VERSES TO J. RANKEN,

(The person to whom his Poem on shooting the partridge is addressed, while Ranken occupied the farm of Adamhill, in Ayrshire.)

AE day, as Death, that grusome carl,
Was driving to the tither warl'
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad,
And mony a gilt-bespotted lad;
Black gowns of each denomination,
And thieves of every rank and station,
From him that wears the star and garter,
To him that wintles* in a halter:
Asham'd himsel to see the wretches,
He mutters, glow'rin at the bitches,
"By G-d I'll not be seen behint them,
"Nor'mang the sp'ritual core present them,
"Without, at least ae honest man,
"To grace this d-d infernal clan."
By Adamhill a glance he threw,
"L-d God! (quoth he) I have it now,
"There's just the man I want, i' faith,"
And quickly stoppit Ranken's breath.†

* The word Wintle, denotes sudden and involuntary motion. In the ludicrous sense in which it is here applied, it may be admirably translated by the vulgar London expression of Dancing upon nothing...

† The first thought of this poem seems to have been suggested by Falstaff's account of his ragged recruits passing. through Coventry.

"I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat!"

Aa2

On hearing that there was Falsehood in the

Rev. Dr. B's very looks.

That there is falsehood in his looks
I must and will deny:
They say their master is a knave-
And sure they do not lie.

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, Fifeshire.

Here lie Willie M-hie's banes,
O Satan, when ye tak him,
Gie him the schulin of your weans;
For clever DEILS he 'll mak 'em!

ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUMOURIER.

(A Parody on Robin Adair.)

You 're welcome to Despots, Dumourier;

You 're welcome to Despots, Dumourier.

How does Dampiere do?

Aye, and Bournonville too?

Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier?

P

I will fight France with you, Dumourier,

I will fight France with you, Dumourier:

I will fight France with you,

I will take my chance with you;

By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumourier.

Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about, Dumourier;

Then let us fight about,

'Till freedom's spark is out,

Then we 'll be d-mned no doubt-Dumourier.*

ELEGY

ON THE YEAR 1788.

A SKETCH.

For lords or kings I dinna mourn,
E'en let them die for that they 're born':
But oh! prodigious to reflec'!
A Towmont,† Sirs, is gane to wreck!
Ο Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space
What dire events ha'e taken place!
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!
In what a pickle thou hast left us!

The Spanish empire's tint a head,
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead;
The tulzie's sair, 'tween Pitt an' Fox,
And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks;
The tane is game, a bluidie devil,
But to the hen-birds unco civil;

The tither 's something dour o' treadin,
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden-

* It is almost needless to observe that the song of Robin Adair, begins thus:

You 're welcome to Paxton, Robin Adair;

You 're welcome to Paxton, Robin Adair.

How does Johnny Mackerell do?

Aye, and Luke Gardener too?

Why did they not come along with you, Robin Adair?

† A Towmont-A Twelvemonth.

Ye ministers, come mount the poupit,
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet,
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel,
An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal;
E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!-

Ye bonie lasses, dight your e'en,
For some o' you ha'e tint a frien';
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en
What ye 'll ne'er ha'e to gie again.

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, How dowf and daviely they creep; Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry, For E'nbrugh wells are grutten dry.

O Eighty-nine, thou 's but a bairn,
An' no o'er auld, I hope, to learn!
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care,
Thou now has got thy Daddy's chair,
Nae hand-cuff'd mizl'd, hap-shackl'd Regent,
But, like himsel, a full free agent.
Be sure ye follow out the plan
Nae waur than he did, honest man!

As muckle better as you can.

January 1, 1789.

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VERSES,

Written under the portrait of Fergusson, the poet, in a copy of that author's works presented to a young Lady in Edinburgh, March 19th, 1787.

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd,
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure.
O thou my elder brother in misfortune,
By far my elder brother in the muses,
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!
Why is the bard unpitied by the world,
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?*

* This apostrophe to Fergusson, bears a striking affinity to one in Burns's poems, Dr. Currie's edition, vol. III, p. 248.

O Fergusson! thy glorious parts
Ill suited law's dry musty arts!

My curse upon your whunstane hearts,

Ye E'nbrugh gentry!

The tythe o' what ye waste at Cartes

Wad stow'd his pantry!

This was written before Burns visited the Scottish capital. Even without a poet's susceptibility we may feel how the prophetic parallel of Fergusson's case with his own must have pressed on the memory of our bard, when he paid his second tribute of affection to his elder brother in misfortune.

E.