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Sent to a Gentlemun whom he bad offended.

THE friend whom wild from wisdom's way,

The fumes of wine infuriate send; (Not moony madness more astray)

Who but deplores that hapless friend?

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part,

Ah why should I such scenes outlive! Scenes so abhorrent to my heart !

'Tis thine to pity and forgive.

POEM

POEM ON LIFE,

Addressed to Colonel De Peyster, Dumfries, 1796.

MY honored colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the poet's weal ;
Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel

The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus pill,

And potion glasses.

O what a canty warld were it,
Would pain and care, and sickness spare it ;
And fortune favor worth and merit,

As they deserve :
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret ;

Syne wha would starve ?)

Dame

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Dame life, tho' fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and frippery deck her ;
Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker..

I've found her still,
Ay wavering like the willow wicker, ini

'Tween good and ill.

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Then that curst carmagnole auld Satan,
Watches, like bawd'rons by a rattan,
Our sinfu' saul to get a claute on

· Wi' felon ire;
Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on,

. He's off like fire,

Ah ! Nick, ah Nick it is na fair,
First shewing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,

- To put us daft; Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare

O'hell's damned waft.

Poor man the flie, aft bizzes bye,
And aft as chance he comes thec nigh,
Thy auld damned elbow yeuks wi "joy,

And hellish pleasure ;
Already in thy fancy's eye,
Thy sicker treasure.

Soon

Soon heels o'er gowdie! in he gangs,
And like a sheep-head' on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs

And murdering wrestle,
As dangling in the wind he hangs

A gibbet's tassel.

But lest you think I am uncivil,
To plague you with this draunting drivel,
Abjuring a' intentions evil,

| I quat my pen: The Lord preserve us frae the devil!

Amen! amen!

ADDRESS ADDRESS

TO

THE TOOTH-ACHE.

My curse upon your venom'd stang,

That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ;
And thro’ my lugs gies mony a twang,

Wi' gnawing vengeance ;
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,

Like racking engines !

When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ;
Our neighbour's sympathy, may ease us,

Wi' pitying moan ;
But thee—thou hell o'a' diseases,

Ay mocks our groan!

Adown my beard the slavers trickle !
I throw the wee stools o’er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets keckle,

To see me loup ;
While raving mad, I wish a heckle

Were in their doup. VOL. IV.

Dd

O' a'

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