Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790.

Elegy On Willie Nicol’s Mare

     Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
     As ever trod on airn;
     But now she’s floating down the Nith,
     And past the mouth o’ Cairn.

     Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
     An’ rode thro’ thick and thin;
     But now she’s floating down the Nith,
     And wanting even the skin.

     Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
     And ance she bore a priest;
     But now she’s floating down the Nith,
     For Solway fish a feast.

     Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
     An’ the priest he rode her sair;
     And much oppress’d and bruis’d she was,
     As priest-rid cattle are,—­&c. &c.

The Gowden Locks Of Anna

     Yestreen I had a pint o’ wine,
     A place where body saw na;
     Yestreen lay on this breast o’ mine
     The gowden locks of Anna.

     The hungry Jew in wilderness,
     Rejoicing o’er his manna,
     Was naething to my hinny bliss
     Upon the lips of Anna.

     Ye monarchs, take the East and West
     Frae Indus to Savannah;
     Gie me, within my straining grasp,
     The melting form of Anna: 

     There I’ll despise Imperial charms,
     An Empress or Sultana,
     While dying raptures in her arms
     I give and take wi’ Anna!

     Awa, thou flaunting God of Day! 
     Awa, thou pale Diana! 
     Ilk Star, gae hide thy twinkling ray,
     When I’m to meet my Anna!

     Come, in thy raven plumage, Night,
     (Sun, Moon, and Stars, withdrawn a’;)
     And bring an angel-pen to write
     My transports with my Anna!

Postscript

     The Kirk an’ State may join an’ tell,
     To do sic things I maunna: 
     The Kirk an’ State may gae to hell,
     And I’ll gae to my Anna.

     She is the sunshine o’ my e’e,
     To live but her I canna;
     Had I on earth but wishes three,
     The first should be my Anna.

Song—­I Murder Hate

     I murder hate by flood or field,
     Tho’ glory’s name may screen us;
     In wars at home I’ll spend my blood—­
     Life-giving wars of Venus. 
     The deities that I adore
     Are social Peace and Plenty;
     I’m better pleas’d to make one more,
     Than be the death of twenty.

     I would not die like Socrates,
     For all the fuss of Plato;
     Nor would I with Leonidas,
     Nor yet would I with Cato: 
     The zealots of the Church and State
     Shall ne’er my mortal foes be;
     But let me have bold Zimri’s fate,
     Within the arms of Cozbi!

Gudewife, Count The Lawin