IN LOCH-TURIT, A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OCHTERTYRE.

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. MAUCHLINE.

RECOMMENDING A BOY.

I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty,
To warn you how that Master Tootie,
Alias, Laird M'Gaun,

Was here to lure the lad away
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day,

An' wad hae don't aff han':

But lest he learn the callan tricks,

As faith I muckle doubt him, Like scrapin' out auld Crummies 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,

Mosgaville, May 3, 1786.

Ye'll catechize him every quirk,
An' shore him weel wi' hell;
An' 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:
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 'bout a house that's rude an' An' if a Devil be at a',

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 onie fear.

In faith he's sure to get him.
To phrase you an' praise you,

Ye ken your Laureat scorns: The pray'r still, you share still, Of grateful Minstrel BURNS.

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 boldly pronounce they are none, Sir.

My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness
Bestow'd 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!

EPISTLE TO MR. M'ADAM,

OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN, IN ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER HE SENT IN THE COMMENCEMENT 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' weel,
Is aye 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,

And barley-scone shall cheer me.

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the
breath

O' monie flow'ry simmers!
And bless your bonie lasses baith,
I'm tald their 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 TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

HEALTH to the Maxwells' vet'ran | May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, Chief!

Nine miles an hour,

Health, aye unsour'd by care or Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah,

grief:
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sibyl 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

In brunstane stoure

But for thy friends, and they are monie,
Baith honest men and lasses bonie,
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie,
In social glee,

Wi' mornings blithe and e'enings funny
Bless them and thee!

Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye,

And then the Deil he daurna steer ye: Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye;

For me, shame fa' me, Thy lengthen'd days on this blest If neist my heart I dinna wear ye

morrow,

While BURNS they ca' me.

TO ELEGY ON THE YEAR, 1778.

"TWAS where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd, The noisy domicile of pedant pride;

Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws,
And cruelty directs the thickening blows;
Upon a time, Sir Abece the great,

In all his pedagogic powers elate,

His awful chair of state resolves to mount,
And call the trembling Vowels to account.
First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight,
But ah deform'd, dishonest to the sight!
His twisted head look'd backward on his way,
And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ai!
Reluctant, E stalk'd in; with piteous race
The jostling tears ran down his honest face!
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own,
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne!
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound;
And next, the title following close behind,
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd.
The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y!
In sullen vengeance, I, disdained reply:
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round,
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground!
In rueful apprehension enter'd O,
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe;
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert,

Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art:
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U,
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew!

As trembling U stood staring all aghast,
The pedant in his left hand clutched him fast,
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right,
Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight.

SKETCH.

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,
And still his precious self his dear delight;
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets;
A man of fashion too, he made his tour,
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive l'amour;