THE INVENTORY. IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SUR- [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, My han'-afore 's a guid auld has-been, I made a poker o' the spin'le, Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted, (Lord, pardon a' my sins, and that too!) I've paid enough for her already, I played my fillie sic a shavie, Wheel-carriages I ha'e but few, And gin ye tax her or her mither, And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 'Tis you and Taylor are the chief [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, Girnin', looks back, Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition, To see her water: Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion For me, my skill 's but very sma', Weel may ye speed! E'en swinge the dogs, and thresh them sicker; The mair they squeel aye chap the And still 'mang hands a hearty bicker It gars an owther's pulse beat quicker, ANSWER TO A POETICAL [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, This leads me on to tell for sport, 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? Your bodkin's bauld; I did na suffer half sae much Frae Daddie Auld. What tho' at times, when I grow crouse, Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse, King David, o' poetic brief, An' bloody rants, An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants, An' snugly sit amang the saunts, But fegs! the Session says I maun An' snoov'd awa' before the Session- I scorn'd to lie; An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, A furnicator loun he call'd me, An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me, "Geld you!" quo' he, "and whatfor no'? To cut it aff-an' whatfor no'?-- "Na, na," quo' I, "I'm no' for that, But, sir, this pleas'd them warst ava, I saw they were resolvèd a' ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, But cast a moment's fair regard, What mak's the mighty differ; That purity ye pride in, And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) [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, SOLOMON, Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16. O YE wha are sae guid yoursel', Your neebours' faults and folly! 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; It mak's an unco leeway. See Social Life and Glee sit down, O, would they stay to calculate Or your more dreaded hell to state, Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Ye're aiblins nae temptation. Then gently scan your brother man, That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door Though they may gang a kennin wrang, For glaikit Folly's portals; To step aside is human: |