POEMS, CHIEFLY SCOTTISH. ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACH, WRITTEN WHEN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY My curse upon thy venom'd stang, Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines! When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan; But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases, Aye mocks our groan! Adown my beard the slavers trickle! Burns suffered much from this disease. In a letter from Ellisland, in May, 1789, he complains of "an omnipotent tooth-ache engrossing all his inner man." To see me loup; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle O' a' the num'rous human dools, The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, Thou, Toothach, surely bear'st the bell O thou grim mischief-making chiel, Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick ;— Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A towmond's Toothach! WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace, My savage journey, curious, I pursue, Till fam'd Breadalbane opens on my view.The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, The woods, wild scattered, clothe their ample sides; Th' outstretching lake, imbosom'd 'mong the hills, eye with wonder1 and amazement fills; The The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, The palace rising on his verdant side; The lawns wood-fringed in Nature's native taste; The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste; The arches striding o'er the new-born stream; The village, glittering in the noontide beam-2 Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell: The sweeping theatre of hanging woods; Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods— Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, And look through Nature with creative fire; Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil'd, Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, Find balm to sooth her bitter rankling wounds: VAR. 1 pleasure. 2 In a copy supposed to be in Burns' hand writing these lines stand thus: The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, The arches striding o'er the new-born stream, The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste; Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan, And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF SWEET flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, What heart o' stane wad thou na move, * These verses were written on the birth of a posthumous child of Mrs. Henri, the widow of a French gentleman, and a daughter of the poet's friend, Mrs. Dunlop. In a letter to that lady, dated in November, 1790, in reply to one, informing him of her daughter's confinement, Burns says, "As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country.' Fate has long owed me a letter of good news from you, in return for the many tidings of sorrow which I have received. In this instance I most cordially obey the apostle-Rejoice with them that do rejoice'-for me to sing for joy is no new thing; but to preach for joy, as I have done in the commencement of this epistle, is a pitch of extravagant rapture to which I never rose before. I read your letterI literally jumped for joy-How could such a mercurial creature as a poet lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of the best news from his best friend? I seized my gilt-headed wangee rod, an instrument indispensably necessary, in my left hand, in the moment of inspiration and rapture; and stride, stride-quick and quicker-out skipped I among the broomy banks of Nith, to muse over my joy by retail. To keep within the bounds of prose was impossible. Mrs. Little's is a more elegant, but not a more sincere compliment to the sweet little fellow than I, extempore almost, poured out to him, in the following verses." The "little Floweret" and its mother are often mentioned in Burns' letters to Mrs. Dunlop. On the 7th February, |