An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie: Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers. Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle, She'll teach you, wi' a reekin' whittle, This while she's been in crankous mood, (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play'd her that pliskie !) An' now she'd like to rin red-wud About her whiskey. An' L-d, if ance they pit her till't, An' durk an' pistol at her belt, She'll tak the streets, An' rin her whittle to the hilt, I' th' first she meets! For God sake, sirs, then speak her fair, An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, An' to the muckle house repair, Wi' instant speed, An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks; E'en cowe the cadie! An' send him to his dicing box, An' sportin' lady. Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's ROBERT BURNS. An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock's1 If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, Wad kindly seek. Could he some commutation broach, I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; An' if she promise auld or young To tak their part, Tho' by the neck she should be strung, An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, An' kick your place, Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, God bless your honours a' your days, In spite o' a' the thievish kaes That haunt St. James's, Your humble Poet signs an' prays While Rab his name is. POSTSCRIPT. LET half-starved slaves in warmer skies But blythe and frisky, She eyes her freeborn, martial boys, Tak aff their whiskey. 1 A worthy old hosters of the author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes studied poli tics over a glass of guid auld Scotch drink. What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and beauty charms! When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, The scented groves, Or hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves. Their gun's a burden on their shouther; Till skelp-a shot-they're aff, a' throther To save their skin. But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Say, such is royal George's will, An' there's the foe, He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow. Nae cauld faint-hearted doubtings tease him; Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him; Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him; An' when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him In faint huzzas! Sages their solemn een may steek, An' physically causes seek, In clime an' season; But tell me whiskey's name in Greek, I'll tell the reason. Scotland, my auld, respected mither! Ye tine your dam; Freedom and whiskey gang thegither! Tak aff your dram! ROBERT BURNS. ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. "My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them aye thegither; The Rigid Wise anither: The cleanest corn that e'er was dight SOLOMON.-Eccles. ch. vi. ver. 16. ["Burns," says Hogg, in a note on this Poem, "has written more from his own heart and his own feelings than any other poet. External nature had few charms for him; the sublime shades and hues of heaven and earth never excited his enthusiasm: but with the secret fountains of passion in the human soul he was well acquainted." Burns, indeed, was not what is called a descriptive poet: yet with what exquisite snatches of description are some of his poems adorned, and in what fragrant and romantic scenes he enshrines the heroes and heroines of many of his finest songs! Who, the high, exalted, virtuous dames were to whom the Poem refers, we are not told. How much men stand indebted to want of opportunity to sin, and how much of their good name they owe to the ignorance of the wor 1, were inquiries in which the poet found pleasure.] O YE wha are sae guid yoursel', Sae pious and sae holy, Ye've nought to do but mark and tell Your neibor's fauts and folly! Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, Hear me, ye venerable core, As counsel for poor mortals, I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, But cast a moment's fair regard, What maks the mighty differ? And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) Think, when your castigated pulse Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on you scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o' baith to sail, See social life and glee sit down, Debauchery and drinking; O would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded hell to state, Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, To step aside is human : One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it: And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone |