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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,

Your auld grey hairs.

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.

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him :

[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.]

and

gay,

BEAUTEOUS rose-bud, young
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;

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EPISTLE TO GAVIN HAMILTON,

ESQ.,

RECOMMENDING A BOY.

[Gavin Hamilton, here addressed, under date Mosgaville, May 3, 1786, was a writer to the signet or legal practitioner, whose residence at this time was the most conspicuous dwellinghouse in the village of Mauchline. Master Tootie was a dealer in cows, well known in that locality.]

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 ha'e done 't aff han';
But lest he learn the callan tricks,
As, faith, I muckle doubt him,
Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks,
And tellin' lies about them :

As lieve then, I'd have then,
You clerkship he should sair,
If sae be, ye may be

Not fitted other where.

Although 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,
And get sic fair example straught,

I haena 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 ha'e gi'en,
In Paisley John's that night at e'en,
To meet the warld's worm;

To try to get the twa to gree,

And name the airles and the fee,
In legal mode and form :

I ken he weel a sneck 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 laureate scorns;
The prayer still you share still,
Of grateful Minstrel BURNS.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND

[The young friend here addressed, under date May, 1786, was Andrew Aiken, son of Robert Aiken, to whom Burns inscribed, as an unwitting passport to fame, his noble "Cotter's Saturday Night." Andrew Aiken proved eminently successful in afterlife, first as a merchant in Liverpool, and later on as a servant of the Crown abroad, in which capacity he died some forty years ago at St. Petersburgh.]

I LANG ha'e thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Though it should serve nae other end
Then just a kind memento;
But how the subject theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Ye'll try the world soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,

And muckle they may grieve ye :
For care and trouble set your thought,
E'en when your end 's attained:
And a' your views may come to nought,
Where every nerve is strained.

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TO A LOUSE.

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT
CHURCH.

[Mention is made in the sixth stanza of the

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose
out,

As plump and grey as onie grozet ;
Oh, for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,

following, of a then fashionable gauze or muslin I'd gie ye sic a hearty dose o't,

bonnet for ladies, called the Lunardi. The
name was given to it in compliment to the
famous Italian aeronaut Vincent Lunardi, who
in 1785 astonished the people of Scotland, at
Edinburgh, Glasgow, St. Andrews, and other
places, by making some of the most marvellous
ascents in a balloon on record, going up literally
with the velocity of a skyrocket! Revolting
though the theme is which Burns has here
selected, the poem has won its way to as wide
a celebrity as any he ever produced, the last
stanza being rendered familiar to the whole
world by frequent repetition.]

HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely

Owre gauze and lace;
Though, faith, I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner,
Detested, shunned by saunt an' sinner,
How dare ye set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a lady!
Gae somewhere else and seek your
dinner

On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle

Wi' ither kindred jumpin' cattle,

In shoals and nations;

Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle
Your thick plantations.

Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right
Till ye 've got on it,
The vera tapmost, towering height
O' Miss's bonnet.

Wad dress your droddum!

I wad na been surprised to spy
You on an' auld wife's flainen toy,
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On's wyliecoat;
But Miss's fine Lunardi-fie!

How dare ye do 't!

Oh, Jenny, dinna toss your head,
An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie 's makin'!
Thae wings and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin'!

Oh, wad some power the giftie gi'e us
To see oursel's as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us
And foolish notion:
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
And e'en devotion !

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

[In this self-condemnatory epitaph, Burns seems, in obedience to a sombre presentiment, to have donned the sackcloth and ashes by anticipation.]

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool?
Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

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