ON THE BIRTH

OF

A POSTHUMOUS CHILD,

Born in peculiar Circumstances of Family

Distress.

SWEET Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love,
And Ward o' mony a pray'r,

What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

November hirples o'er the lea,

Chill, on thy lovely form;

And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree,
Should shield thee frae the storm.

May

May He who gives the rain to pour,
And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving show'r,
The bitter frost and snaw.

May HE, the friend of woe and want,
Who heals life's various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother plant,
And heal her cruel wounds.

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast,
Fair on the summer morn:
Now feebly bends she, in the blast,
Unshelter'd and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
Unscath'd by ruffian hand!
And from thee many a parent stem
Arise to deck our land.

SECOND

I'm three times, doubly, o'er your debtor,
For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter;
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter,

Ye speak sae fair,

For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter

Some less maun sair.

Hale

* This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, published

at Kilmarnock, 1789.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
Tae cheer you thro' the weary widdle
O' war❜ly cares,

'Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle

Your auld, gray hairs.

But DAVIE, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;

An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket

Until ye fyke;

Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket,
Be hain't wha like.

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, Rivin the words tae gar them clink;

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, Wi' jads or masons;

An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think

Braw sober lessons.

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, Commen' me to the Bardie clan; Except it be some idle plan

O' rhymin' clink,

The devil-haet, that I sud ban,

They ever think.

Nae

Nae, thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', Nae cares tae gie us joy or grievin';

But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

An' while ought's there,

Then hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin',

An' fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie!
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure,
She's seldom lazy.

Haud tae the Muse, my dainty Davie : The warl' may play you monie a shavie; But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, Tho' e'er sae puir,

Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie

Frae door tae door.

A VISION.