For men, I've three mischievous boys, Run de'ils for rantin' and for noise; A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other, Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother. I rule them, as I ought, discreetly. And aften labour them completely; And aye on Sundays duly, nightly, I on the Questions targe them tightly; Till, faith, wee Davock's turn'd sae gleg, Tho' scarcely langer than your leg, He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling (178), As fast as ony in the dwalling. I've nane in female servan' station, (L- keep me aye frae a' temptation!) I hae nae wife-and that my bliss is, And ye have laid nae tax on misses; And then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, I ken the devils dare na touch me. Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted. My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess (179), She stares the daddy in her face, Enough of ought ye like but grace; But her, my bonny sweet wee lady, I've paid enough for her already, And gin ye tax her or her mither, B' the L! ye'se get them a' thegither.

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, Nae kind of licence out I'm takin'; Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle; My travel aon foot I'll shank it, I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit. Sae dinna put me in your buke, Nor for my ten white shillings luke.

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, The day and date as under noted; Then know all ye whom it concerns, Subscripsi huic,

ROBERT BURNS

Mossgiel, February 22, 1786.

A Mute tu Gavin Vamilton, Esq.,

MAUCHLINE.

(RECOMMENDING A BOY.)

Mossgiel, May 3, 1786.

I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty,

To warn you how that Master Tootie,

Alias, Laird M'Gaun,

Was here to hire yon lad away

'Bout whom ye spak the tither day,

And wad hae don't aff han':

But lest he learn the callan tricks, As, faith, I muckle doubt him,

Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks (180), And tellin' lies about them:

As lieve then, I'd have then,

Your clerkship he should sair,

If sae be ye may be

Not fitted other where.

Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough,
And 'bout a house that's rude and rough,
The boy might learn to swear;
But then wi' you he'll be sae taught,
A get sic fair example straught,
I havena ony fear.

Ye'll catechise him every quirk,
And shore him weel wi' hell;
And gar him follow to the kirk-
-Aye when ye gang yoursel.
If ye then maun be then
Frae hame this comin' Friday;
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir,
The orders wi' your lady.

My word of honour I hae gien,
In Paisley John's, that night at e'en,

To meet the warld's worm;
To try to get the tva to gree,
And name the airless (181) and the fee,

In legal mode and form:
I ken he weel a snick can draw,
When simple bodies let him ;
And if a devil be at a',

In faith he's sure to get him.

To phrase you, and praise you,
Ye ken your Laureat scorns:
The pray'r still, you share still,
Of grateful MINSTREL BURNS.

Willie Chalmers. (182)

Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride,
And eke a braw new brechan,

My Pegasus I'm got astride,
And up Parnassus pechin;
Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush,

The doited beastie stammers;
Then up he gets and off he sets
For sake o' Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name

May cost a pair o' blushes;
I am nae stranger to your fame,
Nor his warm urged wishes.
Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet,

His honest heart enamours,
And faith ye'll no be lost a whit,

Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers.

Auld truth hersel' might swear ye're fair,

And honour safely back her,
And modesty assume your air,
And ne'er a ane mistak' her:
And sic twa love inspiring een
Might fire even holy Palmers;
Nae wonder then they've fatal been
To honest Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na fortune may you shore
Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie,
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore,
And band upon his breastie :
But oh! what signifies to you
His lexicons and grammars;
The feeling heart's the royal blue,
And that's wi' Willie Chalmers.

Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird,
May warsle for your favour;
May claw his lug, and straik his beard,
And hoast up some palaver.
My bonnie maid, before ye wed
Sic clumsy-witted hammers,

Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp
Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers.

Forgive the Bard! my fond regard
For ane that shares my bosom,
Inspires my muse to gie'm his dues,
For deil a hair I roose him.
May powers aboon unite you soon,
And fructify your amours,
And every year come in mair dear
To you and Wilhe Chalmers.

Lines Written on a Bank Nutr. (183)
WAE worth thy power, thou cursed leaf,
Fell source o' a' my woe and grief:
For lack o' thee I've lost my lass,
For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass.
I see the children of affliction
Unaided, through thy cursed restriction.
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile
Amid his hapless victim's spoil,
And, for thy potence, vainly wish'd
To crush the villain in the dust.
For lack o' thee I leave this much loved

shore,

Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. R. B.-Kyle.

Tu a Kiss. (184)

HUMID seal of soft affections, Tend'rest pledge of future bliss, Dearest tie of young connections, Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss.

Speaking silence, dumb confession,
Passion's birth, and infants' play,
Dove-like fondness, chaste concession,
Glowing dawn of brighter day.
Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action,
When ling'ring lips no more must join;
What words can ever speak affection,
So thrilling and sincere as thine!

