[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 I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, 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, HEAR, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's; If there's a hole in a' your coats, A chiel's amang you taking notes, If in your bounds ye chance to light By some auld houlet-haunted biggin', leaguin', Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder; A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, It was a faulding jocteleg, But wad ye see him in his glee, 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 Ye gipsy gang that deal in glamour, grammar, Warlocks and witches; Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, Ye midnight bitches. It's tauld he was a sodger bred, And ta'en the-Antiquarian trade, He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets: Rusty airn caps and jinglin' jackets, Now, by the powers o' verse and prose, They sair misca' thee; LINES WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER, [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, 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 "The passing moment 's all we rest on !" ["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; Since, then, my honoured first of friends, Is there no daring bard will rise and tell How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? Where are the Muses fled that could duce pro 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, To glut the vengeance of a rival woman : Will try to gi'e us sangs and plays at A woman-though the phrase may seem hame ? For comedy abroad he needna toil, A fool and knave are plants of every soil; uncivi! As able and as cruel as the devil! Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and But Douglases were heroes every age: Greece To gather matter for a serious piece; There's themes enow in Caledonian story, And though your fathers, prodigal of life, A Douglas followed to the martial strife, Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds, Would show the tragic muse in a' her Ye yet may follow where a Douglas |