the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This particular part I send you merely as a sample of my hand at portrait sketching."

16*