ELEGY ON JOHN HOGG.

Gin e'er thir days hae had their peer,

Sae blyth, sae daft!

You'll ne'er again in life's career

Sit half sae saft.

Wi' haffit locks sae smooth and sleek,
John look'd like ony ancient Greek :

He was a Naz'rene a' the week,

And doughtna tell out

A bawbee Scots to scrape his cheek

Till Sunday fell out.

For John ay loo'd to turn the pence,
Thought poortith was a great offence:

"What recks tho' ye ken mood and tense?

"A hungry wyme

"For gow'd wad wi' them baith dispense "At ony time.

"Ye ken what ills maun ay befal

"The chiel that will be prodigal;

ELEGY ON JOHN HOGG.

"Whan wasted to the very spaul

"He turns his tusk,

For want o' comfort to his saul

"O hungry husk."

Ye royit loans! just do as he'd do;
For mony braw green shaw an' meadow
He's left to cheer his dowy widow,

His winsome Kate,

That to him prov'd a canny she-dow,

Baith ear' and late.

THE GHAISTS:

A KIRK YARD ECLOGUE.

Did you not say in good ANN's day,
And vow and did protest, Sir,
That when Hanover should come o'er
We surely should be blest, Sir?

AN AULD SANG MADE NEW AGAIN.

WHARE the braid planes in dowy murmurs wave

Their ancient taps out owre the cauld-clad grave, Whare Geordie Girdwood (9), mony a lang spun day, Houkit for gentlest banes the humblest clay, "Twa sheeted ghaists, sae grisly and sae wan. 'Mang lanely tombs their douff discourse began.

WATSON.

Cauld blaws the nippin north wi' angry seugh, And showers his hailstanes frae the Castle Cleugh, O'er the Grayfriars, whare, at mirkest hour, Bogles and spectres wont to tak their tour,

THE GHAISTS.

Harlin the pows and shanks to hidden cairns, Amang the hemlocks wild, and sun-burnt fairns : But nane the night, save you and I, bae come Frae the drear mansions o' the midnight tomb. Now whan the dawnin's near, whan cock maun craw, And wi' his angry bougil gar's withdraw,

Ayont the Kirk we'll stap, and there tak bield, While the black hours our nightly freedom yield.

HERIOT.

I'm weel content: but, binna cassen down,
Nor trow the cock will ca' ye hame o'er soon;
For, tho' the eastern lift betakens day,
Changing her rokelay black for mantle gray,
Nae weirlike bird our knell of parting rings,
Nor sheds the caller moisture frae his wings.
Nature has chang'd her course; the birds o' day
Dosin in silence on the bendin spray,

While howlets round the craigs at noontide flee,

And bluidy hawks sit singin on the tree.

་་་་་་་་་

THE GHAISTS.

Ah, Caledon! the land I aince held dear;
Sair main mak I for thy destruction near :
And thou, Edina! aince my dear abode,
Whan royal Jamie sway'd the sov'reign rod,
In thae blest days, weel did I think bestow'd
To blaw thy poortith by wi' heaps o' gowd;
To mak thee sonsy seem wi' mony a gift,
gar thy stately turrets speel the lift.
In vain did Danish Jones, wi' gimcrack pains,
In Gothic sculpture fret the pliant stanes;
In vain did he affix my statue here,

And

Brawly to busk wi' flowers ilk coming year.
My towers are sunk; my lands are barren now;
My fame, my honour, like my flow'rs, maun dow.

WATSON.

Sure, Major Weir, or some sic warlock wight, Has flung beguilin glamour owre your sight; Or else some kittle cantrip thrown, I ween, Has bound in mirlygoes my ain twa een :