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He had ingine,

Think for a moment on his wretched fate, | Then a' that ken't him round declar'd
Whom friends and fortune quite disown!
Ill satisfied keen nature's clamorous call,
Stretched on his straw he lays himself
to sleep,

[wall, While through the ragged roof and chinky Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap;

Think on the dungeon's grim confine,
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine!
Guilt, erring man, relenting view!
But shall thy legal rage pursue
The wretch, already crushed low
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow?
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress;

A brother to relieve, how exquisite the

bliss!"

I hear nae mair, for chanticleer

Shook off the poutheray snaw,
And hailed the morning with a chee—
A cottage-rousing craw.

But deep this truth impressed my
mind-

Through all his works abroad, The heart benevolent and kind

The most resembles GOD.

Epistle to 3. Tapraik.

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. (25.)

April 1, 1785.

That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,
It was sae fine,

That, set him to a pint of ale,
And either douce or merry tale,
Or rhymes and sangs he'd made himsel',
Or witty catches,

"Tween Inverness and Teviotdale,
He had a few matches.

Then up I gat, and swoor an aith,
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith,
Or die a cadger pownie's death
At some dyke back
A pint and gill I'd gie them baith

To hear your crack.
But, first and foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle fell;

Tho' rude and rough,

Yet crooning to a body's sell,
Does weel eneugh.

I am nae poet, in a sense,
But just a rhymer, like by chance,
And hae to learning nae pretence,
Yet, what the matter!
Whene'er my muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.

Your critic folk may cock their nose,
And say, "How can you e'er propose,
You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?"

WHILE briers and woodbines budding green, But, by your leaves, my learned foes,

And paitricks scraichin' loud at e’en,
And morning poussie whiddin seen,

Inspire my muse,

This freedom in an unknown frien'
I pray excuse.

On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin',

To ca' the crack and weave our stockin';
And there was muckle fun and jokin',
Ye need na' doubt ;

At length we had a hearty yokin'
At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,
That some kind husband had addrest
To some sweet wife :

It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,
A' to the life.

I've scarce heard ought described sae weel,
What gen'rous manly bosoms feel;
Thought I, "Can this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie's wark ?”

They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't,
And sae about him there I spier't,

Ye're may be wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your schools,
Your Latin names for horns and stools;
If honest nature made you fools,
What sairs your grammars?
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,
Or knappin-hammers.

A set o' dull, conceited hashes,
Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gang in stirks, and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;

And syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire!
That's a' the learning I desire;
Then tho' I drudge thro' dub and mire
At pleugh or cart,

My muse, tho' hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.

Oh for a spunk o' Allan's glee,
Or Fergusson's the bauld and slee,
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!

That would be lear eneugh for me,
If I could get it !

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Tho' real friends I believe are few,
Yet, if your catalogue be fou,
I'se no insist,

But gif ye want ae friend that's true,
I'm on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel;

As ill I like my faults to tell;

But friends and folk that wish me well, They sometimes roose me;

Tho' I maun own, as monie still

As far abuse me.

But Mauchline race (26), or Mauchline fair,
I should be proud to meet you there;
We'se gic ae night's discharge to care,
If we forgather,

And hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware
Wi' ane anither.

The four-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter,
And kirsen him wi' reekin' water;
Syne we'll sit down and tak our whitter,
To cheer our heart;

And, faith, we'se be acquainted better
Before we part.

Awa ye selfish war'ly race,

Wha think that havins, sense, and grace, Ev'n love and friendship, should give place To catch the plack!

I dinna like to see your face,

Nor hear your crack.

But ye
whom social pleasure charms,
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms,
Who hold your being on the terms,

"Each aid the others." Come to my bowl, come to my arms, My friends, my brothers!

But, to conclude my lang epistle,
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle;
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle,
Who am, most fervent,
While I can either sing or whissle,
Your friend and servant.

To the Same.

April 21, 1785.

WHILE new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake,

And pownies reek in pleugh or braik,
This hour on e'enin's edge I take,

To own I'm debtor,

To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,
For his kind letter.

Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs,
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs,
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs

Their ten hours' bite,

My awkwart muse sair pleads and begs
I would na write.

The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie,
She's saft at best, and something lazy,
Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae busy,
This month and mair,

That trouth, my head is grown right dizzie,
And something sair."

Her dowff excuses pat me mad :
"Conscience," says I, "ye thowless jad!
I'll write, and that a hearty blaud,
This vera night;

So dinna ye affront your trade,
But rhyme it right.

Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts,
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes,
Roose you sae weel for your deserts,
In terms sae friendly,

Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts,
And thank him kindly ?"

Sae I gat paper in a blink,
And down gaed stumpie in the ink:
Quoth I, "before I sleep a wink,
I vow I'll close it;

And if ye winna mak it clink,

By Jove I'll prose it!"
Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither,
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither,
Let time mak proof;

But I shall scribble down some blether
Just clean aff-loof.

