EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE

Some auld, us'd hands had taen a note,
That sic a hen had got a shot;
I was suspected for the plot;
I scorn'd to lie;

So gat the whissle o' my groat,
An' pay't the fee.

But by my gun, o' guns the wale,
An' by my pouther an' my hail,
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,
I vow an' swear!

The game shall pay, o'er muir an' dale,
For this, neist year.

As soon's the clockin-time is by,
An' the wee pouts begun to cry,
Lord, I'se hae sporting by an' by

For my gowd guinea,
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye
For't in Virginia.

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!
"Twas neither broken wing nor limb,
But twa-three draps about the wame,d
Scarce thro' the feathers;
An' baith a yellow George to claim,
An' thole their blethers!

It pits me aye as mad's a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient:

Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,

Your most obedient.

WELCOME TO HIS DAUGHTER

A Poet's Welcome to his Love-begotten Daughter.1

THE FIRST INSTANCE THAT ENTITLED HIM TO THE VENERABLE
APPELLATION OF FATHER.

THOU's Welcome, wean; mishanter fa' me,
If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy mamie,
Shall ever daunton b me or awe me,
My bonie lady,

Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me
Tyta or daddie.

Tho' now they ca' me fornicator,
An' tease my name in kintry clatter,
The mair they talk, I'm kent the better,
E'en let them clash";

An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.

Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter,
Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for,
And tho' your comin' I hae fought for,
Baith kirk and queir1;

Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for,
That I shall swear!

WELCOME TO HIS DAUGHTER

As dear, and near my heart I set thee
Wi' as gude will

As a' the priests had seen me get thee
That's out o' h-ll.

Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint,
My funny toil is now a' tint,"
Sin' thou cam to the warl' asklent,
Which fools may scoff at ;
In my last plack thy part's be in't
The better ha'f o't.

Tho' I should be the waur bestead,d
Thou's be as braw and bienly clad,
And thy young years as nicely bred
Wi' education,

As ony brat o' wedlock's bed,
In a' thy station.

Lord grant that thou may aye inherit
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,
An' thy poor, worthless daddy's spirit,
Without his failins,

"Twill please me mair to see thee heir it,
Than stockit mailens.'

For if thou be what I wad hae thee,
And tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
I'll never rue my trouble wi' thee-
The cost nor shame o't,

But be a loving father to thee,

And brag the name o't.

O LEAVE NOVELS

Song-O Leave Novels.1

O LEAVE novels, ye Mauchline belles,
Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel;
Such witching books are baited hooks
For rakish rooks like Rob Mossgiel ;
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,

They make your youthful fancies reel;
They heat your brains, and fire your veins,
And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung,
A heart that warmly seems to feel;
That feeling heart but acts a part-
'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.
The frank address, the soft caress,

Are worse than poisoned darts of steel;
The frank address, and politesse,

Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.

Fragment-The Mauchline Lady."

Tune-"I had a horse, I had nae mair."

WHEN first I came to Stewart Kyle,
My mind it was na steady;
Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade,
A mistress still I had aye:

But when I came roun' by Mauchline toun,
Not dreadin anybody,

My heart was caught, before I thought,
And by a Mauchline lady.

1 Burns never published this poem, which would have been justly blamed as fatuous. He was "Rob Mossgiel from 1784 to 1786. The second half of each verse is of later composition.

2 Possibly the Mauchline belle of this snatch is Jean Armour, later Burns's wife.

THE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE

Fragment-My Girl she's Airy.1

Tune-"Black Jock."

My girl she's airy, she's buxom and gay;
Her breath is as sweet as the blossoms in May;
A touch of her lips it ravishes quite :
She's always good natur'd, good humor'd, and free;
She dances, she glances, she smiles upon me;
I never am happy when out of her sight.

The Belles of Mauchline.2

IN Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles,
The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a';
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess,
In Lon'on or Paris, they'd gotten it a'.

Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine,
Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw:
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton,
But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'.

Epitaph on a Noisy Polemic.3

BELOW thir stanes lie Jamie's banes;
O Death, it's my opinion,
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch
Into thy dark dominion!

1 The date is 1784, the girl may be anybody. The remaining lines of this piece have never been printed in full.

2 Their histories have been devoutly traced, and one of them, Miss Smith, was the mother of a Doctor in the Free

Kirk, Dr Candlish. On the principle

usually quoted from Talleyrand, the husband of this lady, Mr James Candlish, cannot have been beautiful.

3 This fellow, one James Humphrey, used to introduce himself to strangers as "Burns's bletherin' bitch." See "Keats's Letters from Scotland."