WAR.

I MURDER hate, by field or flood,
Though glory's name may screen us;
In wars at hame I'll spend my blood,
Life-giving wars of Venus.

The deities that I adore

Are social peace and plenty;
I'm better pleased to make one more
Than be the death o' twenty.

DRINKING.

My bottle is my holy pool,

That heals the wounds o' care an' dool;
And Pleasure is a wanton trout,—
An' ye drink it dry, ye'll find him out.

THE SELKIRK GRACE.

SOME hae meat, and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.

INNOCENCE.

INNOCENCE

Looks gaily smiling on; while rosy Pleasure
Hides young Desire amid her flowery wreath,
And pours her cup luxuriant: mantling high
The sparkling heavenly vintage, Love and Bliss!

ON THE POET'S DAUGHTER,

WHO DIED 1795.

HERE lies a rose, a budding rose,
Blasted before its bloom;

Whose innocence did sweets disclose
Beyond that flower's perfume.

To those who for her loss are grieved,
This consolation's given-
She's from a world of woe relieved,
And blooms, a rose, in Heaven.

ON GABRIEL RICHARDSON,

BREWER, DUMFRIES.

HERE brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct,
And empty all his barrels:
He's blest-if, as he brewed, he drink-
In upright honest morals.

ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, NAMED 'ECHO,'

IN wood and wild, ye warbling throng, Your heavy loss deplore;

Now half-extinct your powers of song, Sweet Echo is no more.

Ye jarring, screeching things around,
Scream your discordant joys;

Now half your din of tuneless sound
With Echo silent lies.

ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF LORD GALLOWAY.

WHAT dost thou in that mansion fair?

Flit, Galloway, and find

Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave,
The picture of thy mind!

ON THE SAME.

No Stewart art thou, Galloway,--
The Stewarts all were brave;
Besides, the Stewarts were but fools,
Not one of them a knave.

ON THE SAME.

BRIGHT ran thy line, O Galloway!
Through many a far-famed sire;
So ran the far-famed Roman way,-
So ended-in a mire!

TO THE SAME,

ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH HIS

RESENTMENT.

SPARE me thy vengeance, Galloway,

In quiet let me live:

I ask no kindness at thy hand,

For thou hast none to give.

THE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES.

YE true 'Loyal Natives,' attend to my song;
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long;
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt,
But where is your shield from the darts of contempt?

ON A SUICIDE.

EARTHED up here lies an imp o' hell,
Planted by Satan's dibble:
Poor silly wretch! he's damned himsel'
To save the Lord the trouble.

ON A COUNTRY LAIRD.

BLESS the Redeemer, Cardoness,
With grateful lifted eyes,
Who said that not the soul alone,
But body too, must rise;

For had he said, 'The soul alone
From death I will deliver;'

Alas! alas! O Cardoness,

Then thou hadst slept for ever!

TO MISS JESSY LEWARS.

TALK not to me of savages

From Afric's burning sun;

No savage e'er could rend

my

As, Jessy, thou hast done.

heart

And Jessy's lovely hand in mine,
A mutual faith to plight,

Not even to view the heavenly choir
Would be so blest a sight.

THE TOAST.

FILL me with the rosy wine;
Call a toast-a toast divine;
Give the poet's darling flame,-
Lovely Jessy be the name;
Then thou mayest freely boast
Thou hast given a peerless toast.

ON THE SICKNESS OF MISS JESSY LEWARS. SAY, sages, what's the charm on earth

Can turn Death's dart aside?

It is not purity and worth,

Else Jessy had not died.

ON THE RECOVERY OF JESSY LEWARS.

BUT rarely seen since Nature's birth,

The natives of the sky;
Yet still one seraph's left on earth,
For Jessy did not die.

TO MRS. C—,

ON RECEIVING A WORK OF HANNAH MORE.

THOU flattering mark of friendship kind,
Still may thy pages call to mind
The dear, the beauteous donor!