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My much-honour'd Patron, believe your poor Poet, Your courage much more than your prudence you show it;

In vain with Squire Billy for laurels you struggle, He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle ; Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em,

He'd up the back-stairs, and, by G-, he would steal 'em Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er can achieve 'em, It is not, outdo him; the task is, out-thieve him.

TO DR. BLACKLOCK.

Ellisland, 21st Oct. 1789.

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie!
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie?
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie
Wad bring ye to:
Lord send you aye as weel's I want
And then ye'll do.

The ill-thief blaw the Heron2 south!
And never drink be near his drouth!
He tald mysel by word o' mouth,
He'd tak my letter;

I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth,

And bade nae better.

ye,

But aiblins honest Master Heron
Had at the time some dainty fair one,
To ware his theologic care on,

And holy study;

And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear3 on,
E'en tried the body.

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier,*
I'm turn'd a gauger-Peace be here!
Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear

Ye'll now disdain me!

And then my fifty pounds a year
Will little gain me.

Ye glaikit, gleesome, dainty damies,
Wha, by Castalia's wimplin' streamies,

1 An exclamation of pleasure.

2 Robert Heron, who wrote a History of Scotland, and a Life of Burns. • Brother.

3 Learning.

Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,
Ye ken, ye ken,

That strang necessity supreme is
’Mang sons o’ men.

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies,

They maun hae brose and brats' o' duddies;
Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is-
I need na vaunt

But I'll sneda besoms-thraw saugh woodies,3
Before they want.

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care!
I'm weary sick o't late and air!

Not but I hae a richer share

Than monie ithers;

But why should ae man better fare,
And a' men brithers?

Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van-
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp-in man!
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan
A lady fair;

Wha does the utmost that he can,
Will whyles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme,
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time),
To make a happy fire-side clime

To weans and wife,

That's the true pathos and sublime
Of human life.

My compliments to sister Beckie;
And eke the same to honest Lucky,
I wat she is a daintie chuckie,

As e'er tread clay!

And gratefully, my guid auld cockie,
I'm yours for ay,

1 Rags of clothes.

2 Lop.

ROBERT BUrns.

3 Twist willow ropes.

The male, or stronger stalk of hemp.

PROLOGUE, SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, ELLISLAND 1

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city
That queens it o'er our taste the more's the pity;
Tho', by-the-by, abroad why will you roam ?
Good sense and taste are natives here at home:
But not for panegyric I appear,

I come to wish you all a good new-year!
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye,
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story:
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say,
"You're one year older this important day."
If wiser too-he hinted some suggestion,

But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question;
And with a would-be roguish leer and wink,

He bade me on you press this one word-" think!”
Ye sprightly youths, quite flushed with hope and
spirit,

Who think to storm the world by dint of merit,
To you the dotard has a deal to say,

In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way;

He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle,
That the first blow is ever half the battle;

That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him,
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him;
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,
You may do miracles by persevering.

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair,
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care!

Το

you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow,
And humbly begs you'll mind the important now!
To crown your happiness he asks your leave,
And offers bliss to give and to receive.

For our sincere, tho' haply weak, endeavours,
With grateful pride we own your many favours;
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it,
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.

We have gotten a set of very decent players here just now. I have seen them an evening or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me by the manager of the company, a Mr. Southerland, who is a man of apparent worth. On New-year-day evening I gave him the following Prologue, which he spouted to his audience with applause.-R. B.

ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, OF MONBODDO.

LIFE ne'er exulted in so rich a prize

As Burnet, lovely from her native skies;
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow,
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low.

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget?
In richest ore the brightest jewel set!

In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown,
As by his noblest work the Godhead best is known.

In vain, ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves;
Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore,
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves,
Ye cease to charm-Eliza is no more!

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Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens
Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd;
Ye rugged cliffs o'erhanging dreary glens,
To you I fly, ye with my soul accord.

Princes, whose cumbrous pride was all their worth,
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail?
And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth,
And not a Muse in honest grief bewail ?

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride,
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres ;

But, like the sun eclips'd at morning tide,

Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears.

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee,
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care;
So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree;

So, from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare.

WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT HIM A
NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT, FREE
OF EXPENSE.

KIND Sir, I've read your paper through,
And, faith, to me 'twas really new!
How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted

N

To ken what French mischief was brewin';
Or what the drumlie1 Dutch were doin';
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie2 works
Atween the Russians and the Turks;
Or if the Swede, before he halt,
Would play anither Charles the Twalt;
If Denmark, any body spak o't;
Or Poland, wha had now the tak3 o't;
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin'
How libbet Italy was singin';

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss,
Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss :
Or how our merry lads at hame,
In Britain's court, kept up the game:
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him!
Was managing St. Stephen's quorum;
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin',
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in;
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin',
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin;
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd,
Or if bare as yet were tax'd;
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls;
If that daft buckie, Geordie W-
Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails;
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,"
And no a perfect kintra cooser.-
A' this and mair I never heard of;
And but for you I might despair'd of.
So, gratefu', back your news I send you,
And pray a' guid things may attend you!

Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790.

-S,

LINES ON AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER.7
THIS Wot ye all whom it concerns,

I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,

October twenty-third,

A ne'er to be forgotten day!

Sae far I sprackled up the brae,
I dinner'd wi' a Lord.

1 Muddy.
2 Quarrel.
7 Son of the Earl of Selkirk.
Stewart.

3 Taking.

4 Gelded.

6 Wiser.

5 Sly. Burns was introduced to him by Dugald 8 Clambered,

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