When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ;
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;

But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases,

Aye mocks our groan!

Adown my beard the slavers trickle!
I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets1 keckle
To see me loup;

While, raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were in their doup.

O' a' the num'rous human dools,2
Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools,3
Sad sight to see!

The tricks o' knaves, or fash1 o' fools,
Thou bear'st the gree.5

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell,
And ranked plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu' raw,6

Thou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell
Amang them a'!

O thou grim mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes of discord squeel,
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel

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;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,

ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD.

My savage journey, curious, I pursue,
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens on my view.

165

The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild-scattered, clothe their ample sides;
Th' outstretching lake, imbosom'd 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills;
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride,
The palace rising on his verdant side;

The lawns wood-fringed in Nature's native taste;
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste;
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream;
The village glittering in the noontide beam.

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,

*

Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell;
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods;

Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods—

Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,
And look through Nature with creative fire;
Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil'd,
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild;
And disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds:
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch
her scan,

And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.

*

ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, BORN IN
PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY DISTRESS.1
SWEET flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love,
And ward o' mony a prayer,
What heart o' stane wad thou na move,
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair.

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,
Chill on thy lovely form;

And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree
Should shield thee frae the storm.

May He, who gives the rain to pour,
And wings the blast to blaw,
Protect thee frae the driving show'r,
The bitter frost and snaw.

May He, the friend of woe and want,
Who heals life's various stounds,2
Protect and guard the mother plant,
And heal her cruel wounds.

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast,
Fair on the summer morn :
Now, feebly bends she in the blast,
Unshelter'd and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
Unscath'd by ruffian hand!

And from thee many a parent stem
Arise to deck our land.

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS.

AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods,
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,
Where, thro'a shapeless breach, his stream resounds.
As high in air the bursting torrents flow,
As deep recoiling surges foam below,

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,
And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends.
Dim-seen, thro' rising mists, and ceaseless show'rs,
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs.
Still, thro' the gap the struggling river toils,
And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils-

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,
For your auld-farrant,' frien'ly letter;
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter,

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
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket

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,
Rivin' the words tae gar them clink;

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,
Commen' me to the Bardie clan ;

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',
Nae cares tae gie us joy or grievin' ;

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,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,
At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie !

Tho' rough an' raploch2 be her measure,

She's seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie :
The warl' may play you monie a shavie ;
But for the Muse, she'll never leave

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-
DATE SENT BY A SURVEYOR OF THE TAXES, RE-
QUIRING A RETURN OF THE NUMBER OF HORSES,
SERVANTS, CARRIAGES, ETC. KEPT.

SIR, as your mandate did request,
I send you here a faithfu' list,
My horses, servants, carts, and graith,
To which I'm free to tak my aith.

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,
I ha'e four brutes o' gallant mettle,
As ever drew afore a pettle;3
My hand-afore, a gude auld has-been,
An' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been;
My hand-ahin,5 a weel gaun fillie,
That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,"
An' your auld borough mony a time,
In days when riding was nae crime-
But ance, whan in my wooing pride,
I, like a blockhead, boost to ride,
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to,
(Lord, pardon a' my sins, an' that too!)
I played my fillie sic a shavie,
She 's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie.
My fur-ahin''s a gude, grey beast,
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd,-

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.