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The Borough Players.
The Birth of Flattery.
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,
As Tammie gloured, amazed and curious,
* The Paradise of Fools, to few unknown.
Par. Lost. B. 3. 496.
To a Mouse.
Gang aft a-gley;
Scots wha hae.
Address to the Unco Guid.
Still gentler, sister woman;
To step aside is human.
What's done we partly may compute,
On Captain Grose's Peregrinations through Scotland.
An', faith, he '11 prent it.
To a Louse.
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
But where ye feel your honor grip,
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.
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.
Man was made to Mourn.
Death and Dr. Hornbook.
Is there for honest Poverty.
A prince can mak' a belted knight,
But an honest man 's aboon his might,
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.
* I weigh the man, not his title; 'tis not the king's stamp can make the metal better. The Country Wife. Wycherlet.
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.
Three stories high, long, dull, and old,
Lodgings for Single Gentlemen.
The Poor Gentleman.