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If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it,

And while my

It would be kind;

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

Domestic peace

To thee and thine; 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 loun! he gat 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 heal and weal I'll take a care o't

A tentier

way:

Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't,

For ance and

aye.

SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED.

THE friend whom wild from wisdom's way

The fumes of wine infuriate send

(Not moony madness more astray);

Who but deplores that hapless friend?

POEM ON LIFE.

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part,
Ah, why should I such scenes outlive?
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!

'Tis thine to pity and forgive.

19

POEM ON LIFE.

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER, DUMFPIES,

1796.

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

The steep Parnassus,

Surrounded thus by bolus pill,

And potion glasses.

O, 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 fripp'ry deck her;
Oh! flick'ring, feeble, and unsicker

I've found her still,

Aye wav'ring like the willow wicker,
"Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrans by a rattan,
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 isna fair,
First shewing 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 bizzies by,
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks with joy,
And hellish pleasure;

Already in thy fancy's eye,

Thy sicker treasure.

Soon heels-o'er-gowdy! 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!

ΤΟ

ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY,

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR.

I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns;
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,

EPITAPH....A GRACE.

For boons recorded, goodness ever new,
The gift still dearer, as the giver you.

Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night;
If aught that giver from my mind efface;
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace;
Then roll to me, along your wand'ring spheres,
Only to number out a villain's years!

EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.

AN honest man here lies at rest,
As e'er God with his image blest;
The friend of man, the friend of truth;
The friend of age, and guide of youth:
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd,
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd:
If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.

A GRACE BEFORE DINNER.

O THOU, who kindly dost provide
For every creature's want!

We bless thee, God of Nature wide,
For all thy goodness lent:

And, if it please thee, Heavenly Guide,
May never worse be sent;

'But whether granted, or denied,
Lord, bless us with content!

VOL. II.

Amen!

C

21

A VERSE

COMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURNS, TO THE MASTER OF

THE HOUSE, ON TAKING LEAVE AT A PLACE IN THE

HIGHLANDS, WHERE HE HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTER-
TAINED.

WHEN death's dark stream I ferry o'er,
A time that surely shall come;
In Heaven itself I'll ask no more,
Than just a Highland welcome.

INSCRIPTION TO THE MEMORY OF
FERGUSSON.

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET,

Born, September 5th, 1751-Died, 15th October, 1774. No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 'No storied urn nor animated bust,'

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust.

Το

ANSWER TO VERSES

ADDRESSED TO THE POET BY THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE.

GUIDWIFE,

I MIND it weel, in early date,

When I was beardless, young and blate,
An' first could thresh the barn,
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh,
An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh,
Yet unco proud to learn:

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