When bending down wi' auld grey hairs, Beneath the load of years and cares, May He who made him still support him,

ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD,

FAMILY DISTRESS.

[This was the grandchild of the Poet's friend. Mrs. Dunlop-whose daughter Susan had married a M. Henri, a Frenchman; their infant son, the subject of these verses, being eventually the proprietor of the family estates.]

SWEET Floweret, pledge o' meikle love, And ward o' mony a prayer,

What heart o' stane wad thou na move, Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH.

[Burns's associate, James Smith, later on removed to the banks of the Avon, near Linlithgow, where he started as a calico-printer. Failing in that enterprise, he went to the West Indies, where he died prematurely. One line in this, perhaps, finest of all the Epistles," When ance life's day draws near the gloamin," was cften on the lips of Lord Byron in his moments of profoundest despondency.]

"Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society! I owe thee much!"-BLAIR.

DEAR Smith, the sleest, paukie thief,
That e'er attempted stealth or rief,
Ye surely ha'e some warlock-breef
Owre human hearts;
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief
Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an' moon,
And every star that blinks aboon,
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon
Just gaun to see you;
And every ither pair that's done,
Mair ta'en I'm wi' you.

That auld capricious carlin, Nature,
To mak' amends for scrimpit stature,
She's turned you aff, a human creature
On her first plan;

And in her freaks, on every feature
She's wrote, "The Man."

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme,
My barmie noddle's working prime,
My fancy yerkit up sublime

Wi' hasty summon :
Ha'e ye a leisure moment's time

To hear what's comin'?

Some rhyme a neibor's name to lash ; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu'

cash:

Some rhyme to court the countra clash,
An' raise a din;

For me, an aim I never fash;
I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,
An' damned my fortune to the groat;
But in requit,

Has blest me wi' a random shot
O' countra wit.

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent,
To try my fate in guid black prent;
But still, the mair I'm that way bent,
Something cries "Hoolie!
I rede you, honest man, tak' tent!
Ye 'll shaw your folly.

"There 's ither poets much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, Ha'e thought they had ensured their debtors

A' future ages; Now moths deform in shapeless tatters Their unknown pages."

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs,
To garland my poetic brows!
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs
Are whistling thrang,

An' teach the lanely heights an' howes
My rustic sang.

I'll wander on, with tentless heed
How never-halting moments speed,
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;
Then, all unknown,
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead,
Forgot and gone!

Mak' haste and turn King David owre, And lilt wi' holy clangor;

O' double verse come gi'e us four,

An' skirl up the Bangor :
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure,
Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her,
For Heresy is in her power,

And gloriously she'll whang her
Wi' pith this day.

Come, let a proper text be read,

An' touch it aff wi' vigour, How graceless Ham leugh at his dad,

Which made Canaan a nigger; Or Phineas drove the murdering blade, Wi' whore-abhorring rigour ; Or Zipporah, the scauldin' jade, Was like a bluidy tiger

I' th' inn that day.

There, try his mettle on the creed, And bind him down wi' caution,— That stipend is a carnal weed

He tak's but for the fashion; And gi'e him o'er the flock, to feed,

And punish each transgression; Especial, rams that cross the breed, Gi'e them sufficient threshin', Spare them nae day.

Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, And toss thy horns fu' canty;

Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep,
And o'er the thairms be tryin';
O, rare! to see our elbucks wheep,
An' a' like lamb-tails flyin'
Fu' fast this day.

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' airn,
Has shored the Kirk's undoin',
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,
Has proven to its ruin :
Our patron, honest man! Glencairn,
He saw mischief was brewin';
And like a godly elect bairn,
He's wal'd us out a true ane,
And sound this day.

Now Robertson, harangue nae mair,
But steek your gab for ever:
Or try the wicked town o' Ayr,

For there they'll think you clever; Or, nae reflection on your lear,

Ye may commence a shaver;
Or to the Netherton repair,

And turn a carpet-weaver
Aff-hand this day.

Mutrie and you were just a match,
We never had sic twa drones;
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch,
Just like a winkin' baudrons;

And aye he catch'd the tither wretch,
To fry them in his caudrons;

dale,

Because thy pasture's scanty: For lapfu's large o' gospel kail

Shall fill thy crib in plenty,

An' runts o' grace, the pick and wale,
No gi'en by way o' dainty,
But ilka day.

Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep,

To think upon our Zion;
And hing our fiddles up to sleep,

Like baby-clouts a-dryin';

Wi' a' his brimstone squadrons, Fast, fast this day.

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes,
She's swingin' thro' the city:
Hark how the nine-tail'd cat she plays!
I vow it's unco pretty;

There Learning, with his Greekish face,
Grunts out some Latin ditty;
And Common Sense is gaun, she says,
To mak' to Jamie Beattie

Her 'plaint this day.