English

Though V IRGILS Vearse, for loftie style were rare,
Surmounting farre my feeble Muses might:
Yet in this poynte my case I may compare
With his, what tyme another claymde his right,
And say with him, though I the seede did sowe,
Another seekes the fruite therof to mowe.

Like as the toyling Oxe the Plow doth pull,
And hath but stalkes, when others share the eares:
Or as the sheepe that Nature clothes with wooll,
Brings forth the Fleece, the shearer from him sheares,
Euen much alike it fareth now with me,

Fair as the dawning Light! auspicious Guest!
Source of all Comfort to the Human Breast!
Depriv'd of Thee in sad Despair we moan,
And tedious roll the heavy Moments on.
Though beauteous Objects all around us rise
To charm the Fancy, and delight the Eyes;
Though Art's fair Works and Nature's Gifts conspire
To please each Sense, and satiate each Desire,
'Tis joyless all — till thy enliv'ning Ray
Scatters the melancholy Gloom away.
Then opens to the Soul a heav'nly Scene,
Gladness and Peace, all spritely, all serene.

A SANG.

Under ane brokin bank ane by,
I hard ane heynd cheild mak his mane,
He sicht, and said richt drerelie,
Evil is the wyf that I have tane!
Forthy to yow I mak my mane,
Ye tak gud tent quhair that ye wow.
It is scant ane twelf-month gane —
God gif I wer wedo now!

War I ane wedo, forouttin weir,
Full weill I culd luik me aboute:
In all this land, bayth far and neir,
Of wyfing I suld have no doute.
Upon my hip I have ane clout,
Quhilk is nocht plesand for my prow.

( " L'eglise est vaste et haute. " )

The Church is vast; its towering pride, its steeples loom on on high;
The bristling stones with leaf and flower are sculptured wondrously;
The portal glows respondent with its " rose, "
And 'neath the vault immense at evening swarm
Figures of angel, saint, or demon's form,
As oft a fearful world our dreams disclose.
But not the huge Cathedral's height, nor yet its vault sublime,
Nor porch, nor glass, nor streaks of light, nor shadows deep with time;

God, as thow weill can,
Help the slie court-man;
His banes may I sair ban
First lernt me to ryde.

Thre brether wer we,
All borne of ane cuntre;
The hardest fortoun fell me,
Grit God be my gyde!

The eldest brother was na fule,
Quhen he was young yeid to the scule;
And now he sittis on ane stule,
Ane prelot of pryde.

My secund brother bure the pak,
Ane lytil quhyle upon his bak;
Now he hes gold and warld's wrak,
Lyand him besyde.

Now mon I to the court fayr,

Dick's sprightly Wit, like bottled Beer,
For ever bouncing out,
In Froth pursues its full Career,
And spatters all about.

Whene'er the hum'rous Topics rise,
Nor Stop nor Stay he knows,
But slap the picquant Raill'ry flies
Alike at Friends or Foes.

Not the most clear or sacred Name
Can 'scape the trying Test;
But still, let Heaven and Earth reclaim,
Still he must urge his Jest.

And hence, with Joy too dearly priz'd
Tho' thus he rules the Roast,
Soon shall he see himself despis'd,

Faine wald I, with all diligence,
Ane sang mak, plesand of sentence,
To everie mannis appetyte;
Bot thairin failyes my science.
Thus wait I nocht quhairof to wryte.

For, thoch sevin yeir I war avysit,
And with my wittis all devysit,
Ane singulare thing to put in dyte;
It suld with sum men be despysit.
Thus wait I nocht quhairof to wryte.

And thoch I say in generale,
Sum sall it tak in speciale;
And of sum folk I suld have wyte,
Quham I did never offend nor sall.
Thus wait I nocht quhairof to wryte.

Dear Frank , with Fancy, Fire, and Style,
Form'd a consummate Poet,
Burns with Impatience all the while,
That all the World should know it.

Where'er he goes, with pompous Boast
His Talent he displays;
No, not a Tittle shall be lost
Of his minutest Praise.

Then let's be candid to our Friend,
And own his just Pretence;
Nor yet, whilst we his Wit commend,

(In Imitation of Mrs. Carter .)

If ere thy gentle Muse was bred
In gay Parnassus' height,
And there beheld Apollo shed
His beams of orient light;

If ere the rural sweets of Morn,
Inspired thy gentle care;
Oh! hear a H AMADRYAD forlorn,
Who now prefers her pray'r!

Oppress'd she comes, with many a wrong,
And fears of deep dismay;
For Tyrant pow'r has mark'd too long

I.

Soft and bright the moon-beam lies,
Trip it merrily, — trip it merrily;
All beneath the star-lit skies,
Gleam with Nature's loveliest dyes:
The nightingale
On light wing sails,
And sings it cheerily, — sings it cheerily.

II.

Sweet 'tis to wake while others sleep,
Trip it merrily, — trip it merrily;
And find some high and rocky steep,