But he whose blossom buds in guilt,
Shall to the ground be cast,
And, like the rootless stubble, tost
Before the sweeping blast.

For why? that God the good adore
Hath given them peace and rest,
But hath decreed that wicked men
Shall ne'er be truly blest.

THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE
NINETIETH PSALM.

ОH Thou, the first, the greatest friend
Of all the human race!

Whose strong right hand has ever been
Their stay and dwelling-place!

Before the mountains heaved their heads

Beneath thy forming hand,

Before this ponderous globe itself

Arose at Thy command;

That Power which raised and still upholds

This universal frame,

From countless, unbeginning time,

Was ever still the same.

Those mighty periods of years

Which seem to us so vast, Appear no more before Thy sight Than yesterday that's past.

Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature man,
Is to existence brought;

Again Thou say'st: "Ye sons of men,
Return ye into nought!"

Thou layest them with all their cares
In everlasting sleep;

As with a flood Thou tak'st them off,
With overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flower,
In beauty's pride arrayed

But long ere night, cut down, it lies
All withered and decayed.

EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE.

Rankine was a prince of boon-companions, and mingled a good deal in the society of the neighboring gentry, but was too free a liver to be on good terms with the stricter order of the clergy. Burns and he had taken to each other, no doubt in consequence of their community of feeling and thinking on many points.

Rankine had amused the fancy of Burns by a trick which he played off upon a guest of rigid professions, which ending in making the holy man thoroughly drunk.

Он rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,

The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin'!

There's mony godly folks are thinkin',
Your dreams and tricks

Will send you, Korah-like, a sinkin',
Straught to Auld Nick's.

Ye hae sae mony cracks and cants,
And in your wicked, drucken rants,
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,

And fill them fou;

And then their failings, flaws, and wants,
Are a' seen through.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!

That holy robe, oh dinna tear it!

Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it,
The lads in black!

But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
Rives't aff their back.

choice

Tears

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing: harming It's just the blue-gown badge and claithing1

1 Alluding to a blue uniform and badge worn by a select number of privileged beggars in Scotland, usually called King's Bedesmen. Edie Ochiltree, in the Antiquary, is an example of the corps.

O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naithing
To ken them by,

Frae ony unregenerate heathen
Like you or I.

I've sent you here some rhyming ware,
A' that I bargained for, and mair;
Sae, whan ye hae an hour to spare,
I will expect

Yon sang,1 ye'll sen't wi' canny care,
And no neglect.

thoughtful

Though, faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing;
I've played mysel a bonnie spring,
And danced my fill;

I'd better gaen and sair't the king
At Bunker's Hill.

can

served

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun,

I gaed a roving wi' the gun,

And brought a paitrick to the grun',
A bonnie hen,

And as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane wad ken.

The poor wee thing was little hurt;

I straikit it a wee for sport,

1 A song he had promised the author.-B.

partridge

stroked

Ne'er thinking they wad fash me for't;
But deil-ma-care!

Somebody tells the poacher-court
The hale affair.

Some auld used hands had taen a note

That sic a hen had got a shot;

I was suspected for the plot;
I scorned to lie;

So gat the whistle o' my groat,
And pay't the fee.

As soon's the clocking-time is by,
And the wee pouts begun to cry,
L-, I'se hae sportin' by and by,
For my gowd guinea,

Though I should hunt the buckskin kye
For't in Virginia.

It puts me aye as mad's a hare;
So I can rhyme and write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient:

Meanwhile I am, respected sir,

Your most obedient.

trouble

breeding

poults