Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token,
Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken;
I made a poker o' the spin'le,

An' my auld mother brunt the trin'le.-
For men, I've three mischievous boys,
Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise;
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other,
Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother.
I rule them as I ought, discreetly,
An' aften labour them completely.
An' ay 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,
As fast as ony in the dwalling-
I've nane in female servan' station,
(L-d keep me ay frae a' temptation !)
I ha'e nae wife; and that my bliss is,
An' ye have laid nae tax on misses;
An' 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,
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,
An' gin ye tax her or her mither,

B' the Ld! ye'se get them a' thegither.

;

And now, remember Mr A-k-n,
Nae kind of licence out I'm takin';
Frae this time forth, I do declare,
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;}
My travel a' on foot I'll shank it,
I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit.-
The Kirk an' you may tak' you that,
It puts but little in your pat ;
Sae dinna put me in your buke,
Nor for my ten white shillings luke.

This list wi' my ain han' I wrote it, Day an' date as under notit,

Then know all ye whom it concerns,

Subscripsi huic,

Mossgiel, February 22d, 1786.

ROBERT BURNS.

EPIGRAM.

BURNS, accompanied by a Friend, having gone to Inverary at a time when some company were there on a visit to his Grace the Duke of Argyll, finding himself and his companion entirely neglected by the Inn-keeper, whose whole attention seemed to be occupied with the visitors of his Grace, expressed his disapprobation of the incivility with which they were treated in the following lines:

WHOE'ER he be that sojourns here,

1 pity much his case,

Unless he come to wait upon

The Lord their God, his Grace.

There's naething here but Highland pride, And Highland scab and hunger;

If Providence has sent me here,

'Twas surely in an anger.

EPITAPH

ON A

WAG IN MAUCHLINE.

LAMENT him Mauchline husbands a',

He aften did assist ye;

For had

ye staid whole weeks awa',

Your wives they ne'er had miss'd ye.

Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass
To school in bands thegither,

O tread ye lightly on his grass,
Perhaps he was your father.

EPIGRAM

ON ELPHINSTONE'S TRANSLATION OF

MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS.

O THOU whom Poetry abhors,

Whom Prose has turned out of doors,
Heard'st thou that groan-proceed no further,

'Twas laurell'd Martial roaring murder !

EPIGRAM

ON

CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE,

THE CELEBRATED ANTIQUARY.

TAE following Epigram, written in a moment of festivity by BURNS, was so much relished by GROSE, that he made it serve as an excuse for prolonging the convivial occasion that gave it birth, to a very late hour.

THE Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying,
So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying;
But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay
moaning,

And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning,* Astonished! confounded! cry'd Satan, " by G-d, "I'll want 'im, ere I take such a d-ble load."

* Mr Grose was exceedingly corpulent, and used to rally himself, with the greatest good humour, on the singular rotun dity of his figure.