By human pride or cunning driven
To mis'ry's brink,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O' war'ly cares,
Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle
He, ruined, sink!
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,
But, Davie, lad, I'm rede ye 're glaikit ;
I'm tauld the Muse ye ha'e negleckit;
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be lick et
Until ye fyke;
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket,
Shall be thy doom!
Be hain't wha like.
[The subject of these lines was the daughter of Mr. William Cruikshank, Dominie at the High School in Edinburgh. She was then no more than twelve years of age, and, as the Ettrick Shepherd has asked, "Who loves not a little girl of twelve?" She afterwards married a lawyer at Jedburgh, named Henderson.]
BEAUTEOUS rose-bud, young and gay,
Blooming on thy early May,
Never may'st thou, lovely flower,
Chilly shrink in sleety shower!
Never Boreas' hoary path,
Never Eurus' poisonous breath,
Never baleful stellar lights,
Taint thee with untimely blights!
Never, never reptile thief,
Riot on thy virgin leaf!
Nor even Sol too fiercely view
Thy bosom blushing still with dew!
May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem,
For sune as Chance or Fate had husht Richly deck thy native stem;
In Answer to a MANDATE BY THE SUR-
VEYOR OF TAXES, REQUIRING A RETURN
FOR THE ASSESSED TAXES.
[These verses were addressed to Robert Aiken in his capacity as Surveyor of Taxes in Ayr, apropos to the new tax imposed on Female Servants by Mr. Pitt in 1785, with a view to the reduction of the National Debt.]
SIR, as your mandate did request,
I send you here a faithfu' list
O' guids and gear, and a' my graith,
To which I'm clear to gie my aith.
Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,
I ha'e four brutes o' gallant mettle,
As ever drew afore a pettle.
My han'-afore 's a guid auld has-been,
And wight and wilfu' a' his days been,
My han'-ahin's a weel-gaun filly,
That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,
And your auld burro' mcny a time,
In days when riding was nae crime-
But ance, when in my wooing pride,
I, like a blockhead, boost to ride,
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to,
I made a poker o' the spin'le,
And my auld mither brunt the trin'le.
For men, I've three mischievous boys,
Run-de'ils for rantin' and for noise:
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other;
Wee Davoc hauds the nowte in fother.
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly,
And aften labour them completely;
And aye on Sundays duly, nightly,
I on the question targe them tightly,
Till, faith, wee Davoc's turned sae gleg,
Though scarcely langer than my leg,
He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling
As fast as ony in the dwalling.
I've nane in female servan' station,
(Lord, keep me aye frae a' temptation!)
I ha'e nae wife, and that my bliss is,
And ye ha'e laid nae tax on misses;
And then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me,
I ken the devils darena touch me.
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel con-
tented,
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted,
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,
She stares the daddy in her face,
Enough of aught you like but grace;
But her, my bonnie sweet wee lady,
(Lord, pardon a' my sins, and that too!) I've paid enough for her already,
I played my fillie sic a shavie,
She's a' bedevill'd wi' the spavie.
My furr-ahin's a worthy beast,
As e'er in tug or tow was traced.
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie,
A damned red-wud Kilburnie blastie !
Forbye a cowte, o' cowtes the wale,
As ever ran afore a tail;
If he be spared to be a beast,
He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least.
Wheel-carriages I ha'e but few,
Three carts, and twa are feckly new ;
An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken;
And gin ye tax her or her mither,
B' the Lord! ye'se get them a' the-
gither.
And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,
Nae kind of license out I'm takin';
Frae this time forth I do declare,
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair;
Through dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;
My travel a' on foot I'll shank it,
I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit!
The kirk and you may tak' you that,
It puts but little in your pat;
Sae dinna put me in your buke,
Nor for my ten white shillings luke.
'T is you and Taylor are the chief
Wha are to blame for this mischief,
But gin the Lord's ain folks gat leave,
A toom tar-barrel
[This was obviously the merest fragment of an epistle, and one which was probably never intended for publication. It appeared originally in the edition of Burns printed in 1801, at Glasgow. Two additional stanzas, since then brought to light, are appended, and have been An' twa red peats wad send relief, duly marked as supplementary by being separated from their predecessors. John Goldie or Goudie-for his surname is thus differently spelt-was about the cleverest and ablest of all the Poet's local contemporaries. Born in 1717 at Craigmill, where his progenitors, generation after generation, had carried on their occupation as
millers, for a period of fully four centuries, he
died in his ninety-second year, in 1809. Although but very partially educated, he was a man of extraordinary ingenuity.]
O GOUDIE! terror of the Whigs,
For me, my skill 's but very sma',
And skill in prose I've nane ava;
But quietlenwise, between us twa,
Weel may ye speed!
And tho' they sud ye sair misca',
Ne'er fash your head.
Dread of black coats and reverend wigs, E'en swinge the dogs, and thresh them
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
Girnin', looks back,
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues
Wad seize you quick.
Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition,
Waes me! she's in a sad condition;
Fie! bring Black Jock, her state phy-
sician,
Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion
She'll ne'er get better.
The mair they squeel aye chap the
And still 'mang hands a hearty bicker
O' something stout,
It gars an owther's pulse beat quicker,
And helps his wit.
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