This very height, and on the hilt,
A gawsey mason's mell,

To puzzle folk, whilk is the stilt,
Or whilk is Rob himsel.

The carle, I'm sure he'll,
No ha'e his tale to seek,
Aye puffin', or stuffin',

Wi' ugsome chews his cheek.

An epitaph I ance had made,

To put on Rob, when he were dead;
But were't to do again,
His pardon begging, for sic fun,
This motto I'd ha'e neatly done,

Upon the waefu' stane :

"Here lies a corpse, this ane could say,—
What seldom carcase can-
Tho' here I rot, pale stinking clay,

I ance contained a man,

Sae stern-eyed, sae learned,

That death's arm switherin' hung,

Till chance by, he lanced my

Hale saul frae out my tongue."

My friend, though Fortune-partial slut!— Still holds you in a toilsome hut,

Yet, if I don't mistake,

Your modest merit will you raise,

And Fortune smile yet in your face,

Your tuneful powers to wake.

How aften ha'e I at your feet,

In deepest silence lain,

While from the strings, harmonious sweet,

You sent the warbling strain;

Even now, man, I vow, man,

I think I hear you singing,

The ferly, sae rarely,

Sets baith my ears a ringing.

Adieu! my kind, my worthy chield;
Lang may ye ha'e a cozzy bield,

To screen frae winter's cauld;
May time yet see ye wi' a wame
As fat as J's soncy dame,

Till thretty years thrice tauld,
And gin we live to see that date,
As fegs, I hope we will,

Tho' ye to gang, ha'e tint the gate,
Yet we shall ha'e a gill.

Fu' cheery, I'll near ye,

And 'neath my burden bend,
And show fouk, without joke,
What its to ha'e a friend.

The Solitary Tutor.

WHOE'ER across the Schuylkill's winding tide, Beyond Gray's Ferry half a mile has been, Down at a bridge, built hollow, must have spied, A neat stone school-house on a sloping green; There tufted cedars scattered round are seen, And stripling poplars planted in a row; Some old grey white oaks overhang the scene, Pleased to look down upon the youths below, Whose noisy noontide sports no care or sorrow know.

On this hand rise the woods, in deepening shade, Resounding with the sounds of warblers sweet; And there a waving sign-board hangs displayed From mansion fair, the thirsty soul's retreat : There way-worn pilgrims rest their weary feet, When noontide heats or evening shades prevail; The widow's fare still plentiful and neat,

Can nicest guest deliciously regale,

And make his heart rejoice the Sorrel Horse to hail.

M

Adjoining this, old Vulcan's shop is seen,

Where winds and fires, and thumping hammers

roar,

White washed without, but black enough within,
Emblem of modern patriots many a score ;
The restive steed impatient at the door,

Starts at his thundering voice, and brawny arm,
While yellow Jem with horse tail fans him o'er,
Drawing aloof, the ever-buzzing swarm,

Whose shrill blood sucking pipes his restless fears alarm.

An ever-varying scene the road displays,

With horsemen, thundering stage, and stately team,

Now burning with the sun's resplendent rays, Now lost in clouds of dust the traveller's seen, And now a lengthened pond or miry stream, Deep sink the wheels, and slow they drag along, Journeying to town with butter, apples, cream, Fowls, eggs, and fruit, in many a motley throng, Cooped in their little carts their various truck among.

And yonder nestled in enclustering trees,

Where many a rose bush round the green yard glows,

Walled from the road with seats for shade and ease, A yellow fronted cottage, sweetly shows

The towering poplars rise in spiry rows;

And green catalphas, white with branchy flowers, Her matron arms, a weeping willow throws Wide o'er the dark green grass, and pensive lowers, 'Midst plumb trees, pillared hops, and honeysuckle bowers.

Here dwells the guardian of these younglings gay, A strange, recluse, and solitary wight,

In Britain's isle, on Scottish mountains gray,
His infant eyes first opened to the light;
His parents saw, with partial fond delight,
Unfolding genius crown their fostering care,
And talked with tears of that enrapturing sight,
When clad in sable gown, with solemn air,

The walls of God's own house should echo back his prayer.

Dear smiling Hope, to thy enchanting hand, What cheering joys, what ecstasies we owe, Touched by the magic of thy fairy wand, Before us spread, what heavenly prospects glow. Thro' life's rough thorny wild we labouring go, And, though a thousand disappointments grieve, Even from the grave's dark verge we forward throw Our straining wishful eyes on those we leave, And with their future fame our sinking hearts relieve.

But soon, too soon, these fond illusions fled, In vain they pointed out that pious height; By Nature's strong resistless impulse led, These dull dry doctrines ever would he slight; Wild Fancy formed him for fantastic flight, He loved the steep's high summit to explore, To watch the splendour of the orient bright, The dark deep forest, and the sea-beat shore, Where thro' resounding rocks the liquid mountains pour.

When gathering clouds the vaults of heaven o'erspread,

And opening streams of livid lightning flew, From some o'erhanging cliff, the uproar dread, Transfixed in rapt'rous wonder, he would view When the red torrent, big and bigger grew,

Or deepening snows, for days obscured the air, Still with the storm his transports would renew: Roar, pour away, was still his eager prayer, While shivering swains around were sinking in despair.

That worldly gift, which misers merit call,
But wise men cunning, and the art of trade,
That scheming foresight, how to scrape up all,
How pence may groats, and shillings pounds be
made,

As little knew he, as the moorland maid,
Who ne'er beheld a cottage but her own;

Sour Parsimony's words he seldom weighed,
His heart's warm impulse was the guide alone,
When suffering friendship sighed, or weeping wretch
did moan.

Dear, dear to him, affection's ardent glow, Alas! from all he loved, for ever torn, E'en now, as Memory's sad reflections flow, Deep grief o'erwhelms him, and he weeps forlorn. By hopeless thought, by wasting sorrow worn, Around on Nature's scenes he turns his eye, Charmed with her peaceful eve, her fragrant morn, Her green magnificence, her gloomiest sky, That fill th' exulting soul with admiration high.

One charming nymph with transport he adores, Fair Science, crowned with many a figured sign. Her smiles, her sweet society implores,

And mixes jocund with the encircling nine;

While Mathematics solve his dark design,

Sweet Music soothes him with her syren strains,

Seraphic Poetry, with warmth divine,
Exalts him far above terrestrial plains,

And Painting's fairy hand his mimic pencil trains.