My word of honour I ha'e gi'en,
In Paisley John's, that night at e'en,
To meet the Warld's worm:
To try to get the twa to gree,
An' name the airles an' the fee,
In legal mode an' form:
I ken he weel a snick can draw,
When simple bodies let him ;
An' if a Devil be at a',

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

EPISTLE TO MR. M'ADAM,

OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN, IN ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER HE SENT IN THE COMMENCEMENT OF MY POETIC CAREER.

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, gawkie 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' weel,
Is aye a blest infection.

Tho', by his banes wha in a tub
Match'd Macedonian Sandy!

On my ain legs, thro' dirt and dub,
I independent stand aye.

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And when those legs to gude, warm kail,
Wi' welcome canna bear me:

A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail,

And barley-scone shall cheer me.

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath
O' mony flow'ry simmers!

And bless your bonnie lasses baith,-
I'm tald 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.

EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN.

HAIL, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!
Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly
To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
We never heed,

But take it like the unback'd filly,
Proud o' her speed.

When idly govin' whyles we saunter,
Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter
Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter,
Some black bog-hole,

Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter
We're forced to thole.

Hale be your heart! hale be your fiddle!
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O' this wild warl',

Until you on a crummock driddle

A gray-hair'd carl.

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Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune,
And screw your temper-pins aboon,
A fifth or mair,

The melancholious lazy croon,
O' cankrie care.

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!

A blessing on the cheery gang
Wha dearly like a jig or sang,
An' never think o' right an' wrang
By square an' rule,

But as the clegs o' feeling stang
Are wise or fool.

My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,
Wha count on poortith as disgrace-
Their tuneless hearts!

May fire-side discords jar a base
To a' their parts !

But come, your hand, my careless brither,
I' th' ither warl' if there's anither,
An' that there is I've little swither
About the matter;

We cheek for chow shall jog thegither,
I'se ne'er bid better.

We've faults and failings-granted clearly,
We're frail backsliding mortals merely,
Eve's bonnie squad priests wyte them sheerly
For our grand fa';

But still, but still, I like them dearly-
God bless them a'!

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Ochone for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers,
The witching cursed delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte,

And gart me weet my waukrife winkers,
Wi' girnin' spite.

But by yon moon!-and that's high swearin'-
An' every star within my hearin'!

An' by her een wha was a dear ane!
I'll ne'er forget;

I hope to gie the jads a clearin'
In fair play yet.

My loss I mourn, but not repent it,
I'll seek my pursie where I tint it;
Ance to the Indies I were wonted,

Some cantraip hour,

By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted,
Then vive l'amour!

Faites mes baissemains respectueuse
To sentimental sister Susie,

An' honest Lucky; no to roose you,
Ye may be proud

That sic a couple Fate allows ye
To grace your blood.

Nea mair at present can I measure,

An' 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.

Mossgiel, October 30, 1786.

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A POETICAL EPISTLE TO A TAILOR.

WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie bitch,
To thresh my back at sic a pitch?
Losh, man! hae mercy wi' your natch,
Your bodkin's bauld,

I didna suffer half sae much

Frae Daddie Auld.

What tho' at times when I grow crouse,
I gi'e their wames a random pouse,
Is that enough for you to souse

Your servant sae?

Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse
An' jag-the-flae!

King David o' poetic brief,

Wrought 'mang the lasses such mischief
As fill'd his after life wi' grief

An' bloody rants,

An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief
O' lang-syne saunts.

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,
My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants,
I'll gie auld cloven Clooty's haunts
An unco slip yet,

An' snugly sit amang the saunts,
At Davie's hip yet.

But fegs! the Session says I maun
Gae fa' upo' anither plan,

Than garrin' lasses cowp the cran

Clean heels owre body,

And sairly thole their mither's ban
Afore the howdy.

ΙΟ

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