POEMS,

CHIEFLY SCOTTISH.

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACH, #

WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY

TORMENTED BY THAT DISORDER.

My curse upon thy venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang;
And thro' my lugs gies monie a twang,

Wi' gnawing vengeance;
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,

Like racking engines !

When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ;
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us,

Wi' pitying moan;
But thee—thou hell o' a' diseases,

Aye mocks our groan !

Adown my beard the slavers trickle!
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets keckle

# Burns suffered much from this disease. In a letter from Ellisland, in May, 1789, he complains of “ an omnipotent tooth-ache engrossing all his inner man.”

VOL. II.

B

To see me loup;
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle

Were in their doup.
O’a' the num'rous human dools,
Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools,

Sad sight to see!
The tricks o’knaves, or fash o' fools,

Thou bear`st the gree.
Where'er that place be priests ca’ hell,
Whence a' the tones o' mis’ry yell,
And ranked plagues their numbers tell,

In dreadfu' raw,
Thou, Toothach, surely bear'st the bell

Amang them a'!
O thou grim mischief-making chiel,
That
gars

the notes of discord squeel, Till daft mankind aft dance a reel

In gore a shoe-thick ;Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal

A towmond's Toothach!

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN

AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH.

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,

on my

My savage journey, curious, I pursue, ,
Till fam'd Breadalbane

opens

view.The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, The woods, wild scattered, clothe their ample sides; Th' outstretching lake, imbosom'd 'mong the hills, The eye

with wonder1 and amazement fills; The Tay meand’ring sweet in infant pride, The palace rising on his verdant side; The lawns wood-fringed in Nature's native taste; The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste; The arches striding o'er the new-born stream; The village, glittering in the noontide beam— 2

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy

cell : The sweeping theatre of hanging woods; Th’ incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods

Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, And look through Nature with creative fire; Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcild, Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Find balm to sooth her bitter rankling wounds :

1

Var. pleasure.

2 In a copy supposed to be in Burns' hand writing these lines stand thus :

The Tay meand’ring sweet in infant pride,
The palace rising on its verdant side ;
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream,
The village, glittering in the noon-tide beam-
The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste;
Nor with one single goth-conceit disgrac'd,
Poetic ardours, &c.

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love,

And ward o'mony a prayer,
What heart o'stane wad thou na move,

Sae helpless, sweet, and fair.

a

* These verses were written on the birth of a posthumous child of Mrs. Henri, the widow of a French gentleman, and a daughter of the poet's friend, Mrs. Dunlop. In a letter to that lady, dated in November, 1790, in reply to one, informning him of her daughter's confinement, Burns says, “As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country.' Fate has long owed me a letter of good news from you, in return for the many tidings of sorrow which I have received. In this instance I most cordially obey the apostle-• Rejoice with them that do rejoice'--for me to sing for joy is no new thing; but to preach for joy, as I have done in the commencement of this epistle, is a pitch of extravagant rapture to which I never rose before. I read your letter

literally jumped for joy—How could such a mercurial creature as a poet lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of the best news from his best friend? I seized my gilt-headed wangee rod, an instrument indispensably necessary, in my left band, in the moment of inspiration and rapture; and stride, stride-quick and quicker-out skipped I among the broomy banks of Nith, to muse over my joy by retail. To keep within the bounds of prose was impossible. Mrs. Little's is a more elegant, but not a more sincere compliment to the sweet little fellow than I, extempore almost, poured out to him, in the following verses.

The “little Floweret” and its mother are often mentioned in Burns' letters to Mrs. Dunlop. On the 7th February,