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge and carp,
Tho' fortune use you hard and sharp;
Come, kittle up your moorland-harp

Wi' gleesome touch;
Ne'er mind how fortune waft and warp-
She's but a b-tch!

She's gien me monie a jirt and fleg,
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig;
But, by the L―d, tho' I should beg
Wi' lyart pow,

I'll laugh, and sing, and shake my leg,
As lang's I dow!

Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer,
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer,

Still persecuted by the limmer

Frae year to year;

But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,
I, Rob, am here.

Do ye envy the city gent,

Behint a kist to lie and sklent,

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent. per cent.
And muckle wame,

In some bit brugh to represent

A bailie's name?

Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane,
Wi' ruffl'd sark and glancing cane,
Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane,
But lordly stalks,

While caps and bonnets aff are taen,
As by he walks ?

Oh Thou wha gies us each guid gift!
Gie me o' wit and sense a lift,
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift,
Thro' Scotland wide;

Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift,
In a' their pride!

Were this the charter of our state,
"On pain' o' hell be rich and great,"
Damnation then would be our fate,

Beyond remead;

But, thanks to Heav'n, that's no the gate
We learn our creed.

For thus the royal mandate ran,
When first the human race began,
"The social, friendly, honest man,
Whate'er he be,

"Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan,
And none but he !

Oh mandate glorious and divine!
The followers o' the ragged Nine,
Poor thoughtless devils yet may shine
In glorious light,

While sordid sons o' Mammon's line
Are dark as night.

Tho' here they scrape, and squeeze, and growl,
Their worthless nievfu' of a soul

May in some future carcase howl,

The forest's fright;

Or in some day-detesting owl

May shun the light.

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,
To reach their native kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys,
In some mild sphere,

Still closer knit in friendship's ties
Each passing year!

To William Simpson), OCHILTREE. (27)

May, 1785,

I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ;
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly,
And unco vain,

Should I believe, my coaxin' billie,
Your flatterin' strain.

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it,
I sud be laith to think ye hinted
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented

On my poor Musie;

Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it
I scarcely excuse ye.

My senses wad be in a creel,
Should I but dare a hope to speel,
Wi' Allan, or wi Gilbertfield,
The braes o' fame;

Or Fergusson, the writer chiel,
A deathless name.

(Oh Fergusson! thy glorious parts
Ill suited law's dry musty arts!
My curse upon your whunstaue hearts,
Ye E'nbrugh gentry;

The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes
Wad stow'd his pantry!)

Yet when a tale comes i' my head,
Or lassies gie my heart a screed,
As whiles they're like to be my dead,
(Oh sad disease!)

I kittle up my rustic reed;
It gies me ease.

Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain,
She's gotten poets o' her ain,
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,
But tune their lays,

Till echoes a' resound again

Her weel-sung praise

Nae poet thought her worth his while,
To set her name in measur'd style;
She lay like some unken'd-of-isle
Beside New Holland,
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil
Besouth Magellan.

Ramsay and famous Fergusson
Gied Forth and Tay a lift aboon
Yarrow and Tweed, to monie a tune,
Owre Scotland rings,

While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon,
Naebody sings.

Th' Illissus. Tiber, Thames, and Seine,
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line;
But, Willie, set your fit to mine,
And cock your crest,

We'll gar our streams and burnies shine
Up wi' the best!

We'll sing auld Coila's plains and fells,
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells,
Her banks and braes, her dens and dells,
Where glorious Wallace
Aft bure the gree, as story tell,
Frae southron billies.

At Wallace' name what Scottish blood
But boils up in spring-tide flood!
Oft have our fearless fathers strode
By Wallace' side,

Still pressing onward, red-wat shod,
Or glorious died!

Oh sweet are Coila's haughs and woods, When lintwhites chant amang the buds, And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids, Their loves enjoy,

While thro' the braes the crushat croods With wailfu' cry!

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me
When winds rave thro' the naked tree;
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree

Are hoary gray :
Or blinding drifts wild furious flee,
Dark'ning the day!

Oh nature! a' thy shows and forms
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!
Whether the summer kindly warms,
Wi' life and light,

Or winter howls, in gusty storms,
The lang, dark night!

The muse, nae poet ever fand her,
Till by himsel he learn'd to wander,
Adown some trotting burn's meander,
And no think lang;

Oh sweet, to stray and pensive ponder,
A heart-felt sang!

The war❜ly race may drudge and drive, Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch and strive; Let me fair nature's face descrive,

And I, wi' pleasure,

Shall let the busy grumbling hive
Bum owre their treasure.

Fareweel," my rhyme-composing brither!"
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither :
Now let us lay our heads thegither,
In love fraternal;

May envy wallop in a tether,

Black fiend, infernal !

