SHOOTING FOR THE BOWL,

The 6th of July 1724.

A GAIN the year returns the day,
That 's dedicat to joy and play,
 To bonnets, bows, and wine.
Let all who wear a sullen face,
This day meet with a due disgrace,
 And in their sourness pine;
Be shunn'd as serpents that wad stang
 The hand that gies them food:
Sic we debar frae lasting sang,
 And all their grumbling brood.

While to gain sport and halesome air,
The blythsome spirit draps dull care,
 And starts frae bus'ness free:
Now to the fields the Archers bend,
With friendly minds the day to spend,
 In manly game and glee;
First striving wha shall win the bowl,
 And then gar 't flow with wine:
Sic manly sport refresh'd the soul
 Of stalwart men lang syne.

Ere parties thrawn, and int'rest vile,
Debauch'd the grandeur of our isle,
 And made e'en brethren faes:
Syne truth frae friendship was exil'd,
And fause the honest hearts beguil'd,
 And led them in a maze
Of politics.—With cunning craft,
 The Issachars of state,
Frae haly drums first dang us daft,
 Then drown'd us in debate.

Drap this unpleasing thought, dear muse;
Come view the men thou likes to roose;
 To Bruntsfield-green let 's hie,
And see the royal Bowmen strive,
Wha far the feather'd arrows drive,
 All soughing thro' the sky:
Ilk etling with his utmost skill,
 With artfu' draft and stark,
Extending nerves with hearty will,
 In hopes to hit the mark.

See Hamilton, wha moves with grace,
Chief of the Caledonian race
 Of peers, to whom is due
All honours, and a fair renown;
Wha lays aside his ducal crown,
 Sometimes to shade his brow
Beneath St. Andrew's bonnet blue,
 And joins to gain the prize;
Which shaws true merit match'd by few,
 Great, affable, and wise.

This day, with universal voice,
The Archers him their chieftain chose:
 Consenting powers divine,
They bless the day with general joy,
By giving him a princely boy,
 To beautify his line;
Whose birth-day in immortal sang
 Shall stand in fair record,
While bended strings the Archers twang,
 And beauty is ador'd.

Next Drummond view, who gives their law,
It glades our hearts to see him draw
 The bow, and guide the band;
He, like the saul of a' the lave,
Does with sic honour still behave,
 As merits to command.
Blyth be his hours, hale be his heart,
 And lang may he preside;
Lang the just fame of his desert
 Shall unborn Archers read:

How on this fair propitious day,
With conquest leal he bore away
 The bowl victoriously;
With following shafts in number four,
Success the like ne'er ken'd before,
 The prize to dignify.
Haste to the garden then bedeen,
 The rose and laurel pow,
And plait a wreath of white and green,
 To busk the victor's brow.

The victor crown, who with his bow,
In spring of youth and am'rous glow,
 Just fifty years sinsyne,
The silver arrow made his prize,
Yet ceases not in fame to rise,
 And with new feats to shine.
May every Archer strive to fill
 His bonnet, and observe
The pattern he has set with skill,
 And praise like him deserve.