POEM ON LIFE, ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE
PEYSTER;' DUMFRIES, 1796.

My honour'd Colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the Poet's weal;
Ah! how sma' heart hae I to speel'

The steep Parnassus,

Surrounded thus by bolus pill,

And potion glasses.

O what a canty warld were it,

Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it;
And fortune favour worth and merit,

3

As they deserve:

(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret;

Syne, wha wad starve?)

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and fripp'ry deck her;
Oh! flick'ring, feeble, and unsicker*

I've found her still,

Aye wav'ring like the willow wicker,
'Tween good and ill.

Then that crust carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrons by a rattan,"
Our sinful' saul to get a claut' on

Wi' felon ire;

Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on,—
He's aff like fire.

Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,
First shewing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,

To put us daft;

Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare

O' hell's d-d waft."

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by,

And aft, as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld d-d elbow yeuks with joy,

And hellish pleasure;

Already, in thy fancy's eye,

Thy sicker1 treasure.

EPITAPH, ETC.

Soon, heels-o'er-gowdy!' in he gangs,
And like a sheep-head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs

And murd'ring wrestle,

As, dangling in the wind, he hangs
A gibbet's tassel.

But lest you think I am uncivil,

To plague you with this draunting drivel,
Abjuring a' intentions evil,

I quat my pen:

The Lord preserve us frae the Devil!

Amen! amen!

193

TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY, ON RE-
CEIVING A FAVOUR.

I CALL no Goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit a Bard that feigns;
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons recorded, goodness ever new,
The gift still dearer, as the giver you.

Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night;
If aught that giver from my mind efface;
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace;
Then roll to me, along your wand'ring spheres,
Only to number out a villain's years!

EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.

AN honest man here lies at rest,
As e'er God with his image blest;
The friend of man, the friend of truth;
The friend of age, and guide of youth:
Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd,
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd:
If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.
* Grinning.

1 Topsy Turvy.

EPISTLE TO WILLIAM CREECH.'

AULD chuckie Reekie's' sair distrest;
Down drops her ance weel burnisht crest,
Nae joy her bonnie buskit' nest

Can yield ava.

Her darling bird that she lo'es best,
Willie's awa!

O Willie was a witty wight,
And had o' things an unco slight;
Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight,

An' trig an' braw.

But now they'll busk her like a fright,
Willie's awa!

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd;
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd;
They durst nae mair than he allow'd,
That was a law:

We've lost a birkie" weel worth gowd,
Willie's awa!

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools,
Frae colleges and boarding-schools,
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools
In glen or shaw;"

He wha could brush them down to mools,
Willie's awa!

The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer®
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour;
He was a dictionar and grammar

Amang them a';

I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer,
Willie's awa!

Nae mair we see his levee door
Philosophers and Poets pour,
And toothy critics by the score,
In bloody raw!

The adjutant o' a' the core,

Willie's awa!

1 The inclosed I have just wrote, nearly extempore, in a solitary Inn at Selkirk, after a miserable wet day's riding.-R. B.

• Edinburgh. • Ornamented.

Neat.

Clever fellow.

Silly girls. 7 Wood in a hollow.
The Chamber of Commerce in Edinburgh.

VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK.

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face,
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace;
M'Kenzie, Stewart-such a brace

As Rome ne'er saw;

They a' maun meet some ither place,
Willie's awa!

Poor Burns e'en Scotch drink canna quicken,
He cheeps' like some bewildered chicken
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin
By hoodie-craw;"

Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin',
Willie's awa!

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum,'
And Calvin's fock, are fit to fell him;
And self-conceited critic skellum1

His quill may draw;

He wha could brawlie ward their bellum,
Willie's awa!

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped,

And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,

And Ettrick banks now roaring red,
While tempests blaw;

But every joy and pleasure's fled,
Willie's awa!

May I be slander's common speech;
A text for infamy to preach;
And lastly, streekit out to bleach
In winter snaw;

When I forget thee, WILLIE CREECH,*
Tho' far awa!

May never wicked fortune touzle him!
May never wicked men bamboozle him!
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem

He canty claw!"

Then to the blessed New Jerusalem,

2 Blood-crow.

Fleet wing awa!

190

Creech was the chief publisher in Edinburgh.

Chirps.

• Head.

INSCRIPTION ON THE TOMBSTONE ERECTED BY BURNS TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON.'

66

Here lies Robert Fergusson, Poet, born September 5th, 1751—
Died, 16th October, 1774.'

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay,
"No storied urn, nor animated bust;"
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way
To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust.

A GRACE BEFORE DINNER.

O THOU, who kindly dost provide
For every creature's want!
We bless thee, God of Nature wide,
For all thy goodness lent:

And, if it please thee, Heavenly Guide,

May never worse be sent;

But whether granted, or denied,

Lord, bless us with content!

Amen!

A VERSE COMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURNS,
TO THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE, ON TAKING
LEAVE AT A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS,
WHERE HE HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTER-
TAINED.

WHEN death's dark stream I ferry o'er,
A time that surely shall come;

In Heaven itself I'll ask no more,
Than just a Highland welcome.

LIBERTY-A FRAGMENT."

THEE, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of Freedom fled?

Immingled with the mighty dead!

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies!

1 Burns had asked permission of the Bailies of Canongate, to “lay

a simple stone over the revered ashes" of Fergusson.

2 The Fragment was the amusement of a lonely hour at a village inn, in the summer of 1794.