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Than monie scores as guid 's the priest
Wha sae abus'd him;

An' may a bard no crack his jest

What way they've us'd him?

See him, the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word an' deed,
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed

By worthless skellums,

An' no a muse erect her head

To cowe the blellums?

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts
To gie the rascals their deserts,
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
An' tell aloud

Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts

To cheat the crowd.

God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be,
Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be,

But, twenty times, I rather wou'd be

An atheist clean,

Than under Gospel colours hid be,

Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a glass,
An honest man may like a lass,
But mean revenge, an' malice fause,

He'll still disdain,

An' then cry zeal for Gospel laws,

Like some we ken.

They tak religion in their mouth;
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth,
For what? to gie their malice skouth'

On some puir wight,
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth,
To ruin straight.

All bail, Religion! maid divine!
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,
Who in her rough imperfect line

Thus daurs to name thee,

To stigmatise false friends of thine

Can ne'er defame thee,

1 Vent.

TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH.
Tho' blotch't an' foul wi' monie a stain,
An' far unworthy of thy train,
Wi' trembling voice I tune my strain,
To join wi' those,

Who boldly daur thy cause maintain
In spite o' foes;

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,
In spite o' undermining jobs,
In spite o' dark banditti stabs

At worth an' merit,

By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,

But hellish spirit.

O Ayr! my dear, my native ground!
Within thy presbytereal bound,
A candid lib'ral band is found

Of public teachers,

As men, as Christians too, renown'd,

An' manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd;

Sir, in that circle you are fam'd;

An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd,

(Which gies you honour,)

Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd,

An' winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en,
An' if impertinent I've been,
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane

203

Whase heart ne'r wrang'd yo,

But to his utmost would befriend

Ought that belang'd t' ye.

TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., MAUCHLINE.

RECOMMENDING A BOY.

Mosgaville, May 3, 1786

I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty,
To warn you how that Master Tootie,
Alias, Laird M'Gaun,'

Was here to lure the lad away
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day,
An' wad hae don 't aff han':'

But lest he learn the callan tricks,

As faith, I muckle doubt him,

Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks,
An' tellin' lies about them;
As lieve then, I'd have then,
Your clerkship he should sair,
If sae be, ye may be

Not fitted otherwhere.

Altho' I say't, he's gleg' enough,

An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough,
The boy might learn to swear;
But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught,
An' get sic fair example straught,
I hae na ony fear.

Ye'll catechise him every quirk,

An' shore him weel wi' hell;

An' gar him follow to the kirk

-Aye when ye gang yoursel.
If ye then, maun be then
Frae hame this comin' Friday,
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir,
The orders wi' your lady.

My word of honour I hae gi'en,
In Paisley John's, that night at e'en,
To meet the warld's worm:

To try to get the twa to gree,

An' name the airles" an' the fee,

In legal mode an' form:

1 Master Tootie then lived in Mauchline; a dealer in cows. It was his common practice to cut the nicks or markings from the hors of cattle, to disguise their age. He was an artful trick-contriving character; hence he is called a snick-drawer. Burns styles the Devil, in his address to that personage, an auld, snick-drawing dog."-Cromek,

2 Off hand.

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4 Threaten.

* Sharp.
• Earnest money.

• Make.

EPISTLE TO MR. M'ADAM.

I ken he weel a snick can draw,'

When simple bodies let him;

An' if a Devil be at a',

In faith he's sure to get him.
To phrase you, an' praise you,
Ye ken your Laureat scorns;
The pray'r still, you share still,
Of grateful Minstrel-BURNS.

205

EPISTLE TO MR. M'ADAM OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN,
IN ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER HE SENT
IN THE COMMENCEMENT OF MY POETIC CA-
REER.

SIR, o'er a gill I gat your card,
I trow it made me proud;

"See wha taks notice o' the Bard!"
I lap and cry fu' loud.

"Now deil-ma-care about their jaw,
The senseless, gawky million;
I'll cock my nose aboon them a',
I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan!"
'Twas noble, Sir; 'twas like yoursel,
To grant your high protection:
A great man's smile, ye ken fu' weel,
Is aye a blest infection.

Tho', by his banes wha in a tub

Match'd Macedonian Sandy!

On my ain legs, thro' dirt and dub,
I independent stand aye.-

And when those legs to gude, warm kail,

Wi' welcome canna bear me;

A lee dyke-side, a sybow tail,

And barley scone shall cheer me.

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath
O' mony flow'ry simmers!

And bless your bonny lasses baith,
I'm told they're loosome kimmers !

And God bless young Dunaskin's laird,
The blossom of our gentry!

And may he wear an auld man's beard,
A credit to his country.

* Contrive a trick.

* Diogenes.

• Girls.

TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, GLENRIDDEL.

EXTEMPORE LINES ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER.

Ellisland, Monday Evening.

YOUR News and Review, Sir, I've read through and through,

Sir,

With little admiring or blaming:

The papers are barren of home-news or foreign,

No murders or rapes worth the naming.

Our friends the Reviewers, those chippers and hewers,
Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir;

But of meet, or unmeet, in a fabrick complete,
I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir.

My goose-quill too rude is, to tell all your goodness
Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet;

Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun,
And then all the world, Sir, should know it!

TO TERRAUGHTY,' ON HIS BIRTHDAY.

HEALTH to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief!
Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief:
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf

This natal morn,

I see thy life is stuff o' prief,'

2

Scarce quite half worn.

This day thou metes threescore eleven,
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given

To ilka Poet)

On thee a tack o' seven times seven

Will yet bestow it.

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow

Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow,
May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow,

Nine miles an hour,

Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah,
In brunstane stoure1-

1 Mr. Maxwell, of Terraughty, near Dumfries.

Dust.

• Proof.

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