Not costly things brought frae afar,
As ivory, pearl, and gems;

Nor those fair Straths, that water'd are
With Tay and Tweed's smooth streams;
Which gentily and daintily

Eat down the flow'ry braes,
As greatly and quietly
They wimple to the seas.

'Whaever, by his canny fate,
Is master of a good estate,
That can ilk thing afford,
Let him enjoy 't withoutten care;
And with the wale of curious fare
Cover his ample board!
Much dawted by the Gods is he,
Wha to the Indian plain
Successfu' ploughs the wally sea;
And safe returns again

With riches, that hitches

Him high aboon the rest

Of sma' folk, and a' folk
That are wi' poortith prest.

'For me, I can be well content
To eat my bannock on the bent,
And kitchen 't wi' fresh air!
Of lang kail I can make a feast;

And cantily had up my crest,
And laugh at dishes rare!
Nought frae APOLLO I demand
But, throw a lengthen'd life,
My outer fabric firm may stand,
And saul clear without strife!

May he then but gie then
Those blessings for my skair;
I'll fairly and squairly

Quite a', and seek nae mair!

THE RESPONSE OF THE ORACLE.

To keep thy saul frae puny strife,
And heeze thee out of vulgar life;
We, in a morning dream,

Whispered Our Will concerning thee
To MARLUS, stretch'd beneath a tree,
Hard by a poppling stream.
He, full of me, shall point the way,
Where thou a Star shalt see!
The influence of whose bright ray
Shall wing thy Muse to flee.

Mair speer na! and fear na ;
But set thy mind to rest!
Aspire ay still high'r, ay!
And always hope the best!

'That face, alas! no more is fair;
These lips, no longer red;

Dark are mine eyes, now closed in death;
And every charm is fled!

'The hungry worm, my sister is!
This winding sheet I wear!
And cold and weary lasts our night,
Till that at Last Morn appear!

'But, hark!

The cock has warned me hence! A long and last Adieu!

Come, see, false man! how low she lies,
That died for love of you!'

Now, birds did sing, and Morning smile
And shew her glistening head;
Pale WILLIAM shook in ev'ry limb;
Then, raving, left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place,
Where MARGARET's body lay;

And stretched him on the green grass turf,
That wrapped her breathless clay.

And thrice he called on MARGARET's name!
And thrice he wept full sore!

Then laid his cheek to the cold earth;
And word spake never more.

GIVE me a Lass with a lump of land;
And we, for life, shall gang together!
Foolish, or wise, I'll ne'er demand!

Or black, or white, it makes not whether!

I'm off with Wit! and Beauty will fade!

And Blood alone is not worth a shilling! But she that's rich, her market 's made; For ev'ry charm about her is killing!

Give me a Lass with a lump of land;
And, in my bosom, I'll hug my treasure!
If I had once her gold in my hand;

Should love turn dead, it will find pleasure!

Laugh on who likes; but there's my hand!

I hate, with poortith, though bonny, to meddle! Unless they bring cash, or a lump of land; They'se never get me to dance to their fiddle!

There's meikle good love in bands and bags!
And silver and gold 's a sweet complexion!
But Beauty, and Wit, and Virtue, in rags,
Have lost the art of gaining affection!

LOVE tips his arrows with woods and parks,

And castles, and riggs, and moors, and meadows;

And nothing can catch our modern Sparks
But well-tochered Lasses, or jointured Widows!

THE TEST OF LOVE.

To A FRIEND, WHO FANCIED HIMSELF IN LOVE.

OFT hast thou told me, DICK! in friendly part, That the usurper Love has seized thy heart, But thou art young! and, like our sanguine race In their full vigour, mayst mistake thy case! For, trust me! Love, that inmate of the mind, Is very much mistaken by Mankind! For which, too often, is misunderstood The sudden rage and madness of the blood. Thus, every common Rake his flame approves ; And when he's lewd and rampant, thinks he loves!

But I, who in that study am grown old,
Will to my friend such certain Marks unfold;
By which a real Passion he may prove;
And, without which, he cannot truly love.

How does this tyrant lord it in thy mind? What symptoms of his empire dost thou find? Dost thou within perceive the growing wound? Does thy soul sicken, while thy body's sound? Does, in thy thought, some blooming Beauty reign; Whose strong Idea mingles joy with pain?