And longer with Politics, not to be cramm'd, LINES WROTE BY BURNS, WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO JOHN RANKEN, AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE POET'S DEATH. HE who of R-k-n sang, lies stiff and dead; VERSES Addressed to the above J. RANKEN, on his writing to the POET, that a girl in that part of the country was with child to him. I AM a keeper of the law In some sma' points, altho' not a'; Some people tell me gin I fa', Ae way or ither, The breaking of ae point, tho' sma', Breaks a' thegither. I hae been in for't ance or twice, That broke my rest, But now a rumour's like to rise, A whaup's i' the nest. LINES ON BEING ASKED, WHY GOD HAD MADE MISS DAVIS Written on a Pane of Glass in the Inn at Moffat. Ask why God made the gem so small, ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AYR. OH! had each Scor of ancient times, Been, JEANY SCOTT, as thou art, POETICAL EPISTLE TO BURNS. [The following Lines were addressed to the Poet by the Rev. JOHN SKINNER, author of the popular song of Tullochgorum ;and, it is hoped, they will be considered as an acceptable addition to this publication.] O! HAPPY hour for ever mair, Sae braw a skance, Of Ayrshire's dainty Poet there By lucky chance. Waes my auld heart I was na wi' you, I'm bauld to send my service to you Sae proud's I am that ye hae heard O' my attempts to be a Bard, And thinks my muse nae that ill fard: I wad na wiss for mair reward * The printer of the Aberdeen Journal, in whose house Mr Skinner first saw Burns' Poems. Your bonny booky, line by line I've read, and think it freely fine; Indeed I dare na ca't divine, As others might, For that, ye ken, frae pen like mine But, by my sang, I dinna wonner Ye've naething said that looks like blunner Your pauky "Dream" has humour in't I never saw the like in print: The birth-day Laurit durst na mint As ye hae dane, And yet there's nae a single hint Can be mista'en. Your "Mailie," and your guid" Auld Mare, And" Hallow-even's" funny cheer, There's nane that's read them, far or near, And thinks them as diverting gear As Yoric's Tobie. But, O! the well-tauld « Cottar's Night"? Is what gies me the maist delight: A piece sae finish'd, and sae tight, There's nane 's a' Cou'd preachment-timmer cleaner dight But what need this or that to name? And nae ane o' them But weel may challenge a' the fame That we can gie them. For me, I heartily allow you The warld o' praise sae justly due you; A miracle I will avow you, Deny't wha may. What recks a leash o' classic lare Thro' seven years and some guide mair, Sae far surpasses A' we can do wi' study sair To climb Parnassus. But, thanks to praise, ye'er i' your prime, And may chant on this lang lang time; For, let me tell you, 'tware a crime To haud your tongue, Wi' sic a knack's ye hae at rhyme, And you sae young. Ye ken it's nae for ane like me To be so droll as ye can be ; |