EPISTLE TO WILLIAM CREECH.1 AULD chuckie Reekie's2 sair distrest Her darling bird that she lo'es best, O Willie was a witty wight, But now they'll busk her like a fright, The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd; We've lost a birkies weel worth gowd, 6 Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, He wha could brush them down to mools, The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumers Amang them a' ; I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, 1 The inclosed I have just wrote, nearly extempore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a miserable wet day's riding.-R. B. 2 Edinburgh. 3 Ornamented. 4 Neat. 5 Clever fellow. 6 Silly girls. 7 Wood in a hollow. Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, They a' maun meet some ither place, Poor Burns e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, By hoodie-craw; 2 Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin', Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum,3 His quill may draw ; He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, But every joy and pleasure's fled, May I be slander's common speech; In winter snaw; When I forget thee, WILLIE CREECH,5 May never wicked fortune touzle him! He canty claw !? Then to the blessed New Jerusalem, INSCRIPTION ON THE TOMBSTONE ERECTED BY BURNS "Here lies Robert Fergusson, Poet, born September 5th, 1751— No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 66 No storied urn, nor animated bust ;" A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. O THOU, who kindly dost provide For all thy goodness lent: And, if it please thee, Heavenly Guide, May never worse be sent ; But whether granted, or denied, Lord, bless us with content! Amen! A VERSE COMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURNS, TO WHEN death's dark stream I ferry o'er, LIBERTY-A FRAGMENT.2 THEE, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, Immingled with the mighty dead! Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies! 1 Burns had asked permission of the Bailies of Canongate, to "lay a simple stone over the revered ashes" of Fergusson. 2 The Fragment was the amusement of a lonely hour at a village inn, in the summer of 1794. Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death! One quench'd in darkness, like the sinking star, ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX.1 Now Robin lies in his last lair, He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, Nae mair shall fear him : Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care E'er mair come near him. To tell the truth, they seldom fasht him, Then wi' a rhyme, or sang, he lasht 'em, Tho' he was bred to kintra wark, And counted was baith wight and stark,2 To mak a man; But tell him, he was learn'd and clark, Ye roos'd him than! ANSWER TO VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE POET BY THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE.3 GUIDWIFE, I MIND it weel, in early date, When I was beardless, young, and blate, 1 In Ruisseaux, Burns plays on his own name. 2 Stout and enduring. 3 Mrs. Scott, who had some skill in rhyming and painting. An' first could thrash the barn, Ev'n then a wish (I mind its power), Shall strongly heave my breast; The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide My envy e'er could raise ; But still the elements o' sang Till on that har'st I said before, At ev'ry kindling keek,5 Health to the sex! ilk guid chiel says, 1 Tired. 2 The other row of shocks. 3 Nonsense. • Barley. |