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Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted Daddy Auld (229), Daddy Auld, rest,

There's a tod in the fauld,
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed! A tod meikle waur than the clerk (230) :
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy Though ye do na skaith,
head,

Ye'll be in at the death,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. And if ye canna bite, ye may bark.
Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait

Davie Bluster (231), Davie Bluster, The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn; If for a saint ye do muster,

I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, The corps is no nice of recruits; And curse the ruffian's aim, and mouru thy Yet to worth let's be just. hapless fate.

Royal blood ye might boast,

If the ass was the king of the brutes.
The Rirk's Allarit.

Jamy Goose (232), Jamy Goose,

Ye ha'e made but toom roose,
A SATIRE. (220)

In hunting the wicked lieutenant;
ORTHODOX, orthodox,

But the Doctor's your mark,
Wha believe in Johu Knox,

For the Ld's haly ark;
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience; He has cooper'd and cawt a wrong pin in't.

There's a heretic blast
Has been blawn in the wast,

Poet Willie (233), Poet Willie,
That what is no sense must be nonsense.

Gie the Doctor a volley,

Wi' your Liberty's Chain and your wit;
Dr. Mac (221), Dr. Mac,
You should stretch on a rack,

O'er Pegasus' side

Ye ne'er laid a stride,
To strike evil doers wi' terror;

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he *
To join faith and sense
Upon ony pretence,

Andro Gouk (234), Andro Gouk,
Is heretic, damnable error.

Ye
may

slander the book,
Town of Ayr (222), town of Ayr,

And the book not the waur, let me tell ye; It was mad, I declare,

Ye are rich, and look big,
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing;

But lay by hat and wig,
Provost John (223) is still deaf

And ye'll hae a calf's head o'sma' value,
To the church's relief,

Barr Steenie (235), Barr Steenie,
And orator Bob (224) is its ruin.

What mean ye, what mean ye?
D'rymple mild (225), D’rymple mild, If ye'll medule wae mair wi' the matter,
Tho' your heart's like a child,

Ye may hae some pretence
And your life like the new-driven snaw,

To havins and sense,
Yet that wina save ye,

Wi' people wha ken ye know better.
Auld Satan must have ye,
For preaching that three's ane and twa.

Irvine side (236), Irvine side,

Wi' your turkey-cock pride,
Rumble John (226), Rumble John,

Of manhood but sma' is your share;
Mount the steps wi' a groan,

Ye've the figure, 'tis true,
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm’d;
Then lug out your ladle,

Even your faes will allow,
Leal brimstone like adle,

And your friends they dare grant you nae

inair. And roar every note of the damn'd. Simper James (227), Simper James,

Muirland Jock (237), Muirland Jock, Leave the fair Killie dames,

When the Lord makes a rock There's a holier chase in your view;

To crush Common Sense for her sins, I'll lay on your head,

If ill manners were wit,
That the pack ye'll soon lead,

There's no mortal so tit
For puppies like you, there's but few. To confound the poor Doctor at ance.
Singet Sawney (228), Singet Sawney,

Holy Will (233), Holy Will,
Are ye huirding the penny,

There was wit i' your skull, Unconscious what evil await;

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor; Wi, a jump, yell, and howl,

The timmer is scant, Alarm every soul,

When ye're ta'en for a saunt, For the foul thief is just at your gate. Wha should swing in a rape for an hour,

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons,

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care!
Seize your spiritual guns,

I'm weary sick o't late and air !
Ammunition you never can need;

Not but I hae a richer share
Your hearts are the stuff,

Than mony ithers;
Will be powther enough,

But why should ae man better fare,
And
your
skulls are storehouses O' lead.

And a' men brithers ?
Poet Burns, Poet Burns,

Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van, Wi' your priest-skelping turns,

Thou stalk o' carl hemp in man!
Why desert ye your auld native shire ? And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan
Your muse is a gipsie :

A lady fair :
E'en though she were tipsie,

Wha does the utmost that he can,
She could ca' us nae waur than we are.

Will whyles do mair.
But to conclude my silly rhyme,
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,)

To make a happy fire-side clime
To Dr. Blarklark,

To weans and wife,

That's the true pathos and sublime
IN ANSWER TO A LETTER.

Of human life.
Ellisland, 21st Oct. 1789.

My compliments to sister Beckie;
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! Aud eke the same to honest Lucky,
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie? I wat she is a dainty chuckie,
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie,

As e'er tread clay !
Wad bring ye to:

And gratefully, my guid auld cockie,
Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye,

I'm yours for aye.
And then ye'll do.

