'An honest wabster to his trade,

'Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-bred, 'Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,

When it was sair ;

'The wife slade cannie to her bed,

'But ne'er spak mair.

'A country laird had ta'en the batts,
'Or some curmurring in his guts,
'His only son for Hornbook sets,
'An' pays him well :

'The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets,*
'Was laird himsel.

'A bonie lass-ye kend her name—
'Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame;
'She trusts hersel, to hide the shame,
'In Hornbook's care ;

'Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,
'To hide it there.

'That's just a swatch+ o' Hornbook's way; 'Thus goes he on from day to day,

'Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay,

An's weel paid for't;

'Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey,

'Wi' his d-n'd dirt:

'But, hark! I'll tell you of a plot,
Tho' dinna ye be speakin' o't;
I'll nail the self-conceited sot,
" As dead's a herrin;

'Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat,

'He gets his fairin !'

But just as he began to tell,

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell
Some wee short bour ayont the twal,
Which rais'd us baith:

I took the way that pleas'd mysel,
And sae did Death.

[The author himself has fixed the date of this poem, which, like Tam-o'Shanter, was struck off almost complete at one heat; for Gilbert has told us that his brother repeated the stanzas to him on the day following the night of a tiff with Wilson at the mason lodge. John Wilson, parish schoolmaster at Tarbolton, had also a small grocery shop where he sold common drugs, and gave occasional medical advice in simple cases, and thus became a person of some importance in the village. According to Mr Lockhart he was not merely compelled, through the force and widely-spread popularity of this attractive satire, to close his shop, but to abandon his school-craft also, in consequence of his pupils, one by one, deserting him. "Hornbook" removed to Glasgow, and by dint of his talents and assiduity, at length obtained the respectable situation of session-clerk of Gorbals parish. He died January 13, 1839. Many a time in his latter days he has been heard, "over a bowl of punch, to bless the lucky hour when the dominie of Tarbolton provoked the castigation of Robert Burns."]

EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK,

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.-APRIL 1, 1785.

WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green,
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en,
An' morning poussie whiddin*
* seen,

Inspire my muse,

This freedom, in an unknown frien',
I pray excuse.

On Fasten-e'ent we had a rockin,

To ca' the crack§ and weave our stockin ;

* a hare in quick motion.

+ gathering.

† the night before Lent.

chat.

And there was muckle fun and jokin,
Ye need na doubt;

There was ae sang, amang the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,
That some kind husband had addrest

To some sweet wife;

It thirl'dt the heart-strings thro' the breast, A' to the life.

I've scarce heard ought describ'd sae weel,
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel;
Thought I, "can this be Pope, or Steele,
Or Beattie's wark?"

They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk.

It pat me fidgin-fain‡ to hear't,
An' sae about him there I speir't; §
Then a' that kent him round declar'd

He had ingine; ||

That nane excell'd it, few cam near't,
It was sae fine:

That, set him to a pint of ale,
An' either douce ¶ or merry tale,

Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel,

Or witty catches

'Tween Inverness an' Teviotdale,

He had few matches.

* set-to. asked.

† thrilled.

excitedly eager.

I genius.

grave.

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith,

Tho' I should pawn my pleugh an' graith, *
Or die a cadgert pownie's death,

At some dyke-back,

A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith,

To hear your crack.‡

But, first an' foremost, I should tell,
Amaist as soon as I could spell,
I to the crambo-jingle § fell;

Tho' rude an' rough—

Yet crooning to a body's sel,

Does weel eneugh.

I am nae poet, in a sense;
But just a rhymer like by chance.

An' hae to learning nae pretence ;

Yet, what the matter?
Whene'er my muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.

Your critic-folk may cock their nose,
And say, "how can you e'er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?"

But, by your leave, my learned foes,
Ye're maybe wrang.

What's a' your jargon o' your schools—
Your Latin names for horns an' stools?

If honest Nature made you fools,

What sairs ¶ your grammars?

Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,
Or knappin-hammers.

A set o' dull, conceited hashes
Confuse their brains in college-classes!
They gang in stirks,* and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;

An' syne they think to climb Parnassus

By dint o' Greek!

Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire,
That's a' the learning I desire;

Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire

At pleugh or cart,

My muse, tho' hamely in attire,

May touch the heart.

O for a spunk o' Allan's + glee,
Or Fergusson's, the bauld an' slee,
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!

That would be lear‡eneugh for me,
If I could get it.

Now, sir, if ye hae friends enow,
Tho' real friends I b'lieve are few;
Yet, if your catalogue be fu',

I'se no insist:

But, gif ye want ae friend that's true,

I'm on your list.

I winna blaw about mysel,

As ill I like my fauts to tell;

But friends, an' folk that wish me well,

They sometime roose § me;

Tho' I maun own, as mony still

As far abuse me.

There's ae wee faut they whiles lay to me,

I like the lasses-Gude forgie me!

young bullocks.

† Allan Ramsay's. I learning.

§ praise.