While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes: While moorlan' heads like guid fat braxies; While terra firma on her axis

Diurnal turns,

Count on a friend, in faith and practice, In ROBERT BURNS.

POSTSCRIPT.

My memory's no worth a preen ;

I had amaist forgotten clean,
Ye bade me write you what they mean,
By this New Light,

'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been
Maist like to fight.

In days when mankind were but callans
At grammar, logic, and sic talents,
They took nae pains their speech to balance,
Or rules to gie,

But spak their thoughts in plain braid lallans.
Like you or me.

In thae auld times, they thought the moon,
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon,
Wore by degrees, till her last roon
Gaed past their viewing,

And shortly after she was done,
They gat a new one.

This past for certain-undisputed;
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it,
Till chiels gat up and wad confute it,
And ca'd it wrang;

And muckle din there was about it,
Baith loud and lang.

Some herds, well learn'd upo' the beuk,
Wad threap auld folk the think misteuk;
For 'twas the auld moon turned a neuk,
And out o' sight,

And backlins-comin', to the leuk
She grew mair bright.

This was denied-it was affirmed
;
The herds and hirsels were alarmed:
The rev'rend grey-beards rav'd and storm'd
That beardless laddies

Should think they better were inform❜d
Than their auld daddies.

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks;
Frae words and aiths to clours and nicks,
And mony a fallow gat his licks,
Wi' hearty crunt;

And some, to learn them for their tricks,
Were hang'd and brunt.

This game was play'd in monie lands,
And Auld Light caddies bure sic hands,
That, faith, the youngsters took the sands
Wi' nimble shanks,

Till lairds forbade, by strict commands,
Sic bluidy pranks.

But New Light herds gat sic a cowe,

! Folk thought them ruin'd stick-and-stowe, Till now amaist on every knowe,

Ye'll find ane plac'd;

And some their New-Light fair avow,
Just quite barefac'd.

Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleatin';
Their zealous herds are vex'd and sweatin';
Mysel' I've even seen them greetin'

Wi' girnin' spite,

To hear the moon sae sadly lied on
By word and write.

But shortly they will cowe the loons!
Some Auld Light herds in neebor towns
Are mind't in thinns they ca' balloons,
To tak a flight,
And stay ae month among the moons
And see them right.

Guid observation they will gie them;

And then, its shanks,

And when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e They were as thin, as sharp and sma', them.

The hindmost shair'd, they'll fetch it wi' them,

Just i' their pouch,
And when the New Light billies see them,
I think they'll crouch!

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter
Is naething but a "moonshine matter;"
But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter
In logic tulzie,

I hope we bardies ken some better
Than mind sic brulzie.

Death and Dr. Bornbook.

A TRUE STORY. (28)

SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'd;
E'en 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 hell
Or Dublin city:

That e'er he ne nearer comes oursel
's a muckle pity.

The clachan yıll had made me canty—
I was na fou, but just had plenty;

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye

To free the ditches;

As cheeks o'branks.

Guid e'en," quo' I; "Friend, hae ye been
When other folk are busy sawin'?" [mawin',
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan',
But naething spak;

At length says I," Friend, whare ye gaun,
Will ye go back ?"

It spake right howe-"My name is Death,
But be na fley'd." Quoth I,
Quoth I, “Guid faith,
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath;
But tent me, billie—

I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith.
See, there's a gully!"

"Guidman,” quo' he, "put up your whittle,
I'm no designed to try its mettle;
But if I did, I wad be kittle

To be mislear'd;

I wad na mind it, no, that spittle

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Out-owre my beard."

Weel, weel!" says I, "a bargain be't; Come, gies your hand, and sae we're gree't; We'll ease our shanks and tak a seat

Come, gies your news;

This while ye hae been mony a gate,
At mony a house."

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Ay, ay!" quo' he, and shook his head, "It's e en a lang time indeed

Sin' I began to nick the thread,

And choke the breath:

Folk maun do something for their bread,

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And sae maun Death.

Sax thousand years are near hand fled

And hillocks, stanes, and bushes kenned aye | Sin' I was to the butching bred,

Frae ghaists and witches.

The rising moon began to glow'r
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r,

I set mysel;

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And mony a scheme in vain's been laid,
To stap or scaur me;

Till ane Hornbook's taen up the trade,
And faith he'll waur me.

Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the clachan,
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan!
He's grown sae well acquaint wi’ Buchan (30),
And ither chaps,

The weans haud out their fingers laughin',
And pouk my hips.

"See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart,
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook wi' his art
And cursed skill,

Has made them both no worth a f―t;-
Damn'd haet they'll kill.

""Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen,
I threw a noble throw at ane;
Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain;
But deil-ma-care,

It just play'd dirl on the bane,
But did nae mair.

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