And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;

But a miller used him worst of all,

For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

"Twill make a man forget his wo;

'Twill heighten all his joy :
"Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Though the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

SONNET,

WRITTEN JANUARY 25, 1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR,

ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK,

SING on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough;
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain :
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,

At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart; Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day!

Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,

What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care;

The mite high Heav'n bestow'd that mite with thee I'll share.

A TOAST.*

INSTEAD of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast, Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost; That we lost, did I say? nay, by heav'n, that we found! For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. The next in succession, I'll give you the King, Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing; And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, As built on the base of the great Revolution ; And longer with Politics, not to be cramm'd, Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd; And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial.

* At a meeting of the Dumfriesshire Volunteers, held to commemorate the anniversary of Rodney's Victory, April 12th, 1782, BURNS was called upon for a song, instead of which he delivered the above lines extempore.

TO MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUMFRIES,

WITH BOOKS WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER.

THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair,
And with them take the Poet's prayer-
That fate may in her fairest page,
With every kindliest, best presage
Of future bliss, enrol thy name ;
With native worth, and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution still aware
Of ill-but chief, man's felon snare :
All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind-
These be thy guardian and reward;
So prays thy faithful friend, The Bard.

JESSY LEWARS.

TALK not to me of savages

From Afric's burning sun,
No savage e'er could rend my heart
As, Jessy, thou hast done.
But Jessy's lovely hand in mine,
A mutual faith to plight,

Not even to view the heavenly choir
Would be so blest a sight.

THE TOAST.

FILL me with the rosy wine,
Call a toast a toast divine;
Give the Poet's darling flame,
Lovely Jessy be the name ;
Then thou mayest freely boast,

Thou hast given a peerless toast.

ON MISS JESSY LEWARS' SICKNESS.

SAY, sages, what's the charm on earth

Can turn death's dart aside ?

It is not purity and worth,
Else Jessy had not died.

ON THE RECOVERY OF JESSY LEWARS.

But rarely seen since nature's birth,

The natives of the sky;

Yet still one seraph's left on earth,
For Jessy did not die.

INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALTAR

TO INDEPENDENCE, AT KERROUGHTREE, SEAT OF MR HERON. WRITTEN IN SUMMER, 1795.

THOU of an independent mind,
With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd;

Prepar'd power's proudest frown to brave,
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave;
Virtue alone who dost revere,

Thy own reproach alone dost fear,
Approach this shrine, and worship here.

THE HENPECKED HUSBAND.

CURS'D be the man, the poorest wretch in life,
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife,
Who has no will but by her high permission;
Who has not sixpence but in her possession ;
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell;
Who dreads a curtain-lecture worse than hell.
Were such the wife had fallen to my part,
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart;
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch,

I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch.

SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED.

THE friend whom wild from wisdom's way

The fumes of wine infuriate send ;

(Not moony madness more astray ;)

Who but deplores that hapless friend?

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part,

Ah! why should I such scenes outlive?

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!

'Tis thine to pity and forgive.