What verse can sing, what prose narrate,
The butcher deeds of bloody fate

Amid this mighty tulzie!

Grim Horror grinn'd-pale Terror roar'd,
As Murther at his thrapple shor'd,

And hell mix'd in the brulzie.

As highland crags by thunder cleft,
When lightnings fire the stormy lift,

Hurl down with crashing rattle:

As flames among a hundred woods;
As headlong foam a hundred floods;

Such is the rage of battle!

The stubborn Tories dare to die;
As soon the rooted oaks would fly

Before the approaching fellers:

The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar,
When all his wintry billows pour

Against the Buchan Bullers.

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night,
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight,

And think on former daring:

The muffled murtherer' of Charles

The Magna Charta flag unfurls,

All deadly gules it's bearing.

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame,

Bold Scrimgeour" follows gallant Grahame,
Auld Covenanters shiver.

(Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd Montrose!

Now death and hell engulph thy foes,

Thou liv'st on high for ever!)

Still o'er the field the combat burns,

The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;

But fate the word has spoken:

The executioner of Charles I. was masked.
Grahame, Marquis of Montrose.

2 Scrimgeour, Lord Dundee.

For woman's wit and strength o' man,
Alas! can do but what they can!

The Tory ranks are broken.

O that my een were flowing burns,
My voice a lioness that mourns

Her darling cubs' undoing!

That I might greet, that I might cry,

While Tories fall, while Tories fly,

And furious Whigs pursuing!

What Whig but melts for good Sir James!
Dear to his country by the names

Friend, patron, benefactor!

Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save!

And Hopeton falls, the generous brave!

And Stewart,' bold as Hector.

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow;

And Thurlow growl a curse of woe;

And Melville melt in wailing!

How Fox and Sheridan rejoice!

And Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise,

Thy power is all prevailing!

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar

He only hears and sees the war,

A cool spectator purely;

So, when the storm the forest rends,

The robin in the hedge descends,

And sober chirps securely

1 Stewart of Hillside.

ON CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH

SCOTLAND,

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM.

[This "fine, fat, fodgel wight" was a clever man, a skilful antiquary, and fond of wit and wine. He was well acquainted with heraldry, and was conversant with the weapons and the armour of his own and other countries. He found his way to Friars-Carse, in the Vale of Nith, and there, at the social "board of Glenriddel," for the first time saw Burns. The Englishman heard, it is said, with wonder, the sarcastic sallies and eloquent bursts of the inspired Scot, who, in his turn, surveyed with wonder the remarkable corpulence, and listened with pleasure to the independent sentiments and humorous turns of conversation in the joyous Englishman. This Poem was the fruit of the interview, and it is said that Grose regarded some passages as rather personal.]

HEAR, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's;

If there's a hole in a' your coats,

I rede you tent it:

A chiel's amang you takin' notes,

And, faith, he'll prent it!

If in your bounds ye chance to light

Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,

O' stature short, but genius bright,

That's he, mark weel

And wow! he has an unco slight

O' cauk and keel.

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,
Or kirk deserted by its riggin,

It's ten to one ye'll find him snug in

Some eldritch part,

Wi' deils, they say, L-d save's! colleaguin'
At some black art.

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer,
Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamour,

And you deep read in hell's black grammar,
Warlocks and witches;

Ye'li quake at his conjuring hammer,

Ye midnight b-s!

It's tauld he was a sodger bred,

And ane wad rather fa'n than fled;

286

But now he's quat the spurtle-blade,

And dog-skin wallet,

And ta'en the-Antiquarian trade,

I think they call it.

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets:
Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets,
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,
A towmont guid;

And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,
Afore the flood.

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubal-Cain's fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished the gender
O' Balaam's ass;

A broom-stick o' the witch o' Endor,

Weel shod wi' brass.

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg,
The cut of Adam's philibeg:

The knife that nicket Abel's craig

He'll prove you fully,

It was a faulding jocteleg,

Or lang-kail gully.—

But wad ye see him in his glee,

For meikle glee and fun has he,

Then set him down, and twa or three

Guid fellows wi' him;

And port, O port! shine thou a wee,

And then ye'll see him!

Now by the powr's o' verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose !—
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,

They sair misca' thee;

I'd take the rascal by the nose

Wad say, Shame fa' thee!

WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER, ENCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPTAIN GROSE.

[Burns wrote out some antiquarian and legendary memoranda, respecting certain ruins in Kyle, and enclosed them in a sheet of a paper to Cardonnel, a northern antiquary. As his mind teemed with poetry he could not, as he afterwards said, let the opportunity pass of sending a rhyming inquiry after his fat friend, and Cardonnel spread the condoling Inquiry over the North

Where'er he be, the L-d be near him!
Igo and ago,

As for the deil, he daur na steer him!
Iram, coram, dago.

But please transmit the enclosed letter,
Igo and ago,

Which will oblige your humble debtor,
Iram, coram, dago.

So may ye hae auld stanes in store,

Igo and ago,

The very stanes that Adam bore,

Iram, coram, dago.