Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected, A name, which to love, was once mark of a true heart, But now 'tis despis'd and neglected. ...
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose; Our bardie's fate is at a close, Past a' remead; The last sad cape-stane of his woes; Poor Mailie's dead. ...
No song nor dance I bring from yon great city That queens it o'er our taste, the more's the pity: Tho', by-the-by, abroad why will you roam? Good sense and taste are natives here at home:...
When by a generous Public's kind acclaim, That dearest meed is granted, honest fame; When here your favour is the actor's lot, Nor even the man in private life forgot;...
"Gie him strong drink, until he wink, That's sinking in despair; An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, That's prest wi' grief an' care; There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,...
What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, How this new play an' that new sang is comin'? Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted? Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when imported?...
AULD NIBOR, 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...
A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, And still his precious self his dear delight; Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets Better than e'er the fairest she he meets:...
This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, To run the twelvemonth's length again: I see the old, bald-pated follow, With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, Adjust the unimpair'd machine,...
No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more! Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul; Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. ...
Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain: See, aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow. ...
Searching auld wives' barrels, Och, hon! the day! That clarty barm should stain my laurels; But, what'll ye say! These movin' things ca'd wives and weans Wad move the very hearts o' stanes!