The poet confesses

I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,
Douce hinging owre my curple,
Than ony ermine ever lap,
Or proud imperial purple.
Farewell then, lang hale then,
An' plenty be your fa';

May losses and crosses
Ne'er at your hallan ca'!

March 1787.

R. BURNS.

ADDRESS TO WM. TYTLER, ESQ.,
OF WOODHOUSELEE

WITH AN IMPRESSION OF THE AUTHOR'S PORTRAIT
REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,

Of Stuart, a name once respected;

A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart,

But now 'tis despis'd and neglected.

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye,
Let no one misdeem me disloyal;

A

poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh,
Still more if that wand'rer were royal.

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne :
My fathers have dièd to right it:

Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,
That name should he scoffingly slight it.

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily
join,

The Queen, and the rest of the gentry:

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine;
Their title's avow'd by my country.

But why of that epocha make such a fuss,
That gave us th' Electoral stem?
If bringing them over was lucky for us,
I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them.

But loyalty truce! we're on dangerous ground;
Who knows how the fashions may alter?
The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring us a halter!

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard,
A trifle scarce worthy your care;

But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard,
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your

eye,

And ushers the long dreary night:

But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky,
Your course to the latest is bright.

BURLESQUE LAMENT FOR THE
ABSENCE OF WILLIAM CREECH,
PUBLISHER.

AULD chuckie Reekie's sair distrest,
Down droops her ance weel burnish'd crest,
Nae joy her bonie buskit nest

Can yield ava,

Her darling bird that she lo❜es best-
Willie, 's awa.

O Willie was a witty wight,

And had o' things an unco' sleight,

his

Jacobite leanings

Edinburgh suffers

from

Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight,

And trig an' braw:

But now they'll busk her like a fright,—
Willie's awa!

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd,
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd;
They durst nae mair than he allow'd,
That was a law:

We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd;
Willie's awa!

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks and fools,
Frae colleges and boarding schools,
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools
In glen or shaw;

He wha could brush them down to mools-
Willie, 's awa!

The brethren o' the Commerce-chaumer
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour;
He was a dictionar and grammar

Among them a';

I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer;
Willie's awa!

Nae mair we see his levee door
Philosophers and poets pour,
And toothy critics by the score,
In bloody raw!

The adjutant o' a' the core-
Willie, 's awa!

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face,
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace;

M'Kenzie, Stewart, such a brace

As Rome ne'er saw;

They a' maun meet some ither place,
Willie's awa!

Poor Burns ev'n Scotch Drink canna quicken,
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin,
By hoodie-craw;

Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin,
Willie's awa!

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin blellum,
And Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him;
Ilk self-conceited critic skellum

His quill may draw ;

He wha could brawlie ward their bellum-
Willie,'s awa!

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped,
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,
And Ettrick banks, now roaring red,
While tempests blaw;

But every joy and pleasure's fled,
Willie's awa!

May I be Slander's common speech;
A text for Infamy to preach;
And lastly, streekit out to bleach

In winter snaw;

When I forget thee, WILLIE CREECH,
Tho' far awa!

May never wicked Fortune touzle him!
May never wicked men bamboozle him!

the absence of Creech

Caledonia laments

Until a pow as auld's Methusalem

He canty claw!

Then to the blessed new Jerusalem

Fleet wing awa!

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF SIR
JAMES HUNTER BLAIR

THE lamp of day with ill-presaging glare,
Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave;
Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air,
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell,

Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train ; Ormus'dwhere limpid streams, once hallow'd, well, Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks,
The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry
sky,

The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.
The paly moon rose in the livid east,

And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form
In weeds of woe, that frantic beat her breast,
And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm.
Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow;

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd:
Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe,
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.
Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war,

Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd,
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar,

And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.