160 TRANSACTIONS OF THE [Sess. lxxvij. 



another of fifty-six pages in 1818. The first was dedicated 

 " to a' the lovers of a Scottish Sang." 



" I hae nae hopes a laurel to obtain — 

 Sic thoughts in me wad doubtless be but vain. 

 I ne'er was taught, nor polished at the school, 

 What hae I then, but simple Nature's rule ? 

 My warks are chiefly in my mither tongue, 

 Then critic blades hae mercy wi' your rung 

 An' dinna thrash me tho' I lat a stammer, 

 For ane like me kens little o' your grammar." 



While none of the " poems " rise to any high level, they 

 are full of manly common sense and breathe a kindly 

 humour. Unmistakably modelled on the styles of well- 

 known Scottish poets, they yet have a distinct individuality 

 and show not only a wonderful gift of expression but also 

 a lively sense of rhyme. Apart from the humorous epistles, 

 the following lines of a more serious nature may be quoted, 

 both as showing what is meant by his verses being 

 modelled on well-known poems, and as a picture of the lot 

 of too many of the workers in these " good old times " : — 



A BARD'S SOLILOQUY. 



Why am I thus, with never ceasing toil 



Opprest and harass'd every passing day ? 

 Why, Fortune ? why thus never deign to smile ? 



Why let pale Poverty bedim each ray, 

 That might enliven me and make me gay ; 



Or rouse my drooping soul that's almost spent ? 

 What riches dost thou lavishly convey 



To those who live but only to torment 

 The poor, and shut their ears to every sad complaint. 



But, happy thought — thrice happy to my soul ! 



That mighty Nature shows no more respect 

 To those who rudely reign without control, 



And virtue's precepts basely do neglect ; 

 Tho' rob'd in pomp — dare they, dare they expect, 



When loud tremendous thunders roll on high, 

 That Nature should their lordling souls protect, 



Or shield them when terrific lightnings fly, 

 More than the poorest wretch that crawls beneath the sky. 



Not stately mansions, nor the gilded spire, 



Shall screen them, should the dreadful whirlwinds blow : 

 Ignoble Souls ! why do they then aspire 



To crush their fellow- worms and give them woe ; 

 When neither gold nor ostentatious show 



Can save them from the tempest's angry roar 

 More than the slave, who meanly gives the bow 



To pampered ecpials — sure they are no more : 

 Great Nature proves the fact — and Nature I adore. 



