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Unyoke, then, man! and binna sweer
To ding a hole in ill-hain'd gear.
O think that eild, wi' wylie fit,
Is wearing nearer, bit by bit!
Gin aince he claws you wi' his paw,
What's siller for ? fient hae't ava!
But gowden playfair, that may please
The second sharger till he dies,
Some daft chiel reads, and taks advice; The chaise is yokit in a trice; Awa' drives he, like huntit deil, And scarce tholes time to cool his wheel, Till he's-Lord kens how far awa'! At Italy, or Well of Spa; Or to Montpelier's safter air: For far aff fowls hae feathers fair.
There rest him weel:--for eith can we.
Spare mony glaikit gowks like he.
They'll tell whare Tiber's waters rise ;
What sea receives the drumly prize ;
That never wi' their feet hae met
The marches o' their ain estate.
The Arno and the Tiber lang
Hae run fell clear in Roman sang ;
But, save the reverence of schools !
They're baith but lifeless, dowie pools.
Dought they compare wi' bonny Tweed,
As clear as ony lammer-bead ?
Or, are their shores mair sweet and gay
Than Fortha's haughs' or banks o' Tay?
Tho' there the herds can jink the showers
Mang thrivin vines and myrtle bowers,
And blaw the reed to kittle strains,
While Echo's tongue commends their pains ;
Like ours, they canna warm the heart
Wi simple, saft, bewitchin art,
On Leader haughs, and Yarrow braes,
Arcadian herds wad tine their lays,
To hear the mair melodious sounds,
That live on our poetic grounds.
Come, Fancy! come, and let us tread
The Simmer's flowery velvet bed,
And a' your springs delightfu' lowse
On Tweeda's banks, or Cowdenknowes;
That, taen wi' thy enchantin sang,
Our Scottish lads
Sae pleas’d, they'll never fash again
To court you on Italian plain.
Soon will they guess, ye only wear
The simple garb oʻNature here ;
Mair comely far, and fair to sight,
Whan in her easy cleedin dight,
Than, in disguise, ye was before
On Tiber's, or on Arno's shore.
O Banguor (15)! now the hills and dales Nae mair gie back thy tender tales.
The birks on Yarrow now deplorë,
Thy mournfu' Muse has left the sho
Near what bright burn, or crystal spring,
Did you your winsome whistle hing?
The Muse shall there, wi' watery e'e
Gie the dunk swaird a tear for thee;
And Yarrow's genius, dowie dame!
Shall there forget her blude-stain'd stream,
On thy sad grave to seek repose,
Who mourn'd her fate, condol'd her woes.
JOB, CHAP. III. PARAPHRASED.
PERISH the fatal day when I was born,
The night with dreary darkness be forlorn ;
The loathed, hateful, and lamented night
When Job, 'twas told, had first perceiv'd the light;
Let it be dark, nor let the God on high
Regard it with the favour of his eye;
Let blackest darkness and death's awful shade
Stain it, and make the trembling earth afraid;
Be it, not join'd unto the varying year, ,
Nor to the fleeting months in swift career.
Lo! let the night in solitude's dismay
Be dumb to joy, and waste in gloom away;
On it may twilight stars be never known;
Light let it wish for, Lord ! but give it none;