POEM,

ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE,

DUMFRIES, 1796.

FRIEND of the Poet, tried and leal,
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal;
Alake, alake, the meikle deil

Wi' a' his witches

Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel,

In my poor pouches!

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,

That one pound one, I sairly want it ;

If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it,

It would be kind ;

And while

my

heart wi' life-blood dunted

I'd bear't in mind.

So may the auld year gang out moaning
To see the new come laden, groaning,
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin

To thee and thine;

Domestic peace and comforts crowning

The hale design.

VOL. III.

T

POSTSCRIPT.

YE'VE heard this while how I've been licket,

And by fell death was nearly nicket;
Grim loon! he got me by the fecket,

And sair me sheuk;

But by guid luck I lap a wicket,

And turn'd a neuk.

But by that health, I've got a share o't,
And by that life, I'm promised mair o't,
My hale and weel I'll tak a care o't,

A tentier way:

Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't

For ance and aye!

In this modest and affecting way Burns reminded his superior officer that he was a poor man, suffering from ill health, and that his salary then due would be very acceptable. Collector Mitchell was a kind and generous man, and befriended the Poet on many occasions; but he was not aware that

"Hungry ruin had him in the wind,"

or that his family were enduring privations such as preyed with double force on the sensitive and feeling heart of Burns.

TO

MISS JESSY LEWARS,

DUMFRIES,

WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER.

THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair,

And with them take the Poet's prayer;
That fate may in her fairest page,
With every kindliest, best presage,
Of future bliss enrol thy name :
With native worth, and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution still aware
Of ill-but chief, man's felon snare;
All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind-
These be thy guardian and reward ;
So prays thy faithful friend, The Bard..

Miss Jessy Lewars, as has been related in the Poet's life, watched over him and his little household during his declining days with all the affectionate reverence of a daughter. For this she has received the silent thanks of all who admire the genius of Burns, or look with sorrow on his setting sun; she has received more-the undying thanks of the Poet himself: his songs to her honour, and his simple gifts of books and verse, will keep her name and fame long in the world.

POEM ON LIFE,

ADDRESSED TO

COLONEL DE PEYSTER,

DUMFRIES, 1796.

My honoured colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the Poet's weal:
Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel

The steep Parnassus,

Surrounded thus by bolus pill,

And potion glasses.

O what a canty warld were it,

Would pain and care, and sickness spare it; And fortune favour worth and merit,

As they deserve!

(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret;

Syne, wha wad starve ?)

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and frippery deck her;
Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker

I've found her still,

Ay wavering like the willow-wicker,

'Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrons by a rattan,

Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on

Wi' felon ire ;

Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut onHe's aff like fire.

Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,
First shewing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,

To put us daft ;

Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare

O' hell's damn'd waft.

Poor man,

the flie, aft bizzes bye,

And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,

Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy,

And hellish pleasure;

Thy sicker treasure!

Already in thy fancy's eye,

Soon heels-o'er-gowdie! in he gangs,
And like a sheep head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs

And murd'ring wrestle,

As, dangling in the wind, he hangs

A gibbet's tassel.