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!
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!
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!
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!
Over the Chimney--piece in the Parlour of the Inn at Kenmore, Taymouth.
Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
[Footnote 1: These are rhymes of dubious authenticity.--Lang.]
My savage journey, curious, I pursue, Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.-- The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, The woods wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides; Th' outstretching lake, imbosomed 'mong the hills, The eye with wonder and amazement fills; The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, The palace rising on his verdant side, The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste, The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste, The arches striding o'er the new-born stream, The village glittering in the noontide beam--