Song: The Charms of Lovely Davies

O HOW shall I, unskilful, try
The poet's occupation?
The tuneful powers, in happy hours,
That whisper inspiration;
Even they maun dare an effort mair
Than aught they ever gave us,
Ere they rehearse, in equal verse,
The charms of lovely Davies.

Each eye it cheers when she appears,
Like Phoebus in the morning,
When past the shower, and every flower
The garden is adorning:
As the wretch looks o'er

Death and Dr. Hornbook

SOME books are lies frae end to end,And some great lies were never penn�d:Ev�n ministers they hae been kenn�d,In holy rapture,A rousing whid at times to vend,And nail�t wi� Scripture.But this that I am gaun to tell,Which lately on a night befell,Is just as true�s the Deil�s in hellOr Dublin city:That e�er he nearer comes oursel��S a muckle pity.The clachan yill had made me canty,I was na fou, but

The Vision

THE SUN had clos�d the winter day,The curless quat their roarin play,And hunger�d maukin taen her way,To kail-yards green,While faithless snaws ilk step betrayWhare she has been.The thresher�s weary flingin-tree,The lee-lang day had tired me;And when the day had clos�d his e�e,Far i� the west,Ben i� the spence, right pensivelie,I gaed to rest.There, lanely by the ingle-cheek,I sat and ey�d the