ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD,

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY DISTRESS.

STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS.

AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods

The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods;
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,

Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds;
As high in air the bursting torrents flow,

As deep recoiling surges foam below,

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,

And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends.

Dim-seen, thro' rising mists, and ceaseless show'rs,
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs.
Still, thro' the gap the struggling river toils,
And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils -

SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET.

AULD NEEBOR,

I'M three times doubly o'er your debtor,
For
your auld-farrent, frien❜ly letter;
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter,
Ye speak sae fair,
For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter
Some less maun sair.

| Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O' war'ly cares,
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle
Your auld gray hairs.

THE INVENTORY,

IN ANSWER TO THE USUAL MANDATE SENT BY A SURVEYOR OF THE TAXES, REQUIRING A RETURN OF THE NUMBER OF Horses, servants, CARRIAGES, ETC., KEPT.

Till faith, wee Davock's grown sae gleg,
Tho' scarcely langer than my leg,
He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling,
As fast as onie in the dwalling.-

I've nane in female servan' station,
(Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation !)
I ha'e nae wife, and that my bliss is,
An' ye have laid nae tax on misses;
An' then if kirk folks dinna clutch me,
I ken the devils dare na touch me.
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel con-
tented,

Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted.
My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess,
She stares the daddy in her face,
Enough of ought ye like but grace.
But her, my bonie sweet wee lady,
I've paid enough for her already,
An' gin ye tax her or her mither,

Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;
My travel a' on foot I'll shank it,
I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit !—
The Kirk an' you may tak' you that,
It puts but little in your pat;
Sae dinna put me in your buke,
Nor for my ten white shillings luke.
This list wi' my ain han' I wrote it,
Day an' date as under notet:
Then know all ye whom it concerns,
Subscripsi huic,

ROBERT BUrns.

B' the Lord, ye'se get them 'a thegither. MOSSGIEL, February 22nd, 1786.

THE WHISTLE.

A BALLAD.

I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,

I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North,

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king,
And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.

Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall-
'This Whistle's your challenge, in Scotland get o'er,
And drink them to hell, Sir, or ne'er see me more!"

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell;
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill.

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war,
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea,
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd,
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd;
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again have renew'd.

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw;
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins;
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;

Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret, try which was the man.

"By the gods of the ancients!' Glenriddel replies,
'Before I surrender so glorious a prize,

I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More,
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er.'

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend,
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe-or his friend,
Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field,
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;

But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame,
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely dame.

A bard was selected to witness the fray,

And tell future ages the feats of the day;

A bard who detested all sadness and spleen,

And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been.

The dinner being over, the claret they ply,

And e'vry new cork is a new spring of joy;

In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,
And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er;
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core,
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn,
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn.

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did.

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,
No longer the warfare ungodly would wage;
A high-ruling elder to wallow in wine!
He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;
But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend?
Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light;
So up rose bright Phoebus — and down fell the knight.

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink :—
'Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink!
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,

Come

- one bottle more—and have at the sublime!

Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce,
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;

The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!'

SKETCH

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX.

How Wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and unite;
How Virtue and Vice blend their black and their white;
How Genius, th' illustrious father of fiction,
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction —
I sing; If these mortals, the Critics, should bustle,
I care not, not I let the Critics go whistle!

But now for a Patron, whose name and whose glory,
At once may illustrate and honour my story.

Thou, first of our orators, first of our wits;
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem just lucky hits;
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong,
No man, with the half of 'em, e'er went far wrong;
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright,
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right;
A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses,

For using thy name offers fifty excuses.

Good Lord, what is man! for as simple he looks,

Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks,

With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil,

All in all, he's a problem must puzzle the devil.

On his one ruling Passion Sir Pope hugely labours,

That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours: Mankind are his show-box- - a friend, would you know him?

Pull the string, Ruling Passion, the picture will show him.

What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system,

One trifling particular, Truth, should have miss'd him!
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions,

Mankind is a science defies definitions.