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It lightens, it brightens
The tenebrific scene,

To meet with, and greet with

My Davie or my Jean!

XI.

O, how that name inspires my style!

The words come skelpin, rank and file,
Amaist before I ken!

The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phoebus and the famous Nine

Were glowrin owre my pen.
My spaviet Pegasus will limp,
'Till ance he's fairly het;

And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,

An' rin an unco fit:

But lest then, the beast then

Should rue this hasty ride,

I'll light now, and dight now
His sweaty, wizen'd hide.

The hero of this Epistle is the well-known David Sillar, a scholar and a poet, and lately one of the magistrates of Irvine. He published a little volume of verses, some of which displayed considerable talent; his stories in rhyme are easy and humorous. At the time that he became intimate with the family of William Burness he kept the Parish school; Robert, who never neglected an opportunity of obtaining knowledge, cultivated his ac

quaintance, and was his frequent companion in excursions among the hills and vales of Kyle, to look at the beauties of nature, animate and inanimate. He loved the memory of his gifted comrade, and enriched his biography with some interesting anecdotes. The Poet seems to have been fond of epistolary verse; but, in the specimen before me, he has chosen to move in fetters. The intricate measure of "The Cherry and the Slae," appears not to have impeded the flow of his thoughts nor the gracefulness of his expression.— "It was, I think,” says Gilbert, “in summer 1784, when, in the interval of harder labour, Robert and I were weeding in the garden, that he repeated to me the principal part of this Epistle." To retire from hard labour in the field to work in the garden at home, reminds me of the tender mercies of the north-country saying-" Bairns, when you're tired digging, you may pou kale-runts!"

"I was much pleased," continues Gilbert, "" with the epistle, and said to him, I was of opinion it would bear being printed, and that it would be well received by people of taste; that I thought it at least equal, if not superior, to many of Allan Ramsay's epistles, and that the merit of these, and much other Scotch poetry, seemed to consist principally in the knack of the expression; but here, there was a strain of interesting sentiment."

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs,
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war.

MILTON

O THOU! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,

Closed under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,

An' let poor

damned bodies be;

I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,

E'en to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;
Far kend and noted is thy name;
An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far;

An', faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion,
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin;
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,
Tirlin the kirks;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend Graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray,

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way
Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did

my

Graunie summon,

Το

say her prayers, douce, honest woman!

Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin,

Wi' eerie drone;

Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries comin,

Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,

The stars shot down wi' sklentin light,
Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright

Ayont the lough;

Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight,

Wi' waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,

Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,

When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick-quaickAmang the springs,

Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake,

On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags,
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked speed;

And in kirk-yards renew their leagues
Owre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain,
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain :
For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen

By witching skill;

An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen

As yell's the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse
On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse;
When the best wark-lume i' the house,

By cantrip wit,

Is instant made no worth a louse,

Just at the bit.

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