When fevers burn, or ague freezes, But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases, Aye mocks our groan! Adown my beard the slavers trickle! While, raving mad, I wish a heckle O' a' the num'rous human dools,2 The tricks o' knaves, or fash1 o' fools, Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell O thou grim mischief-making chiel, In gore a shoe-thick ;— Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A towmond's Tooth-ache! WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD. My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 165 The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, The lawns wood-fringed in Nature's native taste; Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, * Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell; Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods— Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. * ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, BORN IN 1 "As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country." Fate has long owed me a letter of good news from you, in return for the many tidings of sorrow which I have received. In this instance I most cordially obey the Apostle-" Rejoice with them that do rejoice"-for me to sing for joy is no new thing; but to preach for joy, as I have done in the commencement of this epistle, is a pitch of extravagant rapture to which 1 never rose before. I read your letter-I literally jumped for joy-how could such a mercurial creature as a poet lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of the best news from his best friend? I seized my gilt-headed wangee rod, an instrument indispensably necessary, in my left hand, in the moment of inspiration and rapture; and stride, stride-quick and quicker-out skipped I among the broomy banks of Nith, to muse over my joy by retail. To keep November hirples1 o'er the lea, And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree May He, who gives the rain to pour, May He, the friend of woe and want, But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, And from thee many a parent stem WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS. AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, within the bounds of prose was impossible. Mrs. Little's is a more elegant, but not a more sincere compliment to the sweet little fellow than I, extempore almost, poured out to him, in the following verses."-BURNS to Mrs. Dunlop, Nov. 1790. 1 Creeps. 2 Heart-pangs. SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. AULD NEIBOR, I'm three times, doubly, o'er your debtor, Ye speak sae fair, For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter Some less maun sair.2 Hale be your heart, hale be ; your fiddle Lang may your elbuck3 jink and diddle, Tae cheer you thro' the weary widdle O' war'ly cares, Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle Your auld, gray hairs. 4 But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ;1 Until ye fyke; Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket,5 Be hain't wha like. For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, Wi' jads or masons; An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think, Braw sober lessons. Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, Except it be some idle plan O'rhymin clink, The devil-haet, that I sud ban,7 They ever think. Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', But just the pouchie put the nieve in, An' while ought's there, Then hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin', An' fash nae mair. 3 Elbow. 6 Spared. Leeze me on rhyme!' it's aye a treasure, The Muse, poor hizzie ! Tho' rough an' raploch2 be her measure, She's seldom lazy. Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie : ye, Tho' e'er sae puir, Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie Frae door ta door. THE INVENTORY; IN ANSWER TO THE USUAL MAN- SIR, as your mandate did request, Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 1 A phrase of endearment. 2 Coarse. Plough-staff. 4 The fore-horse on the left-hand in the plough.-R. B. 5 The hindmost on the left-hand in the plough.-R. B. 6 Kilmarnock.-R. B. 7 The hindmost horse on the right-hand in the plough.-R. B. |