ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE
HIGHLAND SOCIETY.

LONG life, my Lord, an' health be yours,
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors;
Lord grant nae duddie' desperate beggar,
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,
May twin3 auld Scotland o' a life
She likes-as lambkins like a knife.
Faith you and A- -s were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight;
I doubt na'! they wad bid nae better
Than let them ance out owre the water;
Then up amang thae lakes and seas
They'll mak what rules and laws they please;
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin,
May set their Highland bluid a ranklin';
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery fearless lead them,
Till God knows what may be effected,
When by such heads and hearts directed—
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to Patrician rights aspire !

Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile;
An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance,
To cowe the rebel generation,

An' save the honour o' the nation ?

They an' be -! what right hae they
To meat or sleep, or light o' day?
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom,
But what your Lordship likes to gie them?

But hear, my Lord! Glengarry, hear!
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna' say but they do gaylies ;*
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
An' tirl the hallions to the birses;
Yet while they're only poind't and herriet,"
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit;
But smash them! crash them a' to spails !6
An' rot the dyvors' i' the jails!

geese,

4

The young dogs, swinge1 them to the labour;
Let wark and hunger mak them sober!
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont,2
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!
An' if the wives an' dirty brats
E'en thiggers at your doors an' yetts
Flaffan wi' duds5 an' grey wi' beas',
Frightin' awa your deucks an'
Get out a horsewhip, or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An' gar the tatter'd gypsies pack
Wi' a' their bastarts on their back!
Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,
An' in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han' assign'd your seat
'Tween Herod's hip and Polycrate,-
Or if you on your station tarrow,6
Between Almagro and Pizarro,
A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin 't ;
An' till ye come-Your humble servant,
BEELZEBUB.

June 1, Anno Mundi, 5790.

TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY.

Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse
E'er bring you in by Mauchline Corse,

Lord, man, there's lasses there wad force

A hermit's fancy,

And down the gate, in faith, they're worse,

And mair unchancy.

But, as I'm sayin', please step to Dow's,
And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews,
Till some bit callan bring me news

That you are there,

And if we dinna haud a bouze,

I'se ne'er drink mair.

It's no I like to sit an' swallow,

Then like a swine to puke an' wallow;

1 Whip.

2 Decent.
5 Fluttering with rags.

3 Crowd.

4 Farm-yard gates.

6 Murmur

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ.

But gie me just a true good fallow

Wi' right ingine,1

And spunkie ance to make us mellow,

And then we'll shine.

Now, if ye're ane o' warl's folk,
Wha rate the wearer by the cloak,
An 'sklent on poverty their joke,

Wi' bitter sneer,

Wi' you no friendship will I troke,

Nor cheap nor dear.

But if, as I'm informed weel,

Ye hate, as ill's the vera Deil,

The flinty heart that canna feel—

Come, Sir, here's tae you;

Hae, there's my haun', I wiss2 you weel,

And guid be wi' you.

231

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ., OF ARNIS-
TON, LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF
SESSION.

LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks:
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains;
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan;
The hollow caves return a sullen moan.

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves,
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly;
Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar,
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.

O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,
Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway'd her rod;
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow
She sunk, abandon'd to the wildest woe.

Wrongs, injuries from many a darksome den,
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men:

1 Genius, or disposition.

2 Wish.

See from his cavern grim Oppression rise,
And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes;
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry:

Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes,
Rousing elate in these degenerate times;
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:
While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue

The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong:
Hark, injured Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale,
And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied wail!

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains,
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains:
Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.

Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign,
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,
To mourn the woes my country must endure,
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.

TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.1
O, COULD I give thee India's wealth,
As I this trifle send !

Because thy joy in both would be
To share them with a friend.

But golden sands did never grace

The Heliconian stream;

Then take what gold could never buy-
An honest Bard's esteem.

ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG, NAMED ECHO.

IN wood and wild, ye warbling throng,
Your heavy loss deplore;

Now half-extinct your powers
Sweet Echo is no more.

of

song,

1 Steward to the Duke of Queensberry.

Ye jarring, screeching things around,
Scream your discordant joys;
Now half your din of tuneless sound
With Echo silent lies.

THE KIRK'S ALARM.1

A SATIRE.

ORTHODOX, Orthodox,

Wha believe in John Knox,
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience-
There's a heretic blast,

Has been blawn i' the wast,
That what is not sense must be nonsense.

Doctor Mac, Doctor Mac,
Ye should stretch on a rack,
To strike evil-doers wi' terror;
To join faith and sense,
Upon any pretence,

Is heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr,
It was mad, I declare,

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing;
Provost John is still deaf
To the Church's relief,
And orator Bob2 is its ruin.

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild,
Tho' your heart's like a child,

1 It is impossible to look back now to the civil war which then raged among the churchmen of the west of Scotland, without confessing that on either side there was much to regret, and not a little to blame; and no one can doubt that, in the, at best, unsettled state of Robert Burns' principles, the unhappy effect must have been powerful indeed, as to him. M'Gill and Dalrymple, the two ministers of the town of Ayr, had long been suspected of entertaining heterodox opinions. The gentry of the country took, for the most part, the side of M'Gill; the bulk of the lower orders espoused the cause of those who conducted the prosecution against this erring Doctor. Gavin Hamilton, and all persons of his stamp, were, of course, on the side of M'Gill; Auld, and the Mauchline Elders, with his enemies. Mr. Robert Aiken, a writer in Ayr, had the principal management of M'Gill's cause. He was an intimate friend of Hamilton, and through him had formed an acquaintance which now ripened into a warm friendship with Burns. M'Gill, Dalrymple, and their brethren were the New-Light Pastors of his earliest "Satires."-Lockhart's Life of Burns, p. 60.

2 Robert Aiken, agent, or, as we should say, attorney for Dr. M'Gill.