TO MRS. SCOTT, OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE,

In answer to an Epistle which she had sent the Author.

I MIND it weel, in early date,

March, 1787.

When I was beardless, young, and blate,
And first could thresh the barn;
Or haudh a yokin' at the pleugh;
An' though forfoughteni sair eneugh,
Yet unco proud to learn!

When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckon'd was,

And wi' the lavek ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass;
Still shearing and clearing
The tither stooked raw,
Wi' clavers an' haivers,"
Wearing the day awa

Ev'n then, a wish (I mind its pow'r),
A wish that to my latest hour

Shall strongly heave my breast-
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake
Some usefu' plan or book could make,
Or sing a sang at least.

The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,"

I turn'd the weedin'-heukP aside,
An' spar'd the symbol dear;
No nation, no station,

My envy e'er could raise,
A Scot still, but blot still,
I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o' sang
In formless jumble, right an' wrang,

Wild floated in my brain ;
Till on that har'st" I said before,
My partner in the merry core,
She rous'd the forming strain:
I see her yet, the sonsies quean,
That lighted up her jingle,
Her witching smile, her pawkyt een,
That gartu my heart-strings tingle
I fired, inspired,

At every kindling keek,w
But bashing, and dashing,
I feared ay to speak.

Halex to the set, ilk guid chiel says,
Wi' merry dance in winter-days,
An' we to share in common;
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe,
The saul o' life, the heav'n below,
Is rapture-giving woman.

Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,
Be mindfu' o' your mither;

She, honest woman, may think shame
That ye 're connected with her.
Ye're wae men, ye 're nae men,
That slight the lovely dears;
To shame ye, disclaim ye,
Ilk honest birkie swears.

For you, no bred to barn or byre,b
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,
Thanks to you for your line,
The marlede plaid ye kindly spare,
By me should gratefully be ware;
'T wad please me to the nine.

I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,d
Douse hinging o'er my curple,
Than onie ermine ever lap,
Or proud imperial purple.
Fareweel then, lang hale then,
An' plenty be your fa':
May losses and crosses
Ne'er at your hallanƒ ca'.

R. BURNS.

SATIRES.

THE HOLY FAIR.S

A robe of seeming truth and trust
Hid crafty Observation ;

And secret hung, with poison'd crust,
The dirk of Defamation:

A mask that like the gorget shew'd,
Dye-varying, on the pigeon;
And for a mantle large and broad,
He wrapt him in Religion.

Hypocrisy a-la-Mode.

UPON a simmer Sunday morn,

When Nature's face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,
An' snuff the callerh air.
The rising sun owre Galstoni muirs,
Wi' glorious light was glintin' ;k
The hares were hirplin' down the furs,m
The lav'rocks they were chantin'
Fu' sweet that day.

As lightsomely I glow'r'd" abroad,

To see a scene sae gay,

d Mantle. e Decently hanging over my loins.
f A seat of turf outside a cottage door.

g Holy Fair is a common phrase in the west of Scotland for a sacramental occasion.

h Fresh.

m Furrows.

k Peeping. n Looked.

i The name of a parish adjoining Mauchline.

1 Creeping.

Three hizzies, early at the road,
Cam skelpin' up the way;
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,
But ane wi' lyartP lining;

The third, that gaed a wee a-back,"
Was in the fashion shining,

Fu' gay that day.

The twa appear'd like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an' claes ;r
Their visage, wither'd, lang, an' thin,
An' sour as onie slaes ;

The third cam up, hap-step-an'-loup,*
As light as oníe lammie,

An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,

As soon as e'er she saw me,

Fu' kind that day.

Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, Sweet lass,
I think ye seem to ken me;
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face,
But yet I canna name ye.'

Quo' she, and laughin' as she spak,
An' taks me by the hands,

'Ye, for my sake, hae gien the feek"

Of a' the ten commands

A screed some day.

'My name is Fun-your cronie dear,
The nearest friend ye hae ;

An' this is Superstition here,
An' that's Hypocrisy.

I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,

To spend an hour in daffin' :*

Gin ye'll go there, yon runkledy pair,

We will get famous laughin'
At them this day.'

Quoth I, 'With a' my heart, I'll do 't;
I'll get my Sunday's sark2 on,
An' meet you on the holy spot;

Faith we's hae fine remarkin'!
Then I gaeda hame at crowdie-time,
An' soon I made me ready;

For roads were clad, frae side to side, Wi' monie a weary body,

In droves that day.

C

Here farmers gash, in riding graith,d