A PRAYER UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. O THOU Great Being! what thou art Yet sure I am, that known to thee Thy creature here before thee stands, All wretched and distrest; Yet sure those ills that wring my soul, Obey thy high behest. Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act O free my weary eyes from tears, But if I must afflicted be, To suit some wise design; THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE NINE- O THOU, the first, the greatest Friend Whose strong right hand has ever been Their stay and dwelling place! That power which raised and still upholds From countless, unbeginning time Was ever still the same. Those mighty periods of years Appear no more before thy sight Than yesterday that's past. Thou givest the word: Thy creature, man, Again thou say'st, " Ye sons of men, Thou layest them, with all their cares, As with a flood thou takest them off They flourish like the morning flower, But long ere night cut down it lies Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! Wi' spreckled breast. When upward-springing, blythe to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Scarce rear'd above the parent earth The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, Adorns the histie stibble-field, TO RUIN. I. ALL hail! inexorable lord! A sullen welcome, all! For one has cut my dearest tie, And quivers in my heart. Then lowering, and pouring, The storm no more I dread; Though thickening and blackening Round my devoted head. II. And, thou grim power, by life abhorr'd, O! hear a wretch's prayer! To close this scene of care! My weary heart its throbbing cease, TO MISS L-, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS AS A NEW-YEAR'S GIFT, JANUARY 1, 1787. AGAIN the silent wheels of time Their annual round have driven, And you, though scarce in maiden prime, No gifts have I from Indian coasts I send you more than India boasts, Our sex with guile and faithless love EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. MAY, 1786. I. I LANG hae thought, my youthfu' friend, Ye'll try the world soon, my lad, And muckle they may grieve ye. III. I'll no say, men are villains a' ; Are to a few restricked: If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted! IV. Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, V. Aye free, aff han' your story tell, Frae critical dissection ; The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love But never tempt th' illicit rove, Though naething should divulge it! I wave the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But och it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling! VII. To catch dame Fortune's golden smile That's justified by honour; VIII. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, IX. The great Creator to revere Must sure become the creature ; But still the preaching cant forbear, And e'en the rigid feature; Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, And in their dear petitions place him; The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, Wi' tearfu' e'e ; For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him O fortune, they hae room to grumble! Hadst thou ta'en aff some drowsy bummle, Wha can do naught but fyke and fumble, 'Twad been nae plea; But he was gleg as ony wumble, That's owre the sea. He was her laureate monie a year, He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west So took a birth afore the mast, To tremble under fortune's cummock, On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, Wi' his proud, independent stomaca So row't his hurdies in a hammock, He ne'er was gien to great misguiding, The muse was a' that he took pride in, Jamaica bodies, use him weel, He wad na wrang'd the vera diel, That's owre the sea. Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie! Your native soil was right ill-willio; But may ye flourish like a lily, Now bonnilie! I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, Though owre the sca. TO A HAGGIS. FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the puddin race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm Weel are ye wordy of a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, His knife see rustic labour dight, And then, O what a glorious sight, Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive Is there that o'er his French ragout, Poor devil! see him owre his trash, But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, He'll mak it whissle; Ye powers, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, Gie her a haggis! A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. EXPECT na, sir, in this narration, A fleechin, fleth'rin dedication, This may do-maun do, sir, wi' them wha The poet, some guid angel help him, The patron, (sir, ye maun forgie me, I read ly and freely grant, But then, na thanks to him for a' that; It's no through terror of d-mn-tion; It's just a carnal inclination. Morality, thou deadly bane, Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is In moral mercy, truth, and justice! No-stretch a point to catch a plack; Abuse a brother to his back; Steal through a winnock frae a wh-re, But point the rake that taks the door : Be to the poor like onie whunstane, And haud their noses to the grunstane, Ply every art o' legal thieving; No matter, stick to sound believing. Learn three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces, Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry faces; O ye wha leave the springs of C-lv-n, For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin! Ye sons of heresy and error, Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror! When vengeance draws the sword in wrath, And in the fire throws the sheath; When ruin, with his sweeping besom, Just frets till Heaven commission gies him: While o'er the harp pale misery moans, And strikes the ever deepening tones, Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans! Your pardon, sir, for this digression, I maist forgat my dedication; So, sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, I thought them something like yoursel. Then patronize them wi' your favour, I had amaist said, ever pray, For prayin I hae little skill o't; "May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark To serve their king and country weel, But if (which powers above prevent!) By sad mistakes, and black mischances, TO A LOUSE, ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH. HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie? Your impudence protects you sairly: I canna say but ye strunt rarely Owre gauze and lace; Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner, Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; Where ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumpin cattle, In shoals and nations; Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight, My sooth right bauld ye set your nose out, I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't, Wad dress your droddum! ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. EDINA! Scotia's darling seat! All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once beneath a monarch's feet Sat legislation's sovereign powers! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honour'd shade. II. Here wealth still swells the golden tide, As busy trade his labours plies; There architecture's roble pride Bids elegance and splendour rise; Here justice, from her native skies, High wields her balance and her rod; There learning, with his eagle eyes, Seeks science in her coy abode. III. Thy sons, Edina, social, kind, With open arms the stranger hail; Their views enlarged, their liberal mind, Above the narrow, rural vale; Attentive still to sorrow's wail, Or modest merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail! And never envy blot their name! IV. Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn! Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, Dear as the raptured thrill of joy! Fair B strikes th' adoring eye, Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine; I see the sire of love on high, And own his work indeed divine! V. There, watching high the least alarms, Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; |