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And raise the strain of my coy modest muse, From coarse-spun stockings, and plain dirty shoes.

I hear the birds, here, sweet companions, sing; To welcome home the verdure of the spring. While herbalizing shady groves, and mountains, I quench my thirst by crystal streams, and fountains; There, joyfully, I sit me down and smell, The flowery fields, and Heliconian well.

I am no Nimrod; nor make it my care,
To see a greyhound slay a silly hare:
Though I can follow that, when I have leisure,
For exercise, I swear, more than for pleasure.
The noble horse, that saves us oft from death,
I think't bad sport to run him out of breath.
When there's no need, it was not spoke in jest,
Merciful men show mercy to a beast.

I love the net; I like the fishing hook;
To angle by the pretty murmuring brook.
To curl upon the ice does greatly please;
That hearty, manly, Scottish exercise,
That clears the brain, stirs up the native heat,
And gives a gallant appetite for meat.

In winter, too, I often plant a tree;

Remarking what the annual growth may be :

Order my hedges, and repair my ditches,
Which gives delight, although not sudden riches.

So, when of these sweet solitudes I tire,
We have our trysts, and meetings of the shire;
Where some few hours, the tedious time to pass,
We sit, and quaff a merry moderate glass.
Visits we interchange with one another,
In bon accord, like sister and like brother.
Which makes our harmless meetings still to be,
A bond and cement of society.

Pleased, I return to garden, book, or study;
Far from the court, my friend, far from the woody:
While you enjoy false pleasures in their prime, &c.

Near unto Libberton, or Foster's Wynd, The good old man may, cozie, live, you find.

I will not be so graceless, James, nor bold,
To stifle him with smoke, though he be old.
Nor will I, to repair my former losses,
Consent he break his limbs in your stay closes;
But near to Stirling Yards, or Heriot's Work,
Where he may freely breathe

There must he quartered be, God's praise to sing,
For his refreshful breathings in the spring;
And when stern fate that breath shall countermand,
The greedy Gray Friars we have near at hand, &c.


of New Hall, sometime Chirurgeon to General BANNIER, in the Swedish wars; and, since, Chirurgeon-General to the auxiliary Scots army in England. The Author's Father.

COME, try your talents; mourn, and bear a part, Ye candidates of learned Machaon's art :

For death, at length, hath shuffled from the stage The oldest Esculapius of our age:

A Scotsman true; a faithful friend, and sure; Who flattered not the rich, nor scourged the poor.

Where shall we go for help? Whom shall we trust? Our Scots Apollo's humbled in the dust! Many poor souls will miss him, in their need; To whom his hands gave health; yea clothes, and bread.

Thrice thirty years do now these hands destroy, That cured our maladies, and caused our joy.

Five mighty kings, from's birth unto his grave,
The Caledonian sceptre swayed have.

Four times his eyes have seen, from cloak to gown,

Prelate and Presbyter turn upside down.

He loved his native country as himself;

And ever scorned the greed of worldly pelf.

From old forbeirs, much worth he did inherit
A gentleman by birth, and more by merit.

Nothing is here expressed, but what is true. Farewell, old Pennecuik !-Reader, adieu !

INSCRIPTION to be put at the foot of JONAS HAMILTON of Coldcoat's* Picture, drawn by

PAINTER, thou hast, now, with grace,

Drawn me Coldcoat's martial face,
And manly looks, which do discover
Something, likewise, of the lover.
His Roman nose, and swarthy hue,
To all do testify and shew,
To none alive that he will yield
In Venus' tent, or Mars's field,
As IVorster fight, and Nanny Fell,
From's valiant deeds, and feats, can tell.

No less for Bacchus shall his name,

Stand in the register of fame.

Save Coldcoat, none Dalhousie † knew,

Who Jonas could at drink subdue:

*Now Macbiehill; between New Hall, and Romanno.

Ramsay Earl of Dalhousie; Allan Ramsay's chief.


Brave Nicolson, who's in his
Did from him many a parley crave:
Drummond who's yet alive can tell,
How, from them all he bore the bell.

No epitaph we need, on stone,
To mark this hero when he's gone.

His name, and fame shall surely stand,
While Session Books † there's in the land.

The LINTOUN CABAL, or the Jocial Smith of Lintoun's Invitation of his Club to their Morning's Draught, whom he had made drunk the night before, after a great Storm.

FLY fearful thoughts of funeral,

Call here James Douglas of the Hall,

And all the rest of that cabal

Let's rant and merry be.

*Sir William Drummond of Hawthornden; son to the cele brated poet, whose portrait, with that of his friend Ben Jonson, Allan Ramsay hung out for his sign as a bookseller. Sir William, Dr Pennecuik's companion, was proprietor of the farms of Upper and Nether Whitefield, between New Hall, and Romanno.

+ Parish-church books, in which fines for fornication, &c. are recorded.

The Hall-House of Lintoun. Some of the old feus in the village are held for the payment of a plack, when demanded from a hole in the back-wall of the Hall-House of Linton.

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