ANSWER TO A POETICAL
EPISTLE FROM A TAILOR.

[The Tailor to whom Burns gave this terribly plain-spoken answer was one Thomas Walker of Poole, near Ochiltree-the opening couplet of whose address to the young farmer of Mossgiel, in 1786, ran thus

Folks tell me ye 're gaun aff this year, out-owre

the sea,

And lasses whom ye lo'ed sae dear, will greet for thee!

Than garrin' lasses cowp the cran,

Clean heels owre body,

And sairly thole their mither's ban,
Afore the howdy.

This leads me on to tell for sport,
How I did wi' the Session sort-
Auld Clinkum, at the Inner port
Cry'd three times, "Robin!
Come hither lad, an answer for 't-
Ye're blam'd for jobbin'!"

Burns can hardly be said to have given him the Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on,
retort courteous.]

WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie

To thresh my back at sic a pitch?
Losh, man! ha'e mercy wi' your natch,

Your bodkin's bauld;

I did na suffer half sae much

Frae Daddie Auld.

What tho' at times, when I grow crouse,
I gi'e their wames a random pouse,
Is that enough for you to souse
Your servant sae?

Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse,
An' jag-the-flae!

King David, o' poetic brief,
Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief
As fill'd his after life wi' grief

An' bloody rants,

An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief
O' lang-syne saunts.

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,
My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants,
I'll gi'e auld cloven Clooty's haunts
An unco slip yet,

An' snugly sit amang the saunts,
At Davie's hip yet!

But fegs! the Session says I maun
Gae fa' upo' anither plan,

An' snoov'd awa' before the Session-
I made an open fair confession-
I scorn'd to lie;

An' syne Mess John, beyond expression,
Fell foul o' me.

A furnicator loun he call'd me,

An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me,
I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me,
"But what the matter!"
Quo' I, "I fear, unless ye geld me,
I'll ne'er be better!"

"Geld you!" quo' he, "and whatfor no'?
If that your right hand, leg, or toe,
Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe,
You shou'd remember!

To cut it aff-an' whatfor no'?-
Your dearest member!"

But, sat, this pleas'd them warst ava,
Au' therefore, Tam, when that I saw,
I said " Gude-night,” and cam' awa’,
And left the Session;

I saw they were resolvèd a'

On my oppression.

I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
Would here propone defences,
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared,
And shudder at the niffer,

But cast a moment's fair regard,

What mak's the mighty differ;

Discount what scant occasion gave

That purity ye pride in,

ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, And (what 's aft mair than a' the lave)

OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS.

Your better art o' hiding.

[Evidently not written before the publication Think, when your castigated pulse

of the first or Kilmarnock edition of the Poems, otherwise it must for certain have appeared therein. Speaking of this poem, Wordsworth has exquisitely said, "Burns was a man who preached from the text of his own errors, and his wisdom, beautiful as a flower that might

Gi'es now and then a wallop,

What ragings must his veins convulse,

That still eternal gallop :

Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,
Right on ye scud your sea-way;

have risen from seed sown from above, was in
fact a scion from the root of personal suffering."] | But in the teeth o' baith to sail,

"My son, these maxims make a rule,

And lump them aye thegither;
The Rigid Righteous is a fool,
The Rigid Wise anither.

The cleanest corn that ne'er was dight,
May ha'e some pyles o' caff in;
So ne'er a fellow-creature slight
For random fits o' daffin."

SOLOMON, Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16.

O YE wha are sae guid yoursel',
Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell
Your neebours' faults and folly!
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi' store o' water,
The heapet happer's ebbing still,
And still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core,

As counsel for poor mortals,

It mak's an unco leeway.

See Social Life and Glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite transmugrified, they're grown
Debauchery and drinking:

O, would they stay to calculate
Th' eternal consequences;

Or your more dreaded hell to state,
Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Tied up in godly laces,
Before ye gi'e poor Frailty names,
Suppose a change o' cases;
A dear-loved lad, convenience snug,
A treacherous inclination-
But, let me whisper i' your lug,

Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;

That frequent pass douce Wisdom's doo: Though they may gang a kennin wrang,

For glaikit Folly's portals;

To step aside is human:

On turning one DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, Thou lifts thy unassuming head

IN APRIL, 1786,

In humble guise;

And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betrayed,

[Writing on the 20th of April, 1786, to his But now the share uptears thy bed, intimate friend John Kennedy, the Poet enclosed these verses, under the title of "The Gowan," observing that they were the latest of his productions, and adding, "I am a good deal pleased with some of the sentiments myself, as they are just the native querulous feelings of a heart which Melancholy has marked for her own." Burns, it should be remembered, was nearly distraught at this juncture, by reason of the wanton destruction of his written promise of marriage to Jean Armour.]

WEE, modest, crimson-tippèd flower,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem;
To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!

"

And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starred!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is given,
Who long with wants and woes has

striven,