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Still bending o'er the clay-cold maid,

The youthful warior hung;
His shield outspread like eagle's wing,

To guard her callow young.
And still the bravest soldier fell,

That urg'd the fierce attack;
And till the tyrant sunk behind,

And gor'd him in the back.
Death perch'd upon his pallid cheek,

Smild on the gushing gore,
And o'er the wound whence welld the life,

Fate sung the deadly lore.

But yet he quitted not his sword,

Nor fell he to the ground,
Till thro' the tyrant's heart the steel

Had forc'd a fatal wound.

The tyrant, like a tree o'erthrown,

Fell breathless on the earth,
Cold (inking down, by him the youth,

Beside him too in death,

The fair maid woke, as from a dream,

And saw her lover lay,
She ran and kiss'd his pallid lips,

While they were clad in clay.



She kiss'd the wound that tore his fide,

With many a weep and wail,
She call'd upon her lover's name,

But all would not prevail.
She snatched up the reeking sword,

Which by her lover lay,
And called on his hov'ring ghost

A little space to stay.

Her snowy bosom now she bares,

And right the hilt she fet,
The hilt that oft her William held,

In her heart's blood was wet.

The soldiers on their batter'd shields,

They bore them both away,
And in one grave, by yonder cross,

The luckless lovers lay.

E. S. J.



The title-page is well enough,

The rest nor one nor t'other,
For you know yourself you are a guff,
And that your book is but a blether.

E. S. J.


TO H. W. T.




yet the Theban touch'd the tuneful lyre, Ere yet the bard had felt the holy fire, Sweet poesy, in am'rous toy with thee, The little cherubs met in sympathy. In rosy health they wreath'd the dewy flow'r, To deck fair Venus Numb'ring in her bow'i, Th' ambrofial wreathe, which Venus' soft decree Gives to the bard of Venus' poesy ; Who sung her rites, and ftrove her blush to hide, With Modesty ftill trembling by his side. The theme how sweet, an infant babe the theme, Still sporting gay as gilded summer's beam. How oft enraptur’d, in thy lovely line, I've gather'd sweets, and tasted bliss divine ! As down some ftream I've sported all the way, And gather'd fow'rs the live-long summer's day. Thy fong still trembles on my list’ning ear, As soft as flows the sympathetic tear. Yet thou can'ít fing of mighty Freedom's lays, And bid the punic shield terrific blaze ; Bid Scipio ftand, with noble fury fraught, His Rome yet trembling on the brink of nought.



E'en now I see the punic hero smile,
As down the Alps he winds his weary toil.
With thee I've tremblid at the direful scene,
With thee I've sported on the rural green ;
Mid elhih fays, and laughter-loving sprits,
And balmy zephyrs breathing sweet delights.

But, O! to thee *, whose manly bosom glow'd,
Who call'd forth merit from her dark abode;
Rescu'd by thee from out the shades of night,
Have Scotia's sages seen their wonted light.
May Heav'n's bright beam still in thy bofom glow,
And unknown sages rear the laureli'd brow.

E. S. J. * The Earl of BUCHAN.



FAIR SC-T-A stands a quiet cow,

Ane G-die hads her lugs,
While at her tail the plemen pow,

Ane P-t he milks her dugs.
He milks agane, nought comes but blood,

Stinted in her fother;
They'll put her in a canker'd mood,

She'll tak their stoups a lether.
An'anes she does begin to kick,


the nation ring, She'll tak a'pl-men fic a lick,

May be she'll fell the ****. E, S. J.


AE day at the road-side I stopped to reft,
At a wee theeket housie, 'twas just for a jest,
I had na stay'd lang afore the course weather
Brought a' the beggars in plenty together.
And fic a merry company I never yet faw,
As if they had nae cares nor sorrow ava.
Sic finging, fic laughing, fic fportin and dafin, [bra.
While the youngfters were dancin fu'trig and fu’
And the ane drank whisky, and the ane drank tea,
And the ane drank yill, till that he scarce could see;
When up they gat, fu' blythly togither,
And all on the poor they danced through ither ;
Wi' pitasure fae mighty, wi' pleasure fue gay,
They pass'd the lang mornin fae jolly away,
When in cam an eggman, it was nae for to beg man,
For he sat down the basket, and lap as weel as they.
Thus it is plain, that every ane may fee,
The pleasures of life are born wi' Poverty;
And a' the ills of man are only in the fancy,
For beggars can sing, and beggars can dance ay.
Why then let us sport like the merry month of May,
Then let us sport wi fancy so gay,
And like the poor eggman, who cam not for to beg,
Set down our forrows, and dance as weel as they.

E. S. J.


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