But sure as three times three mak nine,

I see by ilka score and line,

This chap will dearly like our kin',
So leeze me on thee, Robin.1

blessings

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT
RUISSEAUX.2

Now Robin lies in his last lair,
He'll gabble rhyme nor sing nae mair,
Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare,

Nae mair shall fear him;

Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care,

E'er mair come near him.

To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him, troubled
Except the moment that they crush't him;
For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em,
Though e'er sae short,

Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lash't 'em,
And thought it sport.

1 It has been said, but upon no good authority that I am aware of, that there was some foundation in fact for this tale of a gossip a wayfaring woman, who chanced to be present at the poet's birth, having actually announced some such prophecies respecting the infant placed in her arms. Some similar circumstances attended the birth of Mirabeau.

2 Ruisseaux, Fr. for rivulets, a translation of his own naine

Though he was bred to kintra wark,

country

And counted was baith wight and stark, sturay Yet that was never Robin's mark

To mak a man;

But tell him, he was learned and clark,

Ye roosed him than!

raised

THE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE.

IN Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles,

The pride of the place and its neighbour

hood a',

Their carriage and dress, a stranger would

guess,

In Lon'on or Paris, they'd gotten it a'. Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine, Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is

braw,

There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton ;

But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'.

WHEN FIRST I CAME TO STEWART KYLE.

TUNE-I had a Horse, I had nae mair.

WHEN first I came to Stewart Kyle,
My mind it was na steady,

Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade,

A mistress still I had aye.

But when I came roun' by Mauchline toun,
Not dreadin' anybody,

My heart was caught before I thought,
And by a Mauchline lady.

August.

THOUGH FICKLE FORTUNE HAS
DECEIVED ME.

THOUGH fickle fortune has deceived me,
She promised fair, and performed but ill;
Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereaved me,
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.

I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able,
But if success I must never find,
Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome,
I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind.1

September

1 "The above was an extempore, under the pressure of a heavy train of misfortunes, which indeed threatened to unde me altogether." — B.

он

RAGING FORTUNE'S WITHERING
BLAST.

ОH raging fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O!
Oh raging fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O!

My stem was fair, my bud was green,
My blossom sweet did blow, O;
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild,
And made my branches grow, O.

But luckless fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low, O!

But luckless fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low, O!

EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

A BROTHER POET.

"It was, I think, in summer, 1784, when in the interval of harder labor, he and I were weeding in the garden (kail-yard), that he repeated to me the principal part of this epistle. I believe the first idea of Robert's becoming an author was started on this occasion. I was much pleased with the epistle, and aid to him I was of opinion it would bear being printed." G. BURNS.

This poem appears to have been completed, as it now stands, in January 1785, for a copy in the poet's handwriting exists in possession of Miss Grace Aiken, Ayr, bearing that date, and with the following more

ample title — An Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet, Lover, Ploughman, and Fiddler.

WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw.
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,

And hing us owre the ingle,

I set me down to pass the time,
And spin a verse or two o' rhyme,

In hamely westlin' jingle.

While frosty winds blaw in the drift,

Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the great folk's gift,
That live sae bien and snug:

I tent less, and want less

Their roomy fireside;

But hanker and canker

To see their cursed pride.

It's hardly in a body's power
To keep, at times, frae being sour,

To see how things are shared ;

in-ear

little

comfortably

How best o' chiels are whiles in want,

mind

While coofs on countless thousands rant, fools And ken na how to wair't;

know - spend

But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head; trouble
Though we hae little gear,

wealth