Nor from the seat of scornful pride
Casts forth his eyes abroad,
But with humility and awe

Still walks before his God.

That man shall flourish like the trees
Which by the streamlets grow;
The fruitful top is spread on high,
And firm the root below.

But he whose blossom buds in guilt,
Shall to the ground be cast,
And, like the rootless stubble, tost
Before the sleeping blast.

For why? that God the good adore
Hath giv'n them peace and rest,
But hath decreed that wicked men
Shall ne'er be truly blest.

I wad na been surpris'd to spy
You on an auld wife's flannen toy;
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On's wyliecoat;

But Miss's fine Lunardi! fie! (172)
How daur ye do't?

Oh, Jenny, dinna toss your head,
And set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed

The blastie's makin'!
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin'!

Oh wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae mony a blunder free us
And foolish notion:
What airs in dress and gait wad lea’e us,
And ev'n devotion !

To a Louse,

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET,
AT CHURCH. (171)

HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,
Owre gauze and lace;

Tho', faith, I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn'd, by saunt and sinner,
How dare you set your feet upon her,
Sae fine a lady!

Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner
On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; There ye may creep, and sprawl and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,

In shoals and nations;
Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle
Your thick plantations.

Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rells, snug and tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right
Till ye've got on it,

The vera tapmost, tow'ring height

O' Miss's bonnet.

SURVEYOR OF THE TAXES, (173.)
SIR, as your mandate did request,
I send you here a faithfu' list
O' gudes and gear, and a' my graith,
To which I'm clear to gie my aith.

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,
I have four brutes o' gallant mettle,
As ever drew afore a pettle.
My han' afore's (174) a gude auld has been
And wight and wilfu' a' his days been.
My han' ahin's (175) a weel gaun filly,
That aft has borne me hame frae Killie (176),
And your auld burro' mony a time,
In days when riding was nae crime-
But ance, whan in my wooing pride,

I like a blockhead boost to ride,
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to,
(L-pardon a' my sins and that too!)
I play'd my filly sic a shavie,
She's a' bedevil'd with the spavie.
My fur ahin's (177) a wordy beast,
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd.
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie,
A d-n'd red wud Kilburnie blastie !
Forbye a cowte o' cowtes the wale,
As ever ran afore a tail.

If he be spar'd to be a beast,
He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least-

As plump and grey as ony grozet;

Oh for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,

I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't,

Wad dress your droddum!

Three carts, and twa a feckly new;
Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token,
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken;
I made a poker o' the spin'le,
And my auld mither brunt the trin'le.

For men, I've three mischievous boys, Run de'ils for rantin' and for noise ; A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other, Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother. I rule them, as I ought, discreetly. And aften labour them completely; And aye on Sundays duly, nightly, I on the Questions targe them tightly; Till, faith, wee Davock's turn'd sae gleg, Tho' scarcely langer than your leg, He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling (178), As fast as ony in the dwalling. I've nane in female servan' station, (Lkeep me aye frae a' temptation!) I hae nae wife-and that my bliss is, And ye have laid nae tax on misses; And then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, I ken the devils dare na touch me. Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted. My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess (179), She stares the daddy in her face, Enough of ought ye like but grace; But her, my bonny sweet wee lady, I've paid enough for her already, And gin ye tax her or her mither, B' the Lye'se get them a' thegither.

But lest he learn the callan tricks, As, faith, I muckle doubt him,

Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks (180), And tellin' lies about them:

As lieve then, I'd have then,

Your clerkship he should sair,
If sae be ye may be

Not fitted other where.

Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough,

| And 'bout a house that's rude and rough,
The boy might learn to swear;
But then wi' you he'll be sae taught,
A get sic fair example straught,
I havena ony fear.

Ye'll catechise him every quirk,

And shore him weel wi' hell;
And gar him follow to the kirk
-Aye when ye gang yoursel.
If ye then maun be then
Frae hame this comin' Friday;
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir,
The orders wi' your lady.

