ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT
RUISSEAUX.‡

Now Robin lies in his last lair,

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair,
Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare,

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,
Except the moment that they crush't him;
For sune as chance or fate had husht 'em,
Tho' e'er sae short,

Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lasht 'em,
And thought it sport.

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark,
And counted was baith wight and stark,
Yet that was never Robin's mark

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,
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh,
An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh,
Yet unco proud to learn :
When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckon'd was,

And wi' the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass,
Still shearing, and clearing
The tither stooked raw,
Wi' claivers, an' haivers,
Wearing the day awa.

Ev'n then a wish, (I mind its power,)
A wish that to my latest hour,
Shall strongly heave my breast;
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake,
Some usefu' plan, or beuk could make,
Or sing a Sang at least.

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
Amang the bearded bear,

I turn'd the weeder-dips aside,
An' spar'd the symbol dear :
No nation, no station,

My envy e'er could raise;
A Scot still, but blot still,
I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o' sang
In formless jumble, right an' wrang,
Wild floated in my brain;

Till on that har'st I said before,
My partner in the merry core,

She rous'd the forming strain:
I see her yet, the sonsie quean,
That lighted up her jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky een,
That gart my heart-strings tingle;
I fired, inspired,

At ev'ry kindling keek,
But bashing, and dashing,
I feared aye to speak.

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,
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men,
That slight the lovely dears;
To shame ye, disclaim ye,

Ilk honest birkie swears.

For you, no bred to barn and byre,
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,
Thanks to you for your line:
The marbled plaid ye kindly spare,
By me should gratefully be ware;
'Twad please me to the nine.
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,
Douce hingin' owre my curple,
Than ony ermine ever lap,
Or proud imperial purple.
Fareweel then, lang heal then,
An' plenty be your fa':
May losses and crosses
Ne'er at your hallan ca'.

March, 1787.

TO J. LAPRAIK.+

Sept. 13th, 1785.

GUID speed an' furder to you Johny,
Guid health, hale han's and weather bony;

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
The staff o' bread,

May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brany
To clear your head.

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' hags
Like drivin' wrack;

But may the tapmast grain that wags
Come to the sack.

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it,
But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it,
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it

Wi' muckle wark,

An' took my jocteleg † an' whatt it,
Like ony clerk.

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor,
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter,
Abusin' me for harsh ill-nature

On holy men,

While Deil a hair yoursel ye're better,
But mair profane.

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,
Let's sing about our noble sels;
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills

To help, or roose us,

But browster wives § an' whiskie stills,

They are the Muses.

† A knife.

§ Alehouse wives.