Your humble servant then no more; LINES ADDRESSED TO MR. JOHN RANKEN. AE day as death, that grusome carl, To grace this damn'd infernal clan." "L-d G-d!" quoth he, "I have it now, LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS, WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO THE SAME. He who of R-k-n sang, lies stiff and dead: EXTEMPORE ON THE LATE MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE. To Crochallan came* The old cock'd hat, the grey Surtout, the same; His bristling beard just rising in its might, 'Twas four long nights and days to shaving-night; His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd; Yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. * Mr. Smellie and Burns were both members of a club in Edinburgh, called the Crochallan Fencibles. EXTEMPORE. At a Meeting of the Dumfriesshire Volunteers, held to commemorate the anniversary of Rodney's Victory, April 12th, 1782, Burns was called upon for a Song, instead of which he delivered the following Lines extempore: Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast, Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost: That we lost, did I say, nay, by Heav'n, that we found, For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. The next in succession, I'll give you the king, TO MR. $**E ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, No more of your guests, be they titled or not, Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, hon 17, 1795. TO MR. S**E, WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER O HAD the malt thy strength of mind, Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries. EXTEMPORE, WRITTEN IN ANSWER TO A CARD FROM AN INTIMATE OF BURNS', INVITING HIM TO SPEND AN HOUR AT A TAVERN. THE King's most humble servant, I Can scarcely spare a minute; But I'll be wi' ye by an' bye; Or else the Deil's be in it. EXTEMPORE, WRITTEN IN A LADY'S POCKET BOOK GRANT me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live LINES ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AYR. OH! Had each Scot of ancient times, LINES ON BEING ASKED WHY GOD HAD MADE MISS DAVIS Written on a Pane of Glass in the inn at Moffat. LINES WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF THE CELEBRA. TED MISS BURNS. CEASE, ye prudes, your envious railing, True it is she had one failing, Had a woman ever less? |