Doun by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,
At his table-head he thought she'd look well;
M'Clish's ae daughter o'Claverse-ha' Lee,
A pennyless lass wi' a lang pedigree.

His wig was weel pouther'd, as guid as when new,
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;
He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat-
And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?
He took the gray mare, and rade cannilie-
And rapp'd at the t o' Claverse-ha' Lee;
'Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben:
She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen.'
Mistress Jean sne was makin' the elder-flower wine;
'And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?'
She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown,
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa down.

And when she cam ben, he boued fu' low;
And what was his errand he soon let her know.
Amaz'd was the Laird, when the lady said, Na,
And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned aws.
Dumfounder'd he was, but nae sigh did he gie;
He mounted his mare, and rade cannille;
And aften he thought, as he gaed through the gien,
'She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen.'
And now that the Laird his exit had made,
Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said:
'Oh! for ane I'll get better, for waur I'll get ten-
I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen.'
The neist time the Laird and the lady were seen.
They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green;
Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen,
But nae chickens as yet hae appear'd at Cockpen.

:: Moderato.

Fine.

The gay fond voices, that in youth

To transport woke the mind,

Are hush'd in icy death's embrace,

So strangely turn'd unkind;

Amid the world I wander lone,

A sad and cheerless thing;

But my heart can bound to the thrilling sound,

When fancy wakes thy string.

Friend of my soul! why dost thou cling

So fondly in my woe

As when, in youth's gay wantoning,
I felt thy magic glow?

The worldly prudent answer make,

And blame with scorn's deep wrong

That thy harp might wake, thou didst all forsake, For poverty and song.

And did I thus,-could prophet old

The heaven-sent mission spurn?

When rapture fires the young fond heart,

Can it refuse to burn?

Let apathy the minstrel blame,

The prudent error see;

But through sorrow's night, with a proud delight, I'll sing, lov'd harp, to thee!

Father, lead thou

me!

Ambition is just like a kite,

Which boys for amusement oft swing,They first let it soar a great height,

And then pull it down-with a string: Then let us be humble and tame,

Nor with the ambitious be found,To-day in the phaeton of fame,

And to-morrow thrown flat on the ground. As for me, I shall never comply

With the terras of ambition at all,

So, if I ne'er rise very high,

I shall have no great distance to fall: Let him who despises my rule

Soar after a fanciful crown ;Before he can grasp it-poor fool!

I shall see him come hopelessly down.

And his vanity's all at an end.
Some men quit the world in a noose,
To purchase themselves a great name;
Their heads some will cheerfully lose,
To shine in the volume of fame :
Such notions are charming,-but I
Can never subscribe to the plan;
For, though I expect I shall die,
I'll just live as long as I can.
Since danger awaits his ascent,
Who above his condition would soar,

I'll be in my station content,

A very bad poet-and poor:
To the proud no offence will I give,
For fear of a knock o' the head;

If they'll let me alone while I live,
They may spatter my name when I'm dead.