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We'll set a table in the smiddy *,
And drink till all our heads grow giddy,
If it should cost our necks the woody t;
Fye haste lass!-Bring them!-Flee!-

But hark? I think no shame to tell it;
Be sure you first fetch Gibbie Elliot.
Tell him we're trysted at a sallet,
And he must say the grace.

I swear by omnia vincit amor,
And by my bellows and fore-hammer,
My tongue for thirst begins to stammer,
Whene'er I see his face.

He turned religious in his fever,
For better thriving late than never,

Yet swears it scorched so his liver,
Before to drouth inclined,

That though this night he drink the sea,
The morn he'll e'en as drouthy be;

Nor speak a word of sense can he
Till first his skin be lined.-

*The Smiddy was a place of so much consequence in those days, that the ruins of a smithy above the influx of the Lyne into the Tweed, to which the last Earl of March, who resided at Neidpath Castle, (to whom Dr Pennecuik's works are dedicated,) used to walk every good day to converse and hear the news, is still shown, about three miles from Peebles.

+ The gallows.

Bring haggis-headed William Younger * !-
And James, that little brandy-monger!-
Laird Giffard, wh' looks like cauld and hunger,
He may come t'warm his soles !

Their entertainment shall be good;

God grant they part, but dirt, or blood!
Pay but their drink, we'll trust their food.-
Cause Scrogs provide us coals!

But stay!-There come my dainty lads;
By ane, and ane, like whores and bawds:
They smell the ale, and need no gawds
To post or prick them hither.

Now, welcome! by my faith! good fellows!-
I see you haste, like nimble swallows;
Lord keep your craigs lang frae the gallows!
That we may drink together.-

But tell me Sirs, how this can be?
The storm's made all our sheep to die,
And yet spared such a company!—

Come, let us, then, be frolic?

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Laird Giffard cries, fye fetch my mother! dear sister! choose you whether :

Or my

* William Younger of Hog-yards, who signed the Petition to the Prince of Orange, in the name of all the Lintoun Lairds. See Pennecuik's Works.

+ James Giffard, whose name remains, among those of the Covenanters, on the Harbour Craig; who "erected, in 1666, at his

And Master Robert *, bring him hither!
For I have ta'en the colic.

I'm like to vomit gut and gall!

Good Lord have mercy on my saul!

My giddy head will make me fall!

In faith, I am no jester.

Will Younger, pray! and Gibbie, preach! &c.

Letter in verse from Mr WILLIAM CLERK Adco

cate†, to Dr ALEXANDER PENNECUIK of New Hall, May 1714.

Most noble doctor; glory of our time: Parnassus' prince! Protector of our rhyme!

sole expence," the Cross of Lintoun, that "lively specimen of na tural genius," so wonderfully produced "without the assistance of art." See Armstrong's Companion to the Map of Peebles-shire; and who is mentioned at the head of the Lintoun Lairds, in the Address to the Prince of Orange, in Dr Pennecuik's works.

* Robert Elliot, minister of Lintoun, whose Epitaph, dated 1682, and character, in verse, appears among Dr Pennecuik's poems. Giblie, was the son, and assistant of Robert.

+ Brother to Baron Clerk; nephew to the Lady of Sir David, and cousin to Mr Forbes of New Hall. From his liking to visit, and shift about, from house to house; among his companions, When at New Hall

he got the name of Wandering Willie.

House, he slept in one of the garret rooms, adjoining to those of Allan Ramsay, and Mr Tytler.

Receive this compliment from honest IVill,
Who's just returned from our kind Cowie's mill,
With troops of gipsies, who molest our plains;
Praise Spittlehaugh! most charming of our swains.
But, now all's calm; serene; as you may think,
Since Will's turned poet, with Lady Effy's drink.

Dr PENNECUIK's Answer.

BRAVE generous Will! I cannot well rehearse, How pleased I was to read your lofty verse; So eloquent, that every line did smell, Of Tully, and the Heliconian Well.


But, while both wit and fancy you show forth;
The praise you give me far exceeds my
Oh! how unequal is the match indeed,
your young, and my old hoary head!
Your blood is warm; your fancy's on the stage:
This is your spring; but winter of my age:

grows worse;

My muse cools, like my blood, and still
Yours towers aloft, like the Pegasean Horse.

Kind, and stout patriots you are, I vow! With your brave Club, to catch the Gipsy Crew. Your names should be engraven on marble stones, For clearing Tweeddale of these vagabonds.


Had Cowie not been known, I do protest,
Kind Jonas had been captive with the rest,
And sent to prison, if we should allow,
All to be rogues that have the gipsy hue.

Yet, if I live, expect a better tale, When we meet, blyth, at Lady Effy's ale.

A PASTORAL ELEGY, upon the generally lamented death of that worthy gentleman WILLIAM DOUGLAS, Esq. elder, of Dornock; who departed this life the- day of July 1715.

Pan and Pastora, to the Shepherds asleep.

AH! Shepherds break your pipes! Rise, and give ear!

The doleful cry of Dornock's death comes here. Awake, and weep! Turn careless of your flocks, And yell, till, echoing, you do rend the rocks! Annan, Milk, Moffat, no more gently glide; But, in hoarse rapid floods, your streams divide.

* Contraction for Coldcoat, now Macbiehill, then the property of Jonas Hamilton, a man of a dark complexion, often mentioned by Dr Pennecuik with jocular affection.

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