ON HEARING THE DUCHESS OF QUEENSBURY COMMEND SOME OF HIS POEMS .

Dear lad, wha linkan o'er the lee,
Sang Blowzalind and Bowzybee,
And, like the lavrock, merrily
Wak'd up the morn,
When thou didst tune, with heartsome glee,
Thy bog-teed horn.

To thee frae edge of Pentland height,
Where fawns and fairies take delight,
And revel a' the live-lang night
O'er glens and braes,
A bard that has the second sight,
Thy fortune spaes.

Now lend thy lug, and tent me, Gay,
Thy fate appears like flow'rs in May,
Fresh, flourishing, and lasting ay,
Firm as the aik,
Which envious winds, when critics bray,
Shall never shake.

Come, shaw your loof; — ay, there 's the line
Foretells thy verse shall ever shine,
Dawted whilst living by the nine,
And a' the best,
And be, when past the mortal line,
Of fame possest.

Immortal Pope, and skilfu' John,
The learned Leach frae Callidon,
With mony a witty dame and don,
O'er lang to name,
Are of your roundels very son,
And sound your fame.

And sae do I, wha reese but few,
Which nae sma' favour is to you;
For to my friends I stand right true,
With shanks a-spar;
And my good word (ne'er gi'en but due)
Gangs unko far.

Here mettled men my muse maintain,
And ilka beauty is my friend;
Which keeps me canty, brisk, and bein,
Ilk wheeling hour,
And a sworn fae to hatefu' spleen,
And a' that 's sour.

But bide ye, boy, the main 's to say;
Clarinda, bright as rising day,
Divinely bonny, great and gay,
Of thinking even,
Whase words, and looks, and smiles, display
Full views of heaven:

To rummage nature for what 's braw,
Like lilies, roses, gems, and snaw,
Compar'd with hers, their lustre fa',
And bauchly tell
Her beauties, she excels them a',
And 's like hersell:

As fair a form as e'er was blest
To have an angel for a guest;
Happy the prince who is possest
Of sic a prize,
Whose virtues place her with the best
Beneath the skies:

O sonsy Gay! this heavenly born,
Whom ev'ry grace strives to adorn,
Looks not upon thy lays with scorn;
Then bend thy knees,
And bless the day that ye was born
With arts to please.

She says thy sonnet smoothly sings,
Sae ye may craw and clap your wings,
And smile at ethercapit stings,
With careless pride,
When sae much wit and beauty brings
Strength to your side.

Lilt up your pipes, and rise aboon
Your Trivia, and your Moorland tune,
And sing Clarinda late and soon,
In towring strains,
Till gratefu' gods cry out, " Well done, "
And praise thy pains.

Exalt thy voice, that all around
May echo back the lovely sound,
Frae Dover cliffs with samphire crown'd,
To Thule's shore,
Where northward no more Britain 's found,
But seas that rore.

Thus sing; — whilst I frae Arthur's height,
O'er Chiviot glowr with tired sight,
And langing wish, like raving wight,
To be set down,
Frae coach and fax baith trim and tight,
In London town.

But lang I 'll gove and bleer my ee,
Before, alake! that fight I see;
Then (best relief) I 'll strive to be
Quiet and content,
And streek my limbs down easylie
Upon the bent.

There sing the gowans, broom, and trees,
The crystal burn and westlin breeze,
The bleeting flocks and bisy bees,
And blythsome swains,
Wha rant and dance, with kiltit dees,
O'er mossy plains.

Farewell; — but ere we part, let 's pray,
God save Clarinda night and day,
And grant her a' she 'd wish to ha'e,
Withoutten end. —
Nae mair at present I 've to say,
But am your friend.