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THE INVENTORY.

IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SUR-
VEYOR OF TAXES, REQUIRING A RETURN
FOR THE ASSESSED TAXES.

[These verses were addressed to Robert Aiken in his capacity as Surveyor of Taxes in Ayr, apropos to the new tax imposed on Female Servants by Mr. Pitt in 1785, with a view to the reduction of the National Debt.]

SIR, as your mandate did request,
I send you here a faithfu' list
O' guids and gear, and a' my graith,
To which I'm clear to gie my aith.
Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,
I ha'e four brutes o' gallant mettle,
As ever drew afore a pettle.

My han'-afore 's a guid auld has-been,
And wight and wilfu' a' his days been,
My han'-ahin's a weel-gaun filly,
That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,
And your auld burro' mcny a time,
In days when riding was nae crime-
But ance, when in my wooing pride,
I, like a blockhead, boost to ride,
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to,

I made a poker o' the spin'le,
And my auld mither brunt the trin'le.
For men, I've three mischievous boys,
Run-de'ils for rantin' and for noise:
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other;
Wee Davoc hauds the nowte in fother.
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly,
And aften labour them completely;
And aye on Sundays duly, nightly,
I on the question targe them tightly,
Till, faith, wee Davoc's turned sae gleg,
Though scarcely langer than my leg,
He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling
As fast as ony in the dwalling.
I've nane in female servan' station,
(Lord, keep me aye frae a' temptation!)
I ha'e nae wife, and that my bliss is,
And ye ha'e laid nae tax on misses;
And then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me,
I ken the devils darena touch me.
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel con-
tented,

Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted,
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,
She stares the daddy in her face,
Enough of aught you like but grace;
But her, my bonnie sweet wee lady,

(Lord, pardon a' my sins, and that too!) I've paid enough for her already,

I played my fillie sic a shavie,
She's a' bedevill'd wi' the spavie.
My furr-ahin's a worthy beast,
As e'er in tug or tow was traced.
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie,
A damned red-wud Kilburnie blastie!
Forbye a cowte, o' cowtes the wale,
As ever ran afore a tail;
If he be spared to be a beast,
He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least.

Wheel-carriages I ha'e but few,
Three carts, and twa are feckly new;
An auld wheelbarrow, mair for token
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken;

And gin ye tax her or her mither,
B' the Lord! ye'se get them a' the-
gither.

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,
Nae kind of license out I'm takin';
Frae this time forth I do declare,
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair;
Through dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;
My travel a' on foot I'll shank it,
I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit!
The kirk and you may tak' you that,
It puts but little in your pat;
Sae dinna put me in your buke,
Nor for my ten white shillings luke.

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'Tis you and Taylor are the chief
Wha are to blame for this mischief,
But gin the Lord's ain folks gat leave,
A toom tar-barrel

[This was obviously the merest fragment of an epistle, and one which was probably never intended for publication. It appeared originally in the edition of Burns printed in 1801, at Glasgow. Two additional stanzas, since then brought to light, are appended, and have been An' twa red peats wad send relief, duly marked as supplementary by being An' end the quarrel, separated from their predecessors. John Goldie or Goudie-for his surname is thus differently spelt-was about the cleverest and ablest of all the Poet's local contemporaries. Born in 1717 at Craigmill, where his progenitors, generation after generation, had carried on their occupation as millers, for a period of fully four centuries, he died in his ninety-second year, in 1809. Although but very partially educated, he was a man of extraordinary ingenuity.]

O GOUDIE! terror of the Whigs,
Dread of black coats and reverend wigs,
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,

Girnin', looks back,

Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues
Wad seize you quick.

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition,
Waes me! she's in a sad condition;
Fie! bring Black Jock, her state phy-
sician,

To see her water:

Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion
She'll ne'er get better.

For me, my skill 's but very sma',
And skill in prose I've nane ava;
But quietlenwise, between us twa,

Weel may ye speed!
And tho' they sud ye sair misca',
Ne'er fash your head.

E'en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker;

The mair they squeel aye chap the
thicker;

And still 'mang hands a hearty bicker
O' something stout,

It gars an owther's pulse beat quicker,
And helps his wit.

