EPISTLE TO J. R******.

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS.

O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted R******,
The wale o'cocks for fun and drinkin!
There's monie godly folks are thinkin,

Your dreams* an' tricks

Will send you, Korah-like, a sinkin,

Straught to auld Nick s.

Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants,
And in your wicked, drucken rants,
Ye make a devil o' the saunts,

An' fill them fou;

And then their failings, flaws, an' wants,
Are a' seen thro'.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!
That holy robe, O dinna tear it!
Spar't for their sakes wha aften wear it,
The lads in black;

But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
Rives't aff their back.

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing,
It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing
O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething
To ken them by,

Frae ony unregenerate heathen

Like you or I.

I've sent you here some rhyming ware,
A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair;

Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,
I will expect

Your sangt, ye'll sen't wi' cannie care
And no neglect.

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!
My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing!
I've play'd mysel a bonie spring,

An' danc'd my fill!

I'd better gaen an' sair'd the king,

At Bunker's Hill.

* A certain humorous dream of his was then making c noise in the country-side.

A song he had promised the author.

'Twas ae night, lately, in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun,

An' brought a partrick to the grun.
A bonie hen,

An', as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane wad ker

The poor, wee thing was little hurt,
I straikit it a wee for sport,

Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't,
But dell-ma'-care'

Somebody tells the poacher-court
The hale affair.

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 moor an' dalo
For this, niest year.

As soon's the clockin-time is by,
An' the wee pouts begin to cry,
L-d, I'se hac sportin by an by,

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

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

It pits me ay 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

TO DR. BLACKLOCK.

Ellisland, Oct. 21, 1789.

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie !
And are ye hale, and wee!, and cantie?
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie
Wad bring ye to:

Lord send ye ay as weel's I want ye,
And then ye'll do.

The ill-thief blaw the Heron* south!
And never drink be near his drouth!
He tald mysel by word o' mouth,
He'd tak my letter;

I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth

And bade nae better.

But aiblins honest Master Heron
Had at the time some dainty fair one,
To ware his theologic care on,

And holy study,

And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on,
E'en tried the body.

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier,
I'm turn'd a gauger-peace be here!
Parnassan queens, I fear, I fear

Ye'll now disdain me,

And then my fifty pounds a-year
Will little gain me.

Ye glaikit, gleesome, daintie damies.
Wha by Castalia's wimplin streamies,
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies
Ye ken, ye ken,
That strang necessity supreme is

’Mang sons o men,

I hae a wife an' twa wee laddies,
They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies.
Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is,
i need na vaunt,

But I'll uned besoms-thraw saugh woodles,
Before they want.

* Mr. Heron, author of a History of Scotland, ans

various other works

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care! I'm weary sick o't late and air!

Not but I hae a richer share

Than mony ithers:

But why should ae man better fare,

And a' men brithers?

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van,
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man!

And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan
A lady fair;

Wha does the utmost that he can,
Will whyles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme,
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,)
To make a happy fire-side clime

To weans and wife, That's the true pathos and sublime Of human life.

My compliments to sister Beckie; And eke the same to honest Lucky, I wat she is a dainty chuckie,

As e'er tread clay!

An' gratefully, my guid auld cockie,
I'm yours for ay.

ROBERT BURNS.

TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER

DUMFRIES, 1796.

My honour'd 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 baudrans by a rattan,
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on
Wi' felon ire;

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

Ah! Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,
First showing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonie lasses rare,
To put us daft;

Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare,
O' hell's damn'd waft.

Poor man the flie, aft bizzies by,
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld damnn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy,
And hellish pleasure;

Already in thy fancy's eye,

Thy sicker treasure.

Soon heels o'er gowdie! in he gangs,
And like a sheep-head on a tangs,
They girning laugh enjoy his pangs
And murdering wrestle,

As dangling in the wind, he hangs,
A gibbet's tassel.

But lest you think I am uncivil,

To plague you with this draunting drivel,
Abjuring a' intentions evil,

I quat my pen:

The Lord preserve us frae the devil!
Amen! Amen!

TO MR. MITCHELL,

COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796.

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

VOL. I.

M