TO MR. M'ADAM, OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN.

[It seems that Burns, delighted with the praise which the Laird of Craigen-Gillan bestowed on his verses,-probably the Jolly Beggars, then in the hands of Woodburn, his steward,-poured out this little unpremeditated natural acknowledgment.]

SIR, o'er a gill I gat your card,

I trow it made me proud;

"See wha tak's notice o' the bard!"
I lap and cry'd fu' loud.

"Now deil-ma-care about their jaw,
The senseless, gawky 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' well,
Is ay a blest infection.

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

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

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' many flow'ry simmers!

And bless your bonnie lasses baith

I'm tauld 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.

1 Diogenes.

ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE SENT TO THE

AUTHOR BY A TAILOR.

[The person who in the name of a Tailor took the liberty of admonishing Burns about his errors, is generally believed to have been William Simpson, the schoolmaster of Ochiltree: the verses seem about the measure of his capacity, and were attributed at the time to his hand. The natural poet took advantage of the mask in which the made poet concealed himself, and rained such a merciless storm upon him, as would have extinguished haif the Tailors in Ayrshire, and made the amazed dominie

"Strangely fidge and fyke."

It was first printed in 1801, by Stewart.]

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

I didna suffer ha'f sae much

Frae Daddie Auld.

What tho' at times when I grow crouse,
I gie 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 sic mischief,

As fill'd his after life wi' grief,

An' bluidy 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' drunken rants,
I'll gie auld cloven Clootie's haunts
An unco' slip yet,

An' snugly sit among the saunts

At Davie's hip yet.

Than garrin lasses cowp the cran
Clean heels owre body,
And sairly thole their mither's ban
Afore the howdy.

This leads me on, to tell for sport,
How I did wi' the Session sort,—
Auld Clinkum at the inner port

Cried three times-"Robin!

Come hither, lad, an' answer for❜t,
Ye're blamed for jobbin'."

Wi' pinch I pat a Sunday's face on,
An' snoov'd away before the Session;
I made an open fair confession-

I scorn'd to lie;

An' syne Mess John, beyond expression,

Fell foul o' me.

*

TO J. RANKINE.

[With the Laird of Adambill's personal character the reader is already acquainted: the lady about whose frailties the rumour alluded to was about to rise, has not been named, and it would neither be delicate nor polite to guess.]

I AM a keeper of the law

In some sma' points, altho' not a';

Some people tell me gin I fa'

Ae way or ither,

The breaking of ae point, though sma',
Breaks ae thegither.

I hae been in for't ance or twice,
And winna say o'er far for thrice,
Yet never met with that surprise

That broke my rest,

But now a rumour's like to rise,

A whaup's i' the nest.

LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE.

[The bank-note on which these characteristic lines were endorsed, came int: the hands of the late James Gracie, banker in Dumfries: he knew the handwriting of Burns, and kept it as a curiosity. The concluding lines point to the year 1786, as the date of the composition.]

WAE worth thy power, thou cursed leaf,

Fell source o' a' my woe an' grief;

For lack o' thee I've lost my lass,
For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass.
I see the children of affliction
Unaided, through thy cursed restriction.
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile
Amid his hapless victim's spoil:
And for thy potence vainly wished,

To crush the villain in the dust.

For lack o' thee, I leave this much-lov'd shore,
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.

R. B.

A DREA M.

"Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason."

On reading in the public papers, the "Laureate's Ode," with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and in his dreaming fancy made the following “Address."

[The prudent friends of the poet remonstrated with him about this Poem, which they appeared to think would injure his fortunes and stop the royal bounty to which he was thought entitled. Mrs. Dunlop, and Mrs. Stewart, of Stair, solicited him in vain to omit it in the Edinburgh edition of his poems. I know of no poem for which a claim of being prophetic would be so successfully set up: it is full of point as well as of the future. The allusions require no comment.]

GUID-MORNIN' to your Majesty!

May Heaven augment your blisses,
On ev'ry new birth-day ye see,

A humble poet wishes!

My bardship here, at your levee,
On sic a day as this is,

Is sure an uncouth sight to see,
Amang thae birth-day dresses.

Sae fine this day.

I see ye're complimented thrang,
By many a lord an' lady;

"God save the king!"'s a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said ay;

The poets, too, a venal gang,

Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready,

For me, before a monarch's face,
Ev'n there I winna flatter;
For neither pension, post, nor place,
Am I your humble debtor:

So, nae reflection on your grace,

Your kingship to bespatter;

There's monie waur been o' the race,

And aiblins ane been better

Than you this day.

'Tis very true, my sov'reign king,
My skill may weel be doubted:
But facts are chiels that winna ding,
An' downa be disputed:

Your royal nest beneath your wing,
Is e'en right reft an' clouted,
And now the third part of the string,

An' less, will gang about it

Than did ae day.

Far be't frae me that I aspire

To blame your legislation,
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,

To rule this mighty nation.
But faith! I muckle doubt, my sire,

Ye've trusted ministration

To chaps wha, in a barn or byre,

Wad better fill'd their station

Than courts yon day.

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace,

Her broken shins to plaister;