Saw ye e'er sic troggin?
If to buy ye're slack,
Hornie's turnin' chapman,
He'll buy a' the pack.

Buy braw troggin,

Frae the banks o' Dee;
Wha wants troggin

Let him come to me.

POEM ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL,

COLLECTOR OF EXCISE.

DUMFRIES, 1796.

[The gentleman to whom this very modest, and, under the circumstances, most affecting application for his salary was made, filled the office of Collector of Excise for the district, and was of a kind and generous nature: but few were aware that the poet was suffering both from ill-health and poverty.]

FRIEND of the Poet, tried and leal,

Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal;

Alake, alake, the meikle deil

Wi' a' his witches

Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel,

In my poor pouches!

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,
That one pound one, I sairly want it,

If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it,

It would be kind;

And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted

I'd bear't in mind.

So may the auld year gang out moaning
To see the new come laden, groaning,
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin

To thee and thine;

Domestic peace and comforts crowning

The hale design.

POSTSCRIPT.

YE'VE heard this while how I've been licket,
And by fell death was nearly nicket;

Grim loon! he got me by the fecket,

And sair me sheuk;

But by guid luck I lap a wicket,

And turn'd a neuk.

But by that health, I've got a share o't,
And by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't,
My hale and weel I'll tak a care o't,

A tentier way:

Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't,
For ance and aye!

TO MISS JESSIE LEWARS,

DUMFRIES.

WITH JOHNSON'S MUSICAL MUSEUM.'

[Miss Jessy Lewars watched over the declining days of the poet, with the affectionate reverence of a daughter: for this she has the silent gratitude of all who admire the genius of Burns; she has received more, the thanks of the poet himself, expressed in verses not destined soon to die.]

THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair,

And with them take the Poet's prayer;
That fate may in her fairest page,
With every kindliest, best presage
Of future bliss, enrol thy name :
With native worth and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution still aware
Of ill-but chief, man's felon snare;
All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind—
These be thy guardian and reward;
So prays thy faithful friend, The Bard.
June 26, 1796.

POEM ON LIFE,

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER.

DUMFRIES, 1796

[This is supposed to be the last Poem written by the hand, or conceived by the muse of Burns. The person to whom it is addressed was Colonel of the Gentlemen Volunteers of Dumfries, in whose ranks Burns was a private: he was a Canadian by birth, and prided himself on having defended Detroit, against the united efforts of the French and Ameri He was rough and austere, and thought the science of war the noblest of all sciences: he affected a taste for literature, and wrote verses.]

cans.

My honour'd colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the Poet's weal;
Ah! how sma' heart hae I to speel

The steep Parnassus,

Surrounded thus by bolus, pill,

And potion glasses.

what a canty warld were it,

Would pain and care and sickness spare it;
And fortune favour worth and merit,

As they deserve!

(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret;
Syne, wha wad starve?)

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and frippery deck her;
Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker

I've found her still,

Ay wavering like the willow-wicker,

'Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrons by a ratton,

Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on

Wi' felon ire;

Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on

He's aff like fire.

Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,
First showing us the tempting ware,

Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,
To put us daft;

Syne, weave, unseen, thy spider snare

O' hell's damn'd waft.

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes bye,

And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,

Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy,

And hellish pleasure;

Already in thy fancy's eye,

Thy sicker treasure!

Soon heels-o'er-gowdie! in he gangs,
And like a sheep head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs
And murd'ring wrestle,

As, dangling in the wind, he hangs
A gibbet's tassel.

But lest you think I am uncivil,

To plague you with this draunting drivel, Abjuring a' intentions evil,

I quat my pen:

The Lord preserve us frae the devil,

Amen! Amen!