The Borough Players.

In this fool's paradise he drank delight.*

Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gatherin' her brows like gatherin' storm,
Nursin' her wrath to keep it warm.

Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white, then melts for ever.

As Tammie gloured, amazed and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious.

*The Paradise of Fools, to few unknown.

Par. Lost. B. 3. 496.

To a Mouse.

The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley;

An' lea'e us naught but grief and pain

For promised joy.

Scots wha hae.

Let us do, or die!

Address to the Unco Guid.

Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler, sister woman;
Though they may gang a kennin' wrang,
To step aside is human.

What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted.

On Captain Grose's Peregrinations through Scotland. If there's a hole in a' your coats,

I rede you tent it;

A chiel's amang you takin' notes,

An', faith, he 'll prent it.

To a Louse.

O wad some power the giftie gie us,
To see oursel's as others see us!

It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion.

Epistle to a Young Friend.

Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honor grip,
aye be your border.

Let that

The Twa Dogs.

His locked, lettered, braw brass collar Shawed him the gentleman and scholar.

Epistle to James Smith.

O Life! how pleasant in thy morning, Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning! Cold, pausing Caution's lesson scorning,

We frisk away,

Like schoolboys at th' expected warning,

To joy and play.

Despondency.

O life! thou art a galling load,

Along a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such as I!

Auld Lang Syne.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne?

Green grow the Rashes.

Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O!

Man was made to Mourn.

Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn.

Death and Dr. Hornbook.
Some wee short hour ayont the twal.

Is there for honest Poverty.
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.*

A prince can mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;

But an honest man 's aboon his might,
Guid faith, he maunna fa' that.

The Cotter's Saturday Night.

He wales a portion with judicious care;

And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air.

Song. Ae fond Kiss.

Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met or never parted,

We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

*I weigh the man, not his title; 't is not the king's stamp can make the metal better. The Country Wife. WYCHERLEY.

THOMAS MOSS.

1808.

The Beggar.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;

Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless

your store.

GEORGE COLMAN.

1762-1836.

BROAD GRINS.

The Maid of the Moor.

And what's impossible can't be,

And never, never comes to pass.

Three stories high, long, dull, and old,
As great lord's stories often are.

Lodgings for Single Gentlemen.

But when ill indeed,

E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed.

The Poor Gentleman.

Act i. Sc. 2.

Thank you, good sir, I owe you one.