Verses Written under Violent Grief. (185)

ACCEPT the gift a friend sincere
Wad on thy worth be pressin';
Remembrance oft may start a tear,
But oh! that tenderness forbear,

Though 'twad my sorrows lessen.
My 'morning raise sae clear and fair,

I thought sair storms wad never
Bedew the scene; but grief and care
In wildest fury hae made bare

My peace, my hope, for ever!
You think I'in glad; oh, I pay weel,
For a' the joy I borrow,
In solitude-then, then I feel
I canna to mysel' conceal

My deeply ranklin' sorrow.
Farewell! within thy bosom free

A sigh may whiles awaken;
A tear may wet thy laughin' ee,
For Scotia's son-ance gay like thee-
Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken!

LYING AT A FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT,

THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING

Verses

IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. (186)

Он thou dread Power, who reign'st above, I know thou wilt me hear,

When for this scene of peace and love

I make my prayer sincere!
The hoary sire-the mortal stroke,
Long, long, be pleased to spare,
To bless his filial little flock

And show what good men are.
She, who her lovely offspring eyes
With tender hopes and fears,
Oh, bless her with a mother's joys,
But spare a mother's tears!
Their hope, their stay, their darling youth,
In manhood's dawning blush-
Bless him, thou God of love and truth,
Up to a parent's wish!

When soon or late they reach that coast,

O'er life's rough ocean driven, May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, A family in heaven!

Tu Mr. M'Adam,

OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN.

SIR, o'er a gill I gat your card,
I trow it made me proud;
"See wha taks notice o' the bard!"
I lap and cried fu' loud.

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw,
The senseless, gawky million :
I'll cock my nose aboon them a'-
I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan !
'Twas noble, Sir; 'twas like yoursel,

To grant your high protection :
A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well,
Is aye a blest infection.

Tho' by his (187) banes who in a tub
Match'd Macedonian Sandy!
On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub,
I independent stand aye.

And when those legs to guid, warm kail,
Wi' welcome canna bear me;

A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail,

A barley-scone shall cheer me.

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath
O' many flow'ry simmers!
And bless your bonnie lasses baith-
I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers!
And God bless young Dunaskin's laird,
The blossom of our gentry!
And may he wear an auld man's beard,
A credit to his country.

Lines on Meeting with Basil, Lord Darr. (188)

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

A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day,
Sae far I sprachled 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 ev'n join'd the honour'd jorum,

When mighty squireships of the quorum,

Their hydra drouth did sloken.

As I look o'er my sonnet. But, oh! for Hogarth's magic pow'r! To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r,

And how he star'd and stammer'd,

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

I sidling shelter'd in a nook,
And at his Lordship steal't a look,

Like some portentous omen ;
Except good sense and social glee,
And (what surprised me) modesty,

I marked nought uncommon.
I watch'd the symptoms o' the great,
The gentle pride, the lordly state,
The arrogant assuming;
The fient a pride, nae pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,

Mair than an honest ploughman.

Then from his Lordship I shall learn,
Henceforth to meet with unconcern

One rank as weel's another;
Nae honest worthy man need care
To meet with noble youthful Daer,
For he but meets a orother.

Epistle tu Major Tagan. (189) HAIL, thairm-inspirin', rattiin' Willie! Though fortune's road be rough and hilly To every fiddling, rhyming billie,

We never heed,
But take it like the unback'd filly,
Proud o' her speed.

When idly goavan whyles we saunter
Yirr, fancy barks, awa we canter
Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter,
Some black bog-hole,
Arrests us, then the scathe and banter
We're forced to thole.

Hale be your heart!-hale be your fiddle!
Lang may your elbock jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle

O this wild warl',
Until you on a crummock driddle
A grey-hair'd carle.

Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune, And screw your temper pins aboon

A fifth or mair,

The melancholious, lazy croon

O' cankrie care.

We've faults and failings-granted clearly,
We're frail backsliding mortals merely,
Eve's bonnie squad priests wyte them sheerly

For our grand fa';
But still, but still, I like them dearly-
God bless them a'!

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers,
The witching curs'd delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte,

And gart me weet my waukrife winkers,
Wi' girnin' spite.

But by yon moon!-and that's high swearin"
And every star within my hearin'!
And by her een wha was a dear anel

[rave,

mountain straying, Where the wild winds of winter incessantly What woes wring my heart while intently surveying [the wave. The storm's gloomy path on the breast of

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native shore;

Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale,

The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more.

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, [the wave; And smile at the moon's rimpled face in No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her, [her grave. For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast, [shore; I haste with the storm to a far distant Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall

rest,

And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.

On a Srutch Bard,

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. (190)

A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink,
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,

A' ye wha live and never think,

Come, mourn wi' mel

Our billie's gien us a' jink,

And owre the sea.

Lament him a' ye rantin' core,
Wha dearly like a random-splore,
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar
In social key;

For now he's taen anither shore,
And owre the sea!

The bonny lasses weel may miss him,
And in their dear petitions place him: