1 BARD'S EPIΤΑΡΗ. Is there a whim-inspired fool, And owre this grassy heap sing dool, Is there a bard of rustic song, That weekly this area throng, O, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here heave a sigh. Is there a man, whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer, Wild as the wave; Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear, The The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow, And softer flame, But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain'd his name! Reader attend-whether thy soul Know, prudent, cautious, self-control; ON ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S Peregrinations through Scotland. COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. HEAR, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's; I rede you tent it: A chield's amang you taking notes, And, faith, he'll prent it. If in your bounds ye chance to light Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, O' stature short, but genius bright, That's he, mark weel O' cauk and keel. And wow! he has an unco slight By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* Or kirk deserted by its riggin, Its ten to ane ye'll find him snug in Some eldritch part, Wi' deils, they say, L-d save's! colleaguin. At some black art. Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer, Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamor, Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, Ye midnight bes. * Vide his Antiquities of Scotland. It's It's tauld he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa'n than fled; But now he's quat the spurtle blade, And dog-skin wallet, And ta'en the Antiquarian trade, I think they call it. He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets: Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets,* And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder; A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, Forbye, * Vide his Treatise on ancient armour and weapons. |