ANSWER TO A POETICAL
EPISTLE FROM A TAILOR.

[The Tailor to whom Burns gave this terribly plain-spoken answer was one Thomas Walker of Poole, near Ochiltree-the opening couplet of whose address to the young farmer of Mossgiel, in 1786, ran thus

Folks tell me ye 're gaun aff this year, out-owre the sea,

And lasses whom ye lo'ed sae dear, will greet for thee!

Than garrin' lasses cowp the cran,

Clean heels owre body,

And sairly thole their mither's ban,
Afore the howdy.

This leads me on to tell for sport,
How I did wi' the Session sort-
Auld Clinkum, at the Inner port

Cry'd three times, "Robin! Come hither lad, an answer for 'tYe're blam'd for jobbin'!"

Burns can hardly be said to have given him the Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on,

retort courteous.]

WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie

To thresh my back at sic a pitch?
Losh, man! ha'e mercy wi' your natch,

Your bodkin's bauld;

I did na suffer half sae much

Frae Daddie Auld.

What tho' at times, when I grow crouse,
I gi'e their wames a random pouse,
Is that enough for you to souse
Your servant sae?

Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse,
An' jag-the-flae!

King David, o' poetic brief,
Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief
As fill'd his after life wi' grief

An' bloody rants,

An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief
O' lang-syne saunts.

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,
My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants,
I'll gi'e auld cloven Clooty's haunts
An unco slip yet,

An' snugly sit amang the saunts,
At Davie's hip yet!

But fegs! the Session says I maun
Gae fa' upo' anither plan,

An' snoov'd awa' before the Session-
I made an open fair confession-

I scorn'd to lie;

An' syne Mess John, beyond expression,
Fell foul o' me.

A furnicator loun he call'd me,

An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me,
I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me,
"But what the matter!"
Quo' I, "I fear, unless ye geld me,
I'll ne'er be better!"

"Geld you!" quo' he, "and whatfor no'?
If that your right hand, leg, or toe,
Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe,
You shou'd remember!

To cut it aff-an' whatfor no'?--
Your dearest member!"

"Na, na," quo' I, "I'm no' for that,
Gelding's nae better than 't is ca't;
I'd rather suffer for my faut,
A hearty flewit,
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't,
Tho' I should rue it!

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But, sir, this pleas'd them warst ava,
An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw,
I said "Gude-night," and cam' awa',
And left the Session;

I saw they were resolvèd a'
On my oppression.

ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID,

OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS.

I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
Would here propone defences,
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi' theirs compared,
And shudder at the niffer,

But cast a moment's fair regard,

What mak's the mighty differ;
Discount what scant occasion gave

That purity ye pride in,

And (what's aft mair than a' the lave)
Your better art o' hiding.

[Evidently not written before the publication Think, when your castigated pulse

of the first or Kilmarnock edition of the Poems, otherwise it must for certain have appeared therein. Speaking of this poem, Wordsworth has exqui itely said, "Burns was a man who preached from the text of his own errors, and his wisdom, beautiful as a flower that might

have risen from seed sown from above, was in fact a scion from the root of personal suffering."]

"My son, these maxims make a rule, And lump them aye thegither; The Rigid Righteous is a fool,

The Rigid Wise anither.

The cleanest corn that ne'er was dight,
May ha'e some pyles o' caff in;
So ne'er a fellow-creature slight
For random fits o' daffin."

SOLOMON, Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16.

O YE wha are sae guid yoursel',
Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell

Your neebours' faults and folly!
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi' store o' water,
The heapet happer's ebbing still,
And still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core,

As counsel for poor mortals,

Gi'es now and then a wallop,

What ragings must his veins convulse,

That still eternal gallop:

Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,

Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o' baith to sail,

It mak's an unco leeway.

See Social Life and Glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite transmugrified, they're grown
Debauchery and drinking:

O, would they stay to calculate
Th' eternal consequences;

Or your more dreaded hell to state,
Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Tied up in godly laces,
Before ye gi'e poor Frailty names,
Suppose a change o' cases;
A dear-loved lad, convenience snug,
A treacherous inclination-
But, let me whisper i' your lug,

Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;

That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door Though they may gang a kennin wrang,

For glaikit Folly's portals;

To step aside is human:

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