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The sultry suns of summer came,

And he grew thick and strong,
Ilis head weel arm’d wi' pointed spears,

That no one should him wrong.
The sober autumn enter'd mild,

When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head

Show'd he began to fail.
His colour sicken'd more and more,

He faded into age;
Anl then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.
They've ta’en a weapon long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.
They laid him down upon his back,

And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,

And turn'd him o'er and o'er.
They filled up a darksome pit

With water to the brim,
They heaved in John Barleycorn,

There let him sink or swim.
They laid him out upon the floor,

To work him further woe,
And still, as signs of life appear'd,

They toss'd him to and fro.
They wasted o'er a scorching flame

The marrow of his bones;




But a miller used him worst of all,

For he crush'd him 'tween two stones,
And they hae ta’en his very heart's blood, 43

And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,

Their joy did more abound.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise,

50 For if you do but taste his blood,

’T will make your courage rise.
'T will make a man forget his woe;

'T will heighten all his joy;
'T will make the widow's heart to sing, 55

Though the tear were in her eye.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,

Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!




My Lord, I know your noble ear

Woe ne'er assails in vain;
Embolden’d thus, I beg you 'll hear

Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phobus' scorching beams,

In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,

And drink my crystal tide.


The lightly-jumpin', glowrin' trouts, staring
That through my waters play,

10 If, in their random, wanton spouts,

They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance they linger lang,

I'm scorching up so shallow,
They're left, the whitening stanes amang, 15

In gasping death to wallow.

wept grief


Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,

As Poet Burns came by,
That, to a bard, I should be seen

Wi' half my channel dry:
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,

Ev'n as I was he shored me;
But had I in my glory been,

He, kneeling, wad adored me.


Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 25

In twisting strength I rin;
There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o'er a linn:

Enjoying large each spring and well,
As nature gave them me,

30 I am, although I say 't mysel, Worth gaun a mile to see.

going Would then my noble master please

To grant my highest wishes,
He'll shade my banks wi' towering trees

And bonnie spreading bushes.
Delighted doubly then, my Lord,

You 'll wander on my banks,




And listen mony a grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.

40 The sober laverock, warbling wild,

Shall to the skies aspire; The gowdspink, music's gayest child, goldfinch

Shall sweetly join the choir: The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, linnet 45

The mavis mild and mellow;
The robin pensive autumn cheer,

In all her locks of yellow.
This, too, a covert shall ensure,
To shield them from the storms;

50 And coward maukins sleep secure,

Low in their grassy forms:
The shepherd here shall make his seat,

To weave his crown of flowers;
Or find a sheltering safe retreat,

55 From prone descending showers. And here, by sweet endearing stealth,

Shall meet the loving pair,
Despising worlds, with all their wealth,
As empty idle care.

60 The flowers shall vie in all their charms

The hour of heaven to grace,
And birks extend their fragrant arms

To screen the dear embrace.
Here haply too, at vernal dawn,

65 Some musing bard may stray, And eye the smoking, dewy lawn,

And misty mountain, grey ;


Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,

Mild-chequering through the trees, '70
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream,

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool

My lowly banks o'erspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,

Their shadows' watery bed !
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest

My craggy cliffs ador;
And, for the little songster's nest,

The close embowering thorn.
So may old Scotia’s darling hope,

Your little angel band,
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop

Their honour'd native land !
So may through Albionugh's farthest ken, 85

To social-flowing glasses,
The grace be—“Athol's honest men,
And Athol's bonnie lasses !"



EPITAPH ON MRS. MASON. TAKE, holy earth! all that my soul holds dear:

Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave: To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care

Her faded form; she bow'd to taste the wave, And died. Does youth, does beauty, read the line? 5

Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm ? Speak, dead Maria ! breathe a strain divine :

Ev’n from the grave thou shalt have power to charm,

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