My word of honour I hae gien,
In Paisley John's, that night at e'en,
To meet the warld's worm;
To try to get the va to gree,
t
And name the airless (181) and the fee,
In legal mode and form:

I ken he weel a snick can draw,
When simple bodies let him;
And if a devil be at a',

In faith he's sure to get him.
To phrase you, and praise you,
Ye ken your Laureat scorns:
The pray'r still, you share still,
Of grateful MINSTREL BURNS.

Willie Chalmers. (182)

Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride,
And eke a braw new brechan,

My Pegasus I'm got astride,

And up Parnassus pechin;

Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush,
The doited beastie stammers;
Then up he gets and off he sets
For sake o' Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name May cost a pair o' blushes;

I am nae stranger to your fame,

Nor his warm urged wishes.
Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet,
His honest heart enamours,
And faith ye'll no be lost a whit,

Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers.

Auld truth hersel' might swear ye're fair,
And honour safely back her,
And modesty assume your air,

And ne'er a ane mistak' her:
And sic twa love inspiring een

Might fire even holy Palmers;
Nae wonder then they've fatal been
To honest Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na fortune may you shore
Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie,
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore,

And band upon his breastie :
But oh! what signifies to you
His lexicons and grammars;
The feeling heart's the royal blue,
And that's wi' Willie Chalmers.
Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird,
May warsle for your favour;
May claw his lug, and straik his beard,
And hoast up some palaver.
My bonnie maid, before ye wed

Sic clumsy-witted hammers,
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp
Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers.

Forgive the Bard! my fond regard

For ane that shares my bosom,
Inspires my muse to gie'm his dues,
For deil a hair I roose him.
May powers aboon unite you soon,
And fructify your amours,
And

every year come in mair dear To you and Willie Chalmers.

Lines Written on a Bank Note. (183)

WAE worth thy power, thou cursed leaf,
Fell source o' a' my woe and grief:
For lack o' thee I've lost my lass,
For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass.
I see the children of affliction
Unaided, through thy cursed restriction.
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile
Amid his hapless victim's spoil,
And, for thy potence, vainly wish'd
To crush the villain in the dust.

For lack o' thee I leave this much loved shore,

Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. R. B.-Kyle.

Speaking silence, dumb confession,
Passion's birth, and infants' play,
Dove-like fondness, chaste concession,
Glowing dawn of brighter day.
Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action,

When ling'ring lips no more must join;
What words can ever speak affection,
So thrilling and sincere as thine!

Verses Written under Violent Grief. (185)

ACCEPT the gift a friend sincere

Wad on thy worth be pressin'; Remembrance oft may start a tear, But oh! that tenderness forbear,

Though 'twad my sorrows lessen.
My 'morning raise sae clear and fair,
I thought sair storms wad never
Bedew the scene; but grief and care
In wildest fury hae made bare

My peace, my hope, for ever!
You think I'm glad; oh, I pay weel,
For a' the joy I borrow,
In solitude-theu, then I feel
I canna to mysel' conceal

My deeply ranklin' sorrow.
Farewell! within thy bosom free
A sigh may whiles awaken;
A tear may wet thy laughin' ee,
For Scotia's son-ance gay like thee—
Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken!

LYING AT A FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING

Verses

IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. (186)
On thou dread Power, who reign'st above,
I know thou wilt me hear,

When for this scene of peace and love
I make my prayer sincere
The hoary sire-the mortal stroke,
Long, long, be pleased to spare,
To bless his filial little flock

And show what good men are.
She, who her lovely offspring eyes
With tender hopes and fears,
Oh, bless her with a mother's joys,
But spare a mother's tears!

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth,
In manhood's dawning blush-
Bless him, thou God of love and truth,
Up to a parent's wish!

The beauteous, seraph sister-band,
With earnest tears I pray,
Thou know'st the snares on every hand-
Guide Thou their steps alway.
When soon or late they reach that coast,
O'er life's rough ocean driven,
May they rejoice, no wanderer lost,
A family in heaven!