ROBERT BURNS,
The ill-thief blaw the Heron south! (239)
And never drink be near his drouth!
He tauld mysel by word o' mouth,

Delia. (241)
He'd tak my letter;

FAIR the face of orient day,
I lippen'd to the chield in trouth,

Fair the tints of op'ning rose;
Aud bade (240) nae better,

But fairer still my Delia dawns,
But aiblins honest Master Heron

More lovely far her beauty shows. Had at the time some dainty fair one

Sweet the lark's wild warbled lay,
To ware his theologic care on,

Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
And holy study;

But, Delia, more delightful still,
And tir'd o'sauls to waste his lear on,

Steal thine accents on mine car.
E'en tried the body.

The flower-enamoured busy bee,
But what d'ye think, my trusty fier,

The rosy banquet lores to sin; I'm turned a ganger.--Peace be here!

Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear,

To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip.
Ye'll now disdain me!
And then my fifty pounds a-year

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips
Will little gain me.

Let me, no vagrant insect, rove;

Oh, let me steal one liquid kiss, Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies,

For, oh! my soul is parched with love.
Wha, by Castalia’s wimplin' streamies,
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,
Ye ken, ye ken,

Skrich--leu-Vrar's Day.
That strang necessity supreme is
Riang sons o' men.

TO MRS DUNLOP.. (242)
I hae a wife and twa wee laddies,

This day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies; To run the twelvemonth's length again : Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is- I see the old, bald-pated fellow, I need na vaunt,

With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, But I'll sned besons-thraw saugh woodies, Adjust the unimpair'd machine, Before they want.

To wheel the equal, full routine,

me say,

is

m'he absent lover, minor heir,

Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, In vain assail him with their prayer;

Not for to preach, but tell his simple story: Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, The saye grave ancient cough'd, and bade Nor makes the hour one moment less. Will you (the Major's (243) with the hounds, You're one year older this important day." The happy tenants share his rounds ; If wiser, too-he hinted some suggestion, Coila's fare Rachel's (244) care to-day, But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) question; From housewife cares a minute borrow- And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-He bade me on you press this one word And join with me a-moralizing:

" think!” This day's propitious to be wise in. First, what did yesternight deliver ?

Ye sprightly youths quite flushed with hope

and spirit, Another year gone

for ever." And what is this day's strong suggestion ?

Who think to storm the world by dint of “The passing moment's all we rest on!”

merit,

To you the dotard has a deal to say, Rest on--for what? what do we here?

In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way; Or why regard the passing year? Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,

He bids you mind, annid your thoughtless

rattle, Add to our date one minute more ?

That the first blow is ever half the battle; A few days may—a few years must

That tho' some by the skirt may try to Repose us in the silent dust.

snatch him, Then is it wise to dainp our bliss ?

Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him, Yes—all such reasonings are amiss !

That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, The voice of Nature loudly cries,

You may do miracles by perseverving.
And many a message from the skics,
That something in us never dies :

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, That on this frail, uncertain state,

Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care! Ilang matters of eternal weight:

To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled That future life in worlds unknown Must take its hue from this alone;

And humbly begs you'll mind the important Whether as heavenly glory bright,

Now ! Or dark as misery's woeful night,

To crown your happiness he asks your leave, Since, then, my honour'd, first of friends, And offers bliss to give and to receive. On this poor being all depends. Let us th' important now employ,

For our sincere, tho’ haply weak endeavours, And live as those who never die.

With grateful pride we own your many

favours; Tho’ you, with days and honours crown'd, Witness that filial circle round,

And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, (A sight, life's sorrows to repulse,

Believe our glowing bosons truly feel it. A sight, pale envy to convulse,) Others now claim your chief regard; Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

Prologie,

FOR MR. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT NIGHT, Prologne,

WHAT needs this din about the town o' SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMTRIES,

Lon'on, NEW-YEAR'S-DAY EVENING. [1790]

How this new play and that new sang is No song nor dance I bring from yon great

comin'? city

Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ? That quieens it o'er our taste—the more's Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when imthe pity :

ported ? Tho', by-the-bye, abroad why will you Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, roam ?

Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame? Good sense and taste are natives here at For comedy abroad he needna toil, home :

A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; But not for panegyric I appear,

Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece I come to wish you all a good new year! To gather matter for a serious piece;

brow,

DUMFRIES.

ON

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