[Captain Francis Grose, son of a jeweller at Richmond, in Surrey, was born there in 1743, dying forty-eight years afterwards very suddenly, of apoplexy, on the 12th of May, 1791, at Dublin.

Having, by reason of his utter carelessness in regard to money, been reduced to poverty at thirty years of age (by which time through good living he had become a perfect wonder

With many a filial tear circling the bed of obesity) he turned artist and antiquary—

of death!

THIRD EPISTLE TO ROBERT
GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY.

I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that
feigns;

producing between 1773 and 1788, in eight quarto volumes, his "Antiquities of England and Wales," embellished by nearly six hundred views of his own drawing. Travelling in Scotland, pen and pencil alternately in his hand, for the continuation of this opus magnum, he met Burns at Mr. Riddel's residence of Friar's Carse. The humourists-poet and antiquarytook to each other immensely. Grose's jovial face and figure were of themselves provocative of merriment. And the lovers of Burns can have

no other than kindly feelings towards Captain Grose, if only in grateful remembrance of the fact that, thanks to his intimacy with the Poet, "Tam o' Shanter" was written, and first pub

Friend of my life! my ardent spirit lished in "The Antiquities of Scotland."]

burns,

And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
The gift still dearer, as the giver, you.

HEAR, Land o' Cakes, and brither

Scots,

Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's;

If there's a hole in a' your coats,
I rede you tent it;

A chiel's amang you taking notes,
And, faith, he'll prent it.

If in your bounds ye chance to light
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,
O' stature short, but genius bright,
That's he, mark weel-
And wow! he has an unco slight
O' cauk and keel.

By some auld houlet-haunted biggin',
Or kirk deserted by its riggin',
It's ten to ane ye 'll find him snug in
Some eldritch part,

leaguin',

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubulcain's fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished the gender
O' Balaam's ass;

A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor,
Weel shod wi' brass.

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg,
The cut of Adam's philabeg;
The knife that nicket Abel's craig
He'll prove you fully,

It was a faulding jocteleg,
Or lang-kail gully.

But wad ye see him in his glee,
For meikle glee and fun has he,

Wi' de'ils, they say, Lord save's! col- Then set him down, and twa or three Guid fellows wi' him; And port, O port! shine thou a wee, And then ye'll see him!

At some black art.

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or
cham'er,

Ye gipsy gang that deal in glamour,
And you deep read in hell's black

grammar,

Warlocks and witches; Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, Ye midnight bitches.

It's tauld he was a sodger bred,
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled;
But now he's quat the spurtle blade,
And dogskin wallet,

And ta'en the-Antiquarian trade,
I think they call it.

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets:

Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets,

Now, by the powers o' verse and prose,
Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose!
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,

They sair misca' thee;
I'd take the rascal by the nose,
Wad say, Shame fa' thee!

LINES WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER,
ENCLOSING A Letter to CAPTAIN GROSE.

[An impromptu addressed to another antiquary, by name Cardonnel, whose skill as a numismatist drew from Burns the allusion in the last stanza.]

Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, KEN ye ought o' Captain Grose?

A towmont guid;

Before the Flood.

Igo and ago,

And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, If he's amang his friends or foes?

Iram, coram, dago.

That though some by the skirt may try I see the old, bald-pated fellow, to snatch him, With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,

Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch Adjust the unimpaired machine,

him;

That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,

You may do miracles by persevering.

Last, though not least, in love, ye faithful fair,

To wheel the equal dull routine.

The absent lover, minor heir,
In vain assail him with their prayer;
Deaf, as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.

Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar Will you (the Major's with the hounds, care ! The happy tenants share his rounds;

To you old Bald-pate smooths his Coila's fair Rachel's care to day,

To crown your happiness he asks your That grandchild's cap will do to-mor

With grateful pride we own your many First, what did yesternight deliver?—

favours;

And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it,

Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.

SKETCH-NEW YEAR'S DAY,

1790.

To MRS. DUNLOP.

"

"Another
year is gone for ever!"
And what is this day's strong sugges
tion?-

"The passing moment 's all we rest on !"
Rest on-for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will Time, amused with proverbed lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may-a few years must-
Repose us in the silent dust;
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?

["The Major" was Mrs. Dunlop's second son, Yes-all such reasonings are amiss! afterwards General Dunlop; "Rachel was Mrs. The voice of Nature loudly cries, Dunlop's daughter, afterwards married to Robert Glasgow, Esq.; while "blooming Keith" was Mrs. And many a message from the skies, Dunlop's youngest daughter. The line referring That something in us never dies: to Rachel alludes to her artistic pencil being That on this frail, uncertain state, at the moment employed in sketching Coila in the "Vision."] Hang matters of eternal weight: That future life, in worlds unknown,

THIS day, Time winds the exhausted Must take its hue from this alone;
chain,
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
To run the twelvemonth's length again: Or dark as Misery's weful night.

Though you, with days and honours A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce?

Is there nae poet, burning keen for SHE fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, fame,

Will try to gi'e us sangs and plays at A woman-though the phrase may seem

As able and as cruel as the devil!
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal
page,

Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and But Douglases were heroes every age:

Would show the tragic muse in a' her Ye yet may follow where a Douglas