An' no forgetting wabster Charlie,
I'm tauld he offers very fairly.

An' L-d remember singing Sannock,
Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock.
An' next, my auld acquaintance, Naney,
Since she is fitted to her fancy;
An' her kind stars ha e airted till her
A guid chiel wi' a pickle siller.
My kindest, best respects I sen' it,
To cousin Kate an' sister Janet;

Tell the frae me, wi' chiels be cautious,

For faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious:
To grant a heart is fairly civil,

But to grant a maidenhead's the devil!
An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel',

May guardian angels tak' a spell,

An' steer you seven miles south o' hell:
But first, before you see heav'n's glory,
May ye get monie a merry story,
Monie a laugh, and monie a drink,
An' ay enough o' needfu' clink.

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you.-
For my sake this I beg it o'
you,
Assist poor Simson a' ye can,
Ye'll fin' him just an honest man;
Sae I conclude an' quat my chanter,
Yours, saint or sinner,

ROB THE RANTER.

ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD,
Born in peculiar circumstances of family distress.

SWEET flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love
And ward o'monie a pray'r,

What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

November hírples o'er the lea,
Chill, on thy lovely form;

And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree,
Should shield thee frae the storm.

May He who gives the rain to pour,
And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving show'r,
The bitter frost and snaw!

May. He, the friend of woe and want,
Who heals life's various stounds,
Protect and guard the mother plant,
And heal her cruel wounds!

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast;
Fair on the summer morn :.
Now feebly bends she in the blast,
Unshelter'd and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,.
Unscathed by ruffiian hand!
And from thee many a parent stem,
Arise to deck our land!

TO MISS CRUIKSHANK,

A VERY YOUNG LADY.

Written on the Blank Leaf of a Book, presented to her by the Author.

BEAUTEOUS-rose-bud, young and gay,
Blooming in thy early May,
Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r,

Chilly shrink in sleety show'r!

Never Bores s' hoary path,

Never Eurus' pois'nous breath,

Never baleful stellar lights,

Taint thee with untimely blights!

Never, never reptile thief:

Riot on thy virgin leaf!

Nor even Sol too fiercely view

Thy bosom blushing still with dew !

Mays't thou long, sweet crimson gem,

Richly deck thy native stem,.
Till some evening, sober, calm,
Dropping dews, and breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,
And every bird thy requiem sings;
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,
Shed thy dying honours round,
And resign to parent earth

The loveliest form she e'er gave birth

THE FIRST PSALM.

THE man, in life wherever placed,
Hath happiness in store,

Who walks not in the wicked's way,
Nor learns their guilty lore!

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 blossoms bud in guilt
Shall to the ground-be cast,
And, like the rootless stubble, toss'd
Before the sweeping blast.

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

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.
(RECOMMENDINng a boy.)

Mosgaville, May 3, 1786.

I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty

1

To warn you now that inaster Tootie,

Alias, Laird M'Gaun,*

Was here to hire yon lad away

'Bout whom ye spak' the tither day,

And wad ha'e done't aff-han';

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

Like scrapin' out auld crummie's nicks,
telling lies about them;

An'

"Master Tootie then lived in Mauchline-a dealer in cows: It was his common practice to cut the nicks or markings from the horns of cattle to disguise their age. He was an artful, trick-con-triving characters hence, he is called a snick-drawer: In the Poet's Address to the De'il,' he styles that august personage an auld, snick drawing.dog.!"-RELIQUES, p. 397.

As lieve then l'd have then

Your Clerkship he should ser'e,
If sae be, ye may be

Not fitted otherwhere.

Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough,
An' bout a house that's rude an' rough,
The boy might learn to swear;
But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught,
An' get sie fair example straught,
I ha'e na ony fear.

Ye'll catechise him every quirk,
An shore him weel wi' hell;
An' gar him follow to the kirk
-Ay 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 ha'e gie'n,
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 phraise you an' praise you,
Ye ken your Laureat scorns:
The prayer still you share still
Of grateful Minstrel BURNS.

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,

1 trow it made me proud;

"See wha tak's 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 roosed 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.-

And when those legs to guid 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 a flow'ry simmer!

And bless your bonnie lasses baith,
I'm tauld they're loosome kimmer!

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.

TO A TAILOR,

IN ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE WHICH HE HAD SENT

THE AUTHOR.

WHAT ails ye now, ye lousy b-h,

To thresh my back at sie a pitch?

Lush, man! ha'e mercy wi' your natch,.

Your bodkin's bauld,

I did na suffer half sae muah

Frae Daddie Auld.

What tho at times, when I grow crouse,.

I give their wames a random pouse,

Is that enough. for you to souse

Your servant sae?

Gae mind your seam, ye pick-the-louse,

An' jag-the-flae!