To Mr. M'Adam,

OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN.

SIR, o'er a gill I gat your card,

I trow it made me proud; "See wha taks notice o' the bard!" I lap and cried fu' loud.

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw,

The senseless, gawky million :
I'll cock my nose aboon them a'-
I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan !
"Twas noble, Sir; 'twas like yoursel,
To grant your high protection :
A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well,
Is aye a blest infection.

Tho' by his (187) banes who in a tub
Match'd Macedonian Sandy!
On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub,
I independent stand aye.

And when those legs to guid, warm kail,
Wi' welcome canna bear me;
A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail,

A barley-scone shall cheer me.
Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath
O' many flow'ry simmers!
And bless your bonnie lasses baith-

I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers!
And God bless young Dunaskin's laird,
The blossom of our gentry!

And may he wear an auld man's beard,
A credit to his country.

Lines on Meeting with Basil, Lord Darr. (188)

THIS wot ye all whom it concerns, 1, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,

October twenty-third,

A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day,

Sae far I sprachled up the brae,
I dinner'd wi' a Lord.

I've been at drucken writers' feasts,
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests,
Wi' rev'rence be it spoken;

I've ev'n join'd the honour'd jorum,
When mighty squireships of the quorum,
Their hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi' a Lord!-stand out my shin,
A Lord-a Peer-an Earl's son !

Up higher yet my bonnet!
And sic a Lord!-lang Scotch ells twa,
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a',

As I look o'er my sonnet. But, oh! for Hogarth's magic pow'r! To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r,

And how he star'd and stammer'd,
When goavan, as if led wi' branks,
And stumpin' on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlour hammer'd.

I sidling shelter'd in a nook,
And at his Lordship steal't a look,
Like some portentous omen;
Except good sense and social glee,
And (what surprised me) modesty,

I marked nought uncommon.

I watch'd the symptoms o' the great,
The gentle pride, the lordly state,
The arrogant assuming;
The fient a pride, nae pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,

Mair than an honest ploughman. Then from his Lordship I shall learn, Henceforth to meet with unconcern

One rank as weel's another;
Nae honest worthy man need care
To meet with noble youthful Daer,
For he but meets a orother.

Epistle tu Major Logan. (189) HAIL, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie! Though fortune's road be rough and hilly To every fiddling, rhyming billie, We never heed, But take it like the unback'd filly, Proud o' her speed. When idly goavan whyles we saunter Yirr, fancy barks, awa we canter Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter, Some black bog-hole, then the scathe and banter We're forced to thole. Hale be your heart!-hale be your fiddle! Lang may your elbock jink and diddle, To cheer you through the weary widdle O this wild warl',

Arrests us,

Nae mair at present can I measure

May still your life from day to day
Nae "lente largo" in the play,
But "allegretto forte" gay

Harmonious flow

A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey

Encore! Bravo!

And trowth, my rhymin' ware's nae treasure;
But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure,
Be't light, be't dark,

Sir bard will do himself the pleasure
To call at Park.

ROBERT Burns.

Mossgiel, 30th October 1786.

Lament,

WRITTEN WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT

TO LEAVE SCOTLAND.

O'ER the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying, [rave, Where the wild winds of winter incessantly What woes wring my heart while intently surveying [the wave.

The storm's gloomy path on the breast of

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail,

Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native shore ;

Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale,

The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more.

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, [the wave;

And smile at the moon's rimpled face in No more shall my arms cling with fondness. around her, [her grave.

For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast, [shore;

I haste with the storm to a far distant Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall

rest,

And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.

On a Scotch Bard,

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. (190) A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink, A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, A' ye wha live and never think,

Come, mourn wi' mel Our billie's gien us a' jink,

And owre the sea.

Lament him a' ye rautin' core,
Wha dearly like a random-splore,
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar
In social key;

For now he's taen anither shore,
And owre the sea!

The bonny lasses weel may miss him,
And in their dear petitions place him: