About two miles from Mossgiel farm, and nearly four miles from Mauchline. The father of Burns died here. In this home and the one on Mt. Oliphant farm Burns had the experiences he describes in his great religious poem, "The Cottar's Saturday Night."

About two miles from Mauchline, rented by Robert Burns and his brother Gilbert.

The mouse's nest about which he wrote the poem addressed to "A Mouse," Burns turned up on the field in front of this house. He ploughed down the daisy on the field at the back of the house.

"Knockhaspie's land" was at the end of the field shown in the picture to the

right.

"I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's Land
For Highland Harry back again."

-"Highland Harry Back Again."

And the farms nearer to Dumfries. A hundred yards behind, where the house stands, Burns wrote "Tam O'Shanter"-beyond the trees on the Nith.

Six miles from Dumfries on the Nith. The trees behind the house are on the Nith, only a few yards away from the house. About two hundred yards from the house, on a path beside the river, Burns wrote "Tam O'Shanter" one afternoon. Burns built this home after he was married. He was married in April, 1788, and the house was ready to welcome Jean in December, 1788.

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER

When sometimes by my labour, I earn a little money, Some unforeseen misfortune comes gen'rally upon

me;

Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd folly:

But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy.

All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour,

The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther:

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore

you,

A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before

you.

THE COTTAR'S SATURDAY NIGHT

INSCRIBED TO R. AIKEN, ESQ.

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.-GRAY.

My lov'd my honor'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there
I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;

The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cottar frae his labor goesThis night his weekly moil is at an end,

Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,