EPIGRAM TO AN ARTIST

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs,
Like music notes o' lovers' hymns:
The diamond-dew in her een sae blue,
Where laughing love sae wanton swims.
My lady's gown, &c.

My lady's dink, my lady's drest,
The flower and fancy o' the west;
But the lassie that a man lo'es best,
O that's the lass to mak him blest.
My lady's gown, &c.

Epigram at Roslin Inn.1

My blessings on ye, honest wife!
I ne'er was here before;

Ye've wealth o' gear for spoon and knife—
Heart could not wish for more.

Heav'n keep you clear o' sturt and strife,

Till far ayont fourscore,

And while I toddle on thro' life,

I'll ne'er gae by your door!

Epigram addressed to an Artist.2

DEAR

I'll gie ye some advice,

You'll tak it no uncivil:
You shouldna paint at angels mair,
But try and paint the devil.
To paint an Angel's kittle" wark,
Wi' Nick, there's little danger: 3
You'll easy draw a lang-kent face,
But no sae weel a stranger.-R. B.

⚫ neat.

b trouble.

1 Probably this how was visited during an excursion from Edinburgh, Burns rambling in company with Nasmyth, the painter.

The editions vary a good deal in the wording of the Epigram. In the

e ticklish.

second last line Chambers has "And by the Lord o' death an' life."

2 The artist is pictor ignotus.

3 al. "Wi' Auld Nick there's less danger."

A BOTTLE AND FRIEND

The Book-worms.1

THROUGH and through th' inspir'd leaves,
Ye maggots, make your windings;
But O respect his lordship's taste,
And spare the golden bindings.

On Elphinstone's Translation of
Martial's Epigrams.2

O THOU whom Poesy abhors,

Whom Prose has turnèd out of doors,

Heard'st thou yon groan ?-proceed no further,
'Twas laurel'd Martial calling "murther."

Song-A Bottle and Friend.

"There's nane that's blest of human kind,
But the cheerful and the gay, man,
Fal, la, la," &c.

HERE'S a bottle and an honest friend!
What wad ye wish for mair, man?

Wha kens, before his life may end,
What his share may be o' care, man?

Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man :

Believe me, happiness is shy,

And comes not aye when sought, man.

1 Nothing is related as to the name

of the Bibliophilistine.

2 Certainly Elphinstone deserves the worst that can be said of him.

3 A noteless ditty.

EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM MICHIE

Lines Written under the Picture of

the Celebrated Miss Burns.1

CEASE, ye prudes, your envious railing,
Lovely Burns has charms-confess:

True it is, she had one failing,

Had a woman ever less?

Epitaph for William Nicol, of the
High School, Edinburgh."

YE maggots, feed on Nicol's brain,
For few sic feasts you've gotten;
And fix your claws in Nicol's heart,
For deil a bit o't's rotten.

Epitaph for Mr William Michie.R

Schoolmaster of Cleish Parish, Fifeshire.

HERE lie Willie Michie's banes,

O Satan, when ye tak him,
Gie him the schulin o' your weans,
For clever deils he'll mak them!

1 Miss Burns's was "Jennie's case." 2 This ruffianly pedant, an Usher at the High School, was a great crony of Burns. Scott calls him an excellent classical scholar" (of which Sir Walter, as a Greekless boy, was no judge), "and an admirable convivial humourist (which latter quality recommended him to the friendship of Burns), but worthless, drunken, and inhumanly cruel to the boys under his charge. He carried his feud against the Rector within an inch of assassination, for he waylaid and knocked him down in the dark." Scott designates Nicol "a savage fellow." The anecdote of Scott, as a boy, pinning a modified line from the Aneid on Nicol's coat-tails, proves

that he did not fear the ruffian, but the
line as printed by Lockhart (i. 150)
also shows that a Mr Mitchell, who
tells the story, was unacquainted with
prosody. Nicol is said to have drunk
himself to death. He wrote a letter of
moral remonstrance to Burns during
the Dumfries period: the poet replied
in a tone of irony. Nicol was of low
birth, and it is said that "whenever
low jealousy, trick, or selfish cunning
appeared, his mind kindled to some-
thing like fury or madness."
"Low
jealousy was the mark of his own
behaviour, when, during his tour with
Burns in the Highlands, a Duke asked
Burns to dinner.

3 Michie is unknown to fame.

ADDRESS TO WM. TYTLER

Boat Song.-Hey, Ca' Thro'.1

UP wi' the carls o' Dysart,
And the lads o' Buckhaven,
And the kimmers o' Largo,
And the lasses o' Leven.

Chorus.-Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro',
For we hae muckle ado;
Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro',
For we hae muckle ado.

We hae tales to tell,

An' we hae sangs to sing;
We hae pennies tae spend,
An' we hae pints to bring.
Hey, ca' thro', &c.

We'll live a' our days,

And them that comes behin',

Let them do the like,

An' spend the gear they win.
Hey, ca' thro', &c.

Address to Wm. Tytler, Esq.,
of Woodhouselee.

With an Impression of the Author's Portrait.2

REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,

Of Stuart, a name once respected;

A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart,
But now 'tis despis'd and neglected.

1 In part traditional.

2 Mr Tytler of Woodhouselee wrote a defence of Queen Mary. The poet professes his Jacobite sentiments, and is now sure that his ancestors wore the

white cockade. The lines were sent early in May, 1787, with a copy of Beugo's engraving from Nasmyth's portrait of Burns,

ADDRESS TO WM. TYTLER

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye,
Let no one misdeem me disloyal;

A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh,
Still more if that wand'rer were royal.

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne:
My fathers have died to right it;

Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,
That name should he scoffingly slight it.

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join,
The Queen, and the rest of the gentry:

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine;
Their title's avow'd by my country.

But why of that epocha make such a fuss,
That gave us th' Electoral stem?

If bringing them over was lucky for us,
I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them.

But loyalty truce! we're on dangerous ground;
Who knows how the fashions may alter?
The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring us a halter!

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard,
A trifle scarce worthy your care;

But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard,
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye,
And ushers the long dreary night:

But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky,
Your course to the latest is bright.