ANSWER TO VĒRSES.

Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!
Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep;
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,
Nor give the coward secret breath.
Is this the power in Freedom's war,
That wont to bid the battle rage?
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate,
Crushing the despot's proudest bearing,
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate,
Brav'd usurpation's boldest daring!

13

One quench'd in darkness, like the sinking star,
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUIS SEAUX.'

Now Robin lies in his last lair,

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair,
Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare,

Nae mair shall fear him:

Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care

E'er mair come near him.

To tell the truth, they seldom fasht him,
Except the moment that they crusht him:
For sune as chance, or fate, had husht 'em,
Tho' e'er sae short,

Then wi' a rhyme, or sang, he lasht 'em,
And thought it sport.

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark,

And counted was baith wight and stark,"
Yet that was never Robin's mark

To mak a man;

But tell him, he was learn'd and clark,

Ye roos'd him than.

ANSWER TO VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE POET BY THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE.'

GUIDWIFE,

I MIND it weel, in early date,

When I was beardless, young, and blate,

-In Ruisseaux, Burns plays on his own name. 2 Stout and enduring. Mrs. Scott, who had some skill in rhyming and painting.

¿ Tired.

An' first could thrash the barn,
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh.
An' tho' forfoughten' sair eneugh
Yet unco' proud to learn:
When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckon'd was,

And wi' the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass,
Still shearing and clearing
The tither stooked raw,
Wi' claivers, an' haivers,'
Wearing the day awa;

Ev'n then a wish (I mind its power),
A wish that, to my latest hour,
Shall strongly heave my breast;
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake,
Some usefu' plan, or beuk could make,
Or sing a sang at least.

The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,*

I turn'd the weeding-hook aside,
An' spar'd the symbol dear:
No nation, no station,
My envy e'er could raise;
A Scot still, but blot still,
I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o' sang
In formless jumble, right an' wrang,
Wild floated in my brain;
Till on that har'st I said before,
My partner in the merry core,
She rous'd the forming strain:
I see her yet, the sonsie quean,
That lighted up my jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky een,
That gart my heart-strings tingle:
I fired, inspired,

At ev'ry kindling keek,"
But bashing, and dashing,
I feared aye to speak.

Health to the sex! ilk guid chiel says,
Wi' merry dance in winter days,

The other row of shocks. • Nonsense.
• Look.

• Barley.

March, 1787.

TO 7. LAPRAIK.

An' we to share in common:
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe,
The saul o' life, the heav'n below,
Is rapture-giving woman.

Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,
Be mindfu' o' your mither:

She, honest woman, may think shame
That ye're connected with her,

Ye're wae men, ye're nae men,
That slight the lovely dears;
To shame ye, disclaim ye,
Ilk honest birkie swears.

For you, no bred to barn and byre',
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,
Thanks to you for your line:
The marled plaid ye kindly spare,
By me should gratefully be ware;
Twad please me to the Nine.
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,'
Douce hingin' owre my curple,
Than ony ermine ever lap,
Or proud imperial purple.

Fareweel then, lank heal then,
An' plenty be your fa':
May losses and crosses
Ne'er at your hallan ca'.

199

TO J. LAPRAIK.

Sept. 18th, 1785,

GUID speed an' furder to you, Johnny,
Guid health, hale hans, and weather bonny;
Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny

The staff, o' bread,

May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran’y

To clear your head.

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs

Like drivin' wrack;

But may the tapmast grain that wags

Come to the sack.

1 Stable, or sheep-pen.

• Mantle

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it,
But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it,
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it

Wi' muckle wark,

An' took my jocteleg' an' what it,

Like ony clark.

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor,
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter,
Abusin' me for harsh ill-nature

On holy men,

While Deil a hair yoursel ye're better,
But mair profane.

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,
Let's sing about our noble sels;
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills

To help, or roose us,

But browster wives' an' whiskie stills,
They are the Muses.

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it,
An' if ye mak objections at it,

Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it,
An' witness take,

An' when wi' Usquebae we've wat it
It winna break.

But if the beast and branks be spar'd
Till kye be gaun without the herd,
An' a' the vittel in the yard,

An' theekit right,

I mean your ingle-side to guard

Ae winter night.

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitæ

Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty,
Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty,

An' be as canty

As ye were nine years less than thretty,
Sweet ane an' twenty.

But stooks are cowpet' wi' the blast,
An' now the sinn keeks' in the west,

• Clasp-knife.

2 Alehouse wives.

4 Sun peeps,

• Tumbled over

ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER, WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED.

201

Sept. 17, 1785.

WHILE at the stook the shearers cow'r

To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r,

Or in gulravage rinnin scour,"

To pass the time,

In idle rhyme.

Το you I dedicate the hour

My music, tir'd wi' monie a sonnet

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie1 now she's done it,

Lest they shou'd blame her,

An' rouse their holy thunder on it,

And anathem her.

I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy,
That I, a simple countra bardie,
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack so sturdy,

Wha, if they ken me,

Can easy, wi' a single wordie,

Loose hell upon me.

But I gae mad at their grimaces,

Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces,

Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces,

Their raxin" conscience,

Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces

6

Waur nor their nonsense.

There's Gawn, miska't waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour in his breast

It is very probable that the Poet thus named himself after the Border Piper, so spiritedly introduced in the popular song of "Maggie Lauder."-Cromek.

2 Driving,

Running in confusion, like boys leaving school.
Gavin Hamilton,

4 Frighted. • Stretching.