As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, Were ae day nibbling on the tether, Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch: There, groaning, dying, she did lie,...
Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, Blooming in thy early May, Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, Chilly shrink in sleety show'r! Never Boreas' hoary path, Never Eurus' poisonous breath,...
Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, Accept the gift; tho' humble he who gives, Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. ...
Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd, And yet can starve the author of the pleasure! O thou my elder brother in misfortune, By far my elder brother in the muses, With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!...