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 ane 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 cham'er,
Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamor,
And you, deep-read in hell's black grammar
Warlocks and witches!

Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,

Ye midnight bitches!

It's tauld he was a sodger bred,
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled;
But now he's quat the spurtle blade,
And dog-skin wallet,

And taen the

antiquarian trade,

I think they call it.

He has a fouth o' al. nick-nackets!

Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets,f
Wad had the Lothians three in tackets,
A towmont guid;

And paraitch-pats, and auld saut-backets,
Before the flood.

* Vide his Antiquities of Scotland † Vide his Treatise on Ancient Armor and Weapons.

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 oroom-stick o' the witch of 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-gullie.

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 pow'rs o' verse and prose: Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose! Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,

They sair misca' thee;

I'd tak the rascal by the nose,

Wad say, Shame fa' thee

WRITTEN IN A WRAFPER, ENCLOSING A LETTER TO
CAPTAIN GROSE, TO BE LEFT WITH MR. CARDONNEL,
ANTIQUARIAN.

TUNE - "Sir John Malcolm.”

KEN ye aught o' Captain Grose?
Igo, and ago,

If he's amang his friends or foes?
Iram, coram, dago.

Is he south, or is he north?
Igo, and ago.

Or drowned in the river Forth?

Iram, coram, dago.

Is he slain by Highland bodies?
Igo, and ago,

And eaten like a wether-haggis?

Iram, coram, dago.

Is he to Abram's bosom gane?
Igo, and ago,

Or hauden Sarah by the wane?
Iram, coram, dago.

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him!
Igo, and ago,

As for the Deil, he' davr 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.

So may ye get in glad possession
Igo, and ago,

The coins o' Satan's coronation!

Iram, coram, dago.

EPIGRAM ON CAPTAIN GROSE.

THE Deil 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 moan ing,

And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning,
Astonish'd! confounded! cried 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 humor, on the singular rotundity of his figure. This epigram, written by Burns in a moment of festivity, was so much relished by the antiquarian, that he made it serve as an excuse for proonging the convivial occasion that gave it birth, to a very late hour.

LINES

ON AN INTERVIEW WITH Lord DAER,

Tuis wot ye all whom it concerns,
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,
October twenty-third,

A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day,

Sae far I spreckled up the brae,
I dinner'd wi' a Lord!

I've been at drucken writers' feasts,
Nay, been bitch fou 'mang godly priests,
Wi' rev'rence be it spoken:

I've even join'd the honor'd jorum,
When mighty squireships of the quorum
Their hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin!
A Lord, a Peer, an Earl's son!

Up higher yet, my bonnet!

And sic a Lord - lang Scotch ells twa!
Our peerage he o'erlooks them a',
As I look o'er my sonnet.

But oh, for Hogarth's magic power!
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glow'r,
And how he star'd and stammer'd,

When goavan, as if led wi' branks,
An' stumpin on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlor hammer'd.