To hear thy sang all ranks desire,
Sae weel you strike the dormant lyre;
Apollo with poetic fire

Thy breast does warm;

And critics silently admire

Thy art to charm.

Cæsar and Luath weel can speak,
"Tis pity ere their gabs should steek,
But into human nature keek,

And knots unravel:

To hear their lectures once a week,

Nine miles I'd travel.

Thy dedication to G, H.

An unco bonnie hamespun speech,
Wi' winsome glee the heart can teach
A better lesson,

Than servile bards, who fawn and fleech
Like beggar's messon.

When slighted love becomes your theme,
And women's faithless vows you blame ;
With so much pathos you exclaim,
In your lament;

But glanc'd by the most frigid dame,
She would relent.

The daisy, too, ye sing wi' skill;

And weel ye praise the whisky gill;
In vain I blunt my feckless quill

Your fame to raise;

While echo sounds from ilka hill,
To Burns's praise.

Did

Did Addison or Pope but hear,
Or Sam, that critic most severe,

A ploughboy sing with throat sae clear,
They, in a rage,

Their works would a' in pieces tear,
And curse your page.

Sure Milton's eloquence were faint,
The beauties of your verse to paint ;
My rude unpolish'd strokes but taint
Their brilliancy;

Th' attempt would doubtless vex a saint,
And weel may thee.

The task I'll drop, with heart sincere
To Heaven present my humble pray'r,
That all the blessings mortals share,
May be by turns

Dispens❜d by an indulgent care,
To Robert Burns!

Sir, I hope you will pardon my boldness in this; my hand trembles while I write to you, conscious of my unworthiness of what I would most earnestly solicit, viz. your favour and friendship; yet hoping you will shew yourself possessed of as much generosity and good nature as will prevent your exposing what may justly

justly be found liable to censure in this measure, I shall take the liberty to subscribe myself,

Sir,

Your most obedient humble servant,

JANET LITTLE.

P. S. If you would condescend to honour me with a few lines from your hand, I would take it as a particular favour and direct to me at Loudon House, near Galston.

No.

No. LXXIX.

From MR. ******.

MY DEAR SIR,

London, 5th August, 1789.

EXCUSE me when I me when I say, that the uncommon abilities which you possess must render your correspondence very acceptable to any one. I can assure you I am particularly proud of your partiality, and shall endeavour, by every method in my power, to merit a continuance of your politeness.

When you can spare a few moments, I should be proud of a letter from you, directed for me, Gerrard-street, Soho.

I cannot express my happiness sufficiently

at

at the instance of your attachment to my late inestimable friend, Bob Fergusson, who was particularly intimate with myself and relations.* While I recollect with pleasure his extraordinary talents, and many amiable qualities, it affords me the greatest consolation that I am honoured with the correspondence of his successor in national simplicity and genius.— That Mr. Burns has refined in the art of poetry, must readily be admitted; but notwithstanding many favourable representations, I am yet to learn that he inherits his convivial powers.

There was such a richness of conversation, such a plenitude of fancy and attraction in him, that when I call the happy period of our intercourse to my memory, I feel myself in a state of delirium. I was then younger than him by eight or ten years, but his manner was so felicitous, that he enraptured every person around him, and infused into the hearts of the young and old the spirit and animation which operated on his own mind.

I am, Dear Sir, yours, &c.

* The erection of a monument to him.

E.

No.