Haste, gi'e her name up i' the chapel,
Nigh unto death;

See, how she fetches at the thrapple,1
An' gasps for breath!

Enthusiasm's past redemption,
Gaen in a galloping consumption;
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption,
Will ever mend her.

Her feeble pulse gi'es strong presumption
Death soon will end her.

Throat.

I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty

To warn you how that Master Tootie,
Alias, Laird M'Gaun,

Was here to hire yon led away
'Bout whom ye spak' the tither day,
And wad ha'e done 't aff han';

But lest he learn the callan tricks,
As, faith, I muckle doubt him,
Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks,

And tellin' lies about them:

As lieve then, I'd have then,

Your clerkship he should sair,

If sae be, ye may be

Not fitted other where.

2 Dr. Taylor, of Norwich, author of "The Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin," &c.

3 Empty.

4 Mr. Hamilton was a solicitor at Mauchline. He was much opposed to the "Auld Light," or high Calvinistic principles of the Scottish Kirk of that day.

Tootie was a cheating cattle dealer, who was in the habit of cutting the nicks or markings from the horns of "attle, to disguise their age, and obtain a higher price for them.

6 Boy.

7 The cow.

INVITATION TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY.

Although I say't, he's gleg1 enough,
And 'bout a house that's rude and rough,
The boy might learn to swear;
But then wi' you he'll be sae taught,
And get sic fair example straught,
I haena ony fear.

3

Ye'll catechise him every quirk,
And shore him weel wi' hell;
And gar him follow to the kirk-
Aye when ye gang yoursel'.
If ye then, maun be then

Frae hame this comin' Friday;
Then please, sir, to lea'e, sir,
The orders wi' your lady.

My word of honour I ha'e gi'en,
In Paisley John's that night at e'en,
To meet the warld's worm ;4
To try to get the twa to gree,
And name the airles and the fee,
In legal mode and form:

I ken he weel a sneck can draw,"
When simple bodies let him;
And if a devil be at a',

In faith he's sure to get him.
To phrase you, and praise you,
Ye ken your laureate scorns:
The prayer still you share still,
Of grateful Minstrel BURNS.

187

POETICAL INVITATION TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY, ACCOMPANIED BY A COPY OF THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT."

66

Now Kennedy, if foot or horse

6

E'er bring you in by Mauchline Corse,
Lord, man, there's lasses there wad force
A hermit's fancy;

And down the gate, in faith they're worse,
And mair unchancy.

But, as I'm sayin', please step to Dow's,
And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews,
Till some bit callant bring me news
That you are there!

And if we dinna haud a bouze

I'se ne'er drink mair.

Sharp.

• Threaten,

* Make.
℗ Cross,

4 Money-secker, or grub. 7 Boy.

Can take advantage,

Now, if ye're ane o' warld's folk,
Wha rate the wearer by the cloak,
And sklent on poverty their joke,
Wi' bitter sneer,

Wi' you no friendship will I troke
Nor cheap nor dear.

But if, as I'm informèd weel,
Ye hate, as ill's the very de'il,

The flinty heart that canna feel

Come, sir, here's tac you!

Hae, there's my haun, I wish you weel,
And guid be wi' you.

1 Genius.

3 Throw.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.5

May, 1786.

I LANG ha'e thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Though it should serve nae other end
Than just a kind memento;

But how the subject theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Ye'll try the world soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,
And muckle they may grieve ye:
For care and trouble set your thought,
E'en when your end's attained;
And a' your views may come to nought,
Where every nerve is strained.

2

4

Spirit.
Exchange.

5 Andrew Aiken, the son of the Poet's friend, Robert Aiken, to whom

Burns inscribed "The Cotter's Saturday Night."

Young Aiken rose to

distinction in after years.

TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

I'll no say men are villains a';

The real, hardened wicked,

Wha ha'e nae check but human law,
Are to a few restricted:

But och, mankind are unco weak,
An' little to be trusted;

If self the wavering balance shake,
It's rarely right adjusted!

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife,
Their fate we should na censure,
For still th' important end of life
They equally may answer;
A man may ha’e an honest heart,
Though poortith' hourly stare him;
A man may tak' a neebor's part,
Yet nae ha'e cash to spare him.

Aye free, aff han' your story tell,
When wi' a bosom crony;
But still keep something to yoursel'
Ye scarcely tell to ony.

Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can
Fra critical dissection;

2

But keek through every other man,
Wi' sharpened, sly inspection.

The sacred lowe 3 o' weel-placed love,
Luxuriantly indulge it;
But never tempt th' illicit rove,
Though naething should divulge it:
I wave the quantum o' the sin,
The hazard of concealing:
But och! it hardens a' within,
And petrifies the feeling!

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her;
And gather gear by every wile
That's justified by honour;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Nor for a train attendant;
But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent.

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,
Let that aye be your border;

189

Its slightest touches, instant pause-
Debar a' side pretences;
And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences.

The Great Creator to revere,

Must sure become the creature;
But still the preaching cant forbear,
And e'en the rigid feature:

Yet ne'er with wits profane to range,
Be complaisance extended;

An atheist's laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended!

When ranting round in pleasure's ring,
Religion may be blinded;
Or if she gi'e a random sting,
It may be little minded;

But when on life we 're tempest-driven,
A conscience but a canker-
A correspondence fixed wi' Heaven
Is sure a noble anchor!

Adieu, dear amiable youth!

Your heart can ne'er be wanting:
May Prudence, Fortitude, and Truth,
Erect your brow undaunting!

In ploughman phrase, "God send you speed,"
Still daily to grow wiser!

And may you better reck the rede,1

Than ever did th' adviser!

Advice.

EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH."

"Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul!
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society!
I owe thee much!"-BLAIR.

DEAR Smith, the sleest, paukie3 thief,
That e'er attempted stealth or rief,
Ye surely ha'e some warlock-breef

Owre human hearts;

For ne'er a bosom yet was prief

Against your arts,

James Smith was a merchant at Mauchline, and an early friend of

Burns.

* Cunning,

• Proof,