But wha wau'd e'er thought it o' him,
That e'er he had rippled the lint?
Sae proud was he o' his Maggie,
Tho' she did baith scalie and squint.1
Sing farrel, &c.

ODE TO THE GOWDSPINK.2

FRAE fields whare Spring her sweets has blawn
Wi' caller verdure o'er the lawn,

The gowdspink comes in new attire,
The brawest 'mang the whistling choir,
That, ere the sun can clear his ein,
Wi' glib notes sane the simmer's green.
Sure Nature herried mony a tree,
For spraings and bonny spats to thee;
Nae mair the rainbow can impart
Sic glowing ferlies o' her art,
Whase pencil wrought its freaks at will
On thee the sey-piece o' her skill.
Nae mair through straths in simmer dight
We seek the rose to bless our sight;
Or bid the bonny wa'-flowers blaw 3
Whare yonder Ruin's crumblin' fa': 4
Thy shining garments far outstrip
The cherries upo' Hebe's lip,

And fool the tints that Nature chose

To busk and paint the crimson rose.

1 The same the one used in Scotland, the other in England: but it appears that Fergusson applies' scalie' to the person, as ill-formed, and 'squint' to the eyes.

2 The Goldfinch, the most beautiful in its plumage of all Scottish songsters. It is variously known by the name goldie, goudie, goud

spink, gowdspink.

3 Var. sprout.

4 Var. on yonder lofty snout.

'Mang men, wae's-heart! we aften find
The brawest drest want peace of mind,
While he that gangs wi' ragged coat
Is weil contentit wi' his lot.
Whan wand wi' glewy birdlime's set,
To steal far aff your dautit mate,
Blyth wad ye change your cleething gay
In lieu of lav'rock's sober grey.

In vain thro' woods you sair may ban
Th' envious treachery of man,
That, wi' your gowden glister ta'en,
Still haunts you on the simmer's plain,
And traps you 'mang the sudden fa's
O' winter's dreary dreepin' snaws.
Now steekit frae the gowany field,
Frae ilka fav'rite houff and bield,
But mergh, alas! to disengage
Your bonny bouck frae fettering cage,
Your free-born bosom beats in vain
For darling liberty again.

In window hung, how aft we see
Thee keek around at warblers free.
That carrol saft, and sweetly sing
Wi' a' the blythness of the spring?
Like Tantalus1 they hing you here
To spy the glories o' the year;
And tho' you're at the burnie's brink,
They douna suffer you to drink.

Ah, Liberty! thou bonny dame,
How wildly wanton is thy stream,
Round whilk the birdies a' rejoice,
An' hail you wi' a gratefu' voice.

1 Homer: Ody. xi. 582.

The gowdspink chatters joyous here,
And courts wi' gleesome sangs his peer:
The mavis frae the new-bloom'd thorn
Begins his lauds at earest morn;
And herd lowns louping o'er the grass,
Need far less fleetching till their lass,
Than paughty damsels bred at courts,
Wha thraw their mou's and take the dorts:
But, reft of thee, fient flee we care
For a' that life ahint can spare.
The gowdspink, that sae lang has kend
Thy happy sweets (his wonted friend),
Her sad confinement ill can brook
In some dark chamber's dowy nook;
Tho' Mary's hand his nebb supplies,
Unkend to hunger's painfu' cries,
Ev'n beauty canna chear the heart
Frae life, frae liberty apart;

For now we tyne its wonted lay,
Sae lightsome sweet, sae blythely gay.1
Thus Fortune aft a curse can gie,

To wyle us far frae liberty:

Then tent her syren smiles wha list,
I'll ne'er envy your girnal's grist;
For whan fair freedom smiles nae mair,
Care I for life? Shame fa' the hair:
A field o'ergrown wi' rankest stubble,
The essence of a paltry bubble. 2

1 The goldfinch hops from spray to spray,
At large he flies o'er hill, and dale, and down:
Is not each bush-each spreading tree his own?
What then are honours, pomp and gold?

2

Are these a price to purchase Liberty ?-GAY.
Life without her's full of trouble,

ALEX. PENNICUIK. 2, p. 23.

Nothing but a silly bubble.

Song to the tune of Morning o' Geberland. See Note

THE ELECTION.

Nunc est bibendum, et bendere Bickerum magnum;
Cavete Town-guardum, Dougal Geddum atque Campbellum. 1

REJOICE, ye Burghers, ane an' a',
Lang look't for's come at last;
Sair war your backs held to the wa'
Wi' poortith an' wi' fast:

Now ye may clap your wings an' craw,
And gayly busk ilk' feather,
For Deacon Cocks hae pass'd a law

To rax an' weet your leather

Wi' drink thir days.

Haste, Epps, quo' John, an' bring my gezz!

Tak tent ye dinna't spulzie ;

Last night the barber ga't a friz,

An' straikit it wi' ulzie.

1 Ged and Campbell were officers in the town-guard. Kay has preserved the queer physiognomy of the former, of whom many anecdotes still circulate. The Dougal Ged of this macaronic distich appears from Mr. Chambers's Traditions of Edinburgh,' p. 222. Ed: 1847, to have been remarkable, at least, for his family connexions.

It was a brother [?] who, under the name of Don Patricio Ged, rendered such kindly and effective service to Commodore Byron, as gratefully recorded in the well-known 'Narrative;' and gracefully touched on by Campbell in the 'Pleasures of Hope'

'He found a warmer world, a milder clime,

A home to rest, a shelter to defend,
Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend.'

Another member of the family, William Ged, originally a goldsmith in
Edinburgh, was the inventor of stereotype printing.

'Dougal' himself had been a silversmith, but in his own conceit, his red coat as a Town-Guard officer made him completely military. Seeing a lady without a beau at the door of the Assembly Room, he offered his services, if the arm of an old soldier could be of any use.' 'Hoot awa Dougal,' said the lady, accepting, however, his assistance; an auld tink ler you mean.'

Hae done your paritch lassie Liz,
Gi'e me my sark and gravat;
I'se be as braw's the Deacon is

Whan he taks affidavit

O' faith the day.

Whar's Johnny gaun, cries neebor Bess,
That he's sae gayly bodin

Wi' new kam'd wig, weel syndet face,
Silk hose, for hamely hodin?
"Our Johnny's nae sma' drink you'll guess,
"He's trig as ony muir-cock,
"An' forth to mak a Deacon, lass;

"He downa speak to poor fock
Like us the day."

The coat ben-by i' the kist-nook,
That's been this towmonth swarmin,
Is brought yence mair thereout to look,
To fleg awa the vermin:

Menzies o' moths an' flaes are shook,

An' i' the floor they howder,
Till in a birn beneath the croock
They're singit wi a scowder

To death that day.

The canty cobler quats his sta',
His rozet an' his lingans;

His buik has dree'd a sair, sair fa'
Frae meals o' bread an' ingans:
Now he's a pow o' wit and law,

An' taunts at soals an' heels;
To Walker's he can rin awa,

1 The hotel which was in Prince's Street where the dinner took place after the election of the magistrates, which took place at Michaelmas