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O Ayr, my dear, my native ground,
Within thy presbytereal bound
A candid lib'ral band is found

Of public teachers,

As men, as christians too renown'd

An' manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd;
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd;

An' some, by whom your doctrine 's blam'd,

(Which gies you honor)

Even Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,

An' winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en,
An' if impertinent I've been,
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye

But to his utmost would befriend

Ought that belang'd ye.

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. Mauchline.

(Recommending a Boy.)

Mosgaville, May 3, 1786.

I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty
To warn you how that Master Tootie,
Alias, Laird McGaun,*

Was here to hire yon lad away

'Bout whom ye spak the tither day,

An' wad hae don't aff han':

* Master Tootie then lived in Mauchline; a dealer in Cows. It was his common practice to cut the nicks or markings from the horns of cattle, to disguise their age. He was an artful,

But lest he learn the callan tricks,
As faith I muckle doubt him,

Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks,
An' tellin' lies about them;
As lieve then I'd have then,
Your clerkship he should sair,
If sae be, ye may be

Not fitted otherwhere.

Altho' I say 't, he 's gleg enough,
An' bout a house that's rude an' rough,
The boy might learn to swear;
But then wi' you, he 'll be sae taught,
An' get sic fair example straught,
I hae na ony fear.
Ye 'll catechise him every quirk,
An' shore him weel wi' hell;
An' gar him follow to the kirk

-Ay 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 honor I hae gien,
In Paisley John's, that night at e'en,

To meet the Warld's worm;

To try to get the twa to gree,
An' name the airles* an' the fee,

In legal mode an' form:

I ken he weel a Snick can draw,
When simple bodies let him;

An' if a Devil be at a',

In faith he 's sure to get him.

trick-contriving character; hence he is called a Snick-drawer. In the Poet's "Address to the Deil," he styles that august personage an auld, snick-drawing dog!

*The Airles-Earnest money.

E.

To phrase you an' praise you,
Ye ken your Laureat scorns:
The pray'r still, you share still,

Of grateful MINSTREL BURNS.

To Mr. MADAM, of Craigen-Gillan,

In answer to an obliging letter he sent in the commencément of my poetic career.

SIR, o'er a gill I gat your card,
I trow it made me proud;
See wha taks notice o' the bard!
I lap and cry'd fu' loud.

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw,
The senseless, gawky million;
I'll cock my nose aboon them a',
I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan!

'Twas noble, Sir; 'twas like yoursel,
To grant your high protection:
A great man's smile ye ken fu' well,
Is ay a blest infection.

Tho', by his banes wha in a tub
Match'd Macedonian Sandy!
On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub,
I independent stand ay.—

And when those legs to gude, warm kail,
Wi' welcome canna bear me;

A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail,

A barley-scone shall cheer me.

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Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath
O' mony flow'ry simmers!
And bless your bonie lasses baith,

I'm tald they 're loosome kimmers!

And God bless young Dunaskin's laird,
The blossom of our gentry!

And may he wear an auld man's beard,
A credit to his country.

TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, Glenriddel.

(Extempore Lines on returning a Newspaper.)

Ellisland, Monday Evening.

YOUR news and review, Sir, I've read through and through, Sir,

With little admiring or blaming:

The papers are barren of home-news or foreign,
No murders or rapes worth the naming.

Our friends the reviewers, those chippers and hewers,
Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir;

But of meet, or unmeet, in a fabrick complete,
I'll boldy pronounce they are none, Sir.

My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness
Bestowed on your servant, the Poet;

Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun,
And then all the world, Sir, should know it!

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To TERRAUGHTY,*

On his Birth-Day.

HEALTH to the Maxwell's vet'ran Chief!
Health, ay unsour'd by care or grief:
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf,

This natal morn,

I see thy life is stuff o' prief,

Scarce quite half worn.

This day thou metes threescore eleven,
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven
(The second sight, ye ken, is given

To ilka POET,)

On thee a tack o' seven times seven

Will yet bestow it.

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow

Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow,
May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow,

Nine miles an hour,

Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah,

In brunstane stoure

But for thy friends, and they are mony,
Baith honest men and lasses bonie,
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie,

In social glee,

Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny

Bless them and thee!

Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye,
And then the Deil he daur na steer ye:
Your friends ay love, your faes ay fear ye,
For me, shame fa' me,

If neist my heart I dinna wear ye

While BURNS they ca' me.

* Mr Maxwell, of Terraughty, near Dumfries.

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