ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT 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 fash't him, Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lasht 'em, Tho' he was bred to kintra wark, To mak a man; But tell him, he was learn'd and clark, Ye roos'd him than ! + As this Elegy occurs among Burns' memoranda, dated in May, 1784 or 1785, which were printed by Cromek, it was probably written about that time. Ruisseaux-a play upon his own name. ANSWER TO VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE POET BY THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE.t GUIDWIFE, I MIND it weel, in early date, When I was beardless, young and blate, An' first could thresh the barn, And wi' the lave ilk merry morn Ev'n then a wish, (I mind its power,) The lady to whom these verses are addressed was the late Mrs. Scott, of Wauchope, who was both a painter and a poetess; and Allan Cunningham, as a specimen of her skill in verse, has given the copy of her letter to Burns, to which this was the answer. The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide I turn'd the weeder-dips aside, My envy e'er could raise; But still the elements o' sang Till on that har'st I said before, She rous'd the forming strain: At ev'ry kindling keek, Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, dance in winter days, Wi' merry An' we to share in common: The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, The saul o' life, the heav'n below, Is rapture-giving woman. Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, Be mindfu' o' your mither: She, honest woman, may think shame That ye're connected with her, Ilk honest birkie swears. For you, no bred to barn and byre, March, 1787. TO J. LAPRAIK.+ Sept. 13th, 1785. GUID speed an' furder to you Johny, This is the third Epistle from Burns to Lapraik. Allan Cunningham says, it was published by Lapraik in the collection of his own poems, but it does not occur therein, nor in any edition of Burns' Works prepared by himself. Cromek, however, printed it among the Reliques of Burns, in 1808. Now when ye're nickan down fu' cany May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brany May Boreas never thresh your rigs, But may the tapmast grain that wags I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it, Wi' muckle wark, An' took my jocteleg † an' whatt it, It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, On holy men, While Deil a hair yoursel ye're better, But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, To help, or roose us, But browster wives § an' whiskie stills, They are the Muses. † A knife. § Alehouse wives. |