A POEM.

BY JAMES HOGG,

AUTHOR OF THE QUEEN'S WAKE, &c.

Wild mirth of the desart ! fit pastime for Kings,
Which still the rude Bard in his solitude sings.

WILSON.

EDINBURGH:

PRINTED FOR WILLIAM BLACKWOOD:

AND JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET, LONDON.

1816.

PRINTED BY JAMES BALLANTYNÉ AND CO.

TO

MR JOHN GRIEVE.

IF I knew man on earth that loved me more,
Or more approved my wayward minstrelsy,
Beshrew my pen, so prone to rhyming lore,
If it should dedicate this Book to thee:
But when I think of all thy truth to me,
And love, though sorely tried, that ne'er gave way,
At once all thoughts of loftier patron flee.
Slight is the gift; for, need I blush to say,
That never song of mine had seen the day,
But for thy friendship and unchanged regard ?
To thee I owe them-How shall I repay
My more than brother !—all thy poor reward
Is this, thy favourite lay, of thy too favour'd Bard.

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