No More Learning

My lady's gown, &c.




Epigram At Roslin Inn

My blessings on ye, honest wife!
I ne'er was here before;
Ye've wealth o' gear for spoon and knife--
Heart could not wish for more.
Heav'n keep you clear o' sturt and strife,
Till far ayont fourscore,
And while I toddle on thro' life,
I'll ne'er gae by your door!




Epigram Addressed To An Artist

Dear _____, I'll gie ye some advice,
You'll tak it no uncivil:
You shouldna paint at angels mair,
But try and paint the devil.

To paint an Angel's kittle wark,
Wi' Nick, there's little danger:
You'll easy draw a lang-kent face,
But no sae weel a stranger. --R. B.




The Book-Worms

Through and through th' inspir'd leaves,
Ye maggots, make your windings;
But O respect his lordship's taste,
And spare his golden bindings.




On Elphinstone's Translation Of Martial's Epigrams

O Thou whom Poetry abhors,
Whom Prose has turned out of doors,
Heard'st thou yon groan? --proceed no further,
'Twas laurel'd Martial calling murther.




Song--A Bottle And Friend

There's nane that's blest of human kind,
But the cheerful and the gay, man,
Fal, la, la, &c.

Here's a bottle and an honest friend!
What wad ye wish for mair, man?
Wha kens, before his life may end,
What his share may be o' care, man?
Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man:
Believe me, happiness is shy,
And comes not aye when sought, man.

Lines Written Under The Picture Of The Celebrated Miss Burns

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing,
Lovely Burns has charms--confess:
True it is, she had one failing,
Had a woman ever less?




Epitaph For William Nicol, Of The High School, Edinburgh

Ye maggots, feed on Nicol's brain,
For few sic feasts you've gotten;
And fix your claws in Nicol's heart,
For deil a bit o't's rotten.




Epitaph For Mr. William Michie

Schoolmaster of Cleish Parish, Fifeshire.

Here lie Willie Michie's banes;
O Satan, when ye tak him,
Gie him the schulin o' your weans,
For clever deils he'll mak them!

Boat song--Hey, Ca' Thro'

Up wi' the carls o' Dysart,
And the lads o' Buckhaven,
And the kimmers o' Largo,
And the lasses o' Leven.

Chorus. --Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro',
For we hae muckle ado.
Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro',
For we hae muckle ado;

We hae tales to tell,
An' we hae sangs to sing;
We hae pennies tae spend,
An' we hae pints to bring.
Hey, ca' thro', &c.

We'll live a' our days,
And them that comes behin',
Let them do the like,
An' spend the gear they win.
Hey, ca' thro', &c.




Address To Wm. Tytler, Esq. , Of Woodhouselee

With an Impression of the Author's Portrait.