An' monie a fallow gat his licks,

Wi' hearty crunt;1

An' some, to learn them for their tricks,

Were hang'd an' brunt.2

This game was play'd in monie lands,
An' Auld-light caddies bure sic hands,
That, faith, the youngsters took the sands
Wi' nimble shanks,

The lairds farbade, by strict commands,
Šic bluidy pranks.

But New-light herds gat sic a cowe,
Folk thought them ruined stick-an-stowe,3
Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe*

Ye'll find ane plac'd;

An' some their New-light fair avow,

Just quite barefac’d.

Nae doubt the Auld-light flocks are bleatin;
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin;
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin

Wi' girnin spite,

To hear the moon sae sadly lied on
By word an' write.

But shortly they will cowe the louns !6
Some Auld-light herds in neebor towns
Are mind't, in things they ca' balloons,
To tak a flight,

An' stay ae month amang the moons,
An' see them right.

Guid observation they will gie them:

An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them,
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them,
Just i' their pouch,

An' when the New-light billies see them,

Sae, ye

I think they'll crouch!

observe that a' this clatter

Is naething but a "moonshine matter;"

But tho' dull-prose folk Latin splatter

In logic tulzie,8

I hope we Bardies ken some better

Than mind sic brulzie.9

8 Quarrel.

5 Grinning. 9 A broil.

EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE,1 ENCLOSING SOME POEMS.

O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine,
The wale2 o' cocks for fun an' drinkin!
There's monie godly folks are thinkin,

Your dreams an' tricks

Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin,

Straught to auld Nick's.

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

An' fill them fou:

And then their failings, flaws, an' wants,

Are a' seen thro'.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!
That holy robe, O 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.

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing,"
It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing
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 bargain'd for an' mair;
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,

I will expect,

Yon sang, ye'll sen 't wi' cannie care,

And no neglect.

Tho', faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!
My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing!
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring,

An' danc'd my fill!

I'd better gaen an' sair't the king

At Bunker's Hill.

1 According to Allan Cunningham, "an out-spoken, ready-witted man, and a little of a scoffer."

2 Choice.
3 Damaging.
A song he had promised the author.-R. B.
5 Send it. 6 Served.

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun,
I gaed a roving wi' the gun,

An' brought a paitrick to the grun‚1
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,

Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't;

But, Deil-ma-care!

Somebody tells the poacher-court

The hale affair.

Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note,
That sic a hen had got a shot;

I was suspected for the plot;

So gat the whissle o'

I scorn'd to lie ;

my groat,
An' pay't the fee.

As soon's the clockin-time1 is by,
An' the wee pouts begun to cry,
L-d, I'se hae sportin by an' by,

For my gowd guinea;
Tho' I should herd the Buckskin kye
For't, in Virginia.

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb,
But twa-three draps about the wame,7

Scarce thro' the feathers:

An' baith a yellow George to claim,

An' thole their blethers!

It pits me aye as mad's a hare;

So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;

1 Partridge to the ground.

2 Stroked.

3 Whole.

Hatching time.

5 Chicks. 6 Buckskin, an inhabitant of Virginia.
8 And endure their foolish talk.

7 Belly.

9 Puts.

But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient:

Your most obedient.

Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,

WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, ON NITH-SIDE.1

THOU whom chance may hither lead,

Be thou clad in russet weed,

Be thou deck'd in silken stole,
Grave these counsels on thy soul.
Life is but a day at most,

Sprung from night, in darkness lost;
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour,
Fear not clouds will always lour.

As Youth and Love, with sprightly dance,
Beneath thy morning star advance,

Pleasure with her syren air

May delude the thoughtless pair;'
Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup,
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up.

As thy day grows warm and high,
Life's meridian flaming nigh,

Dost thou spurn the humble vale?

Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale?

Check thy climbing step, elate,

Evils lurk in felon wait:

Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold,

Soar around each cliffy hold,

While cheerful Peace, with linnet song,
Chants the lowly dells among.

As the shades of ev'ning close,
Beck'ning thee to long repose;
As life itself becomes disease,
Seek the chimney-nook of ease.
There ruminate with sober thought,

On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought;

And teach the sportive younkers round,

Saws of experience, sage and sound.
Say, Man's true, genuine estimate,

The grand criterion of his fate,

1 Burns has recorded his composition of these verses :-"One day, in a hermitage, on the Banks of the Nith, belonging to a gentleman in my neighbourhood who is so good as to give me a key at pleasure, I wrote the above, supposing myself the sequestered venerable inhabitant of the lonely man sion."-The" gentleman" was Captain Riddel.

Is not Art thou high, or low?
Did thy fortune ebb, or flow?
Did many talents gild thy span ?
Or frugal Nature grudge thee one?
Tell them, and press it on their mind,
As thou thyself must shortly find,
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n
To Virtue, or to Vice, is giv'n.
Say, "To be just, and kind, and wise,
There solid self-enjoyment lies;
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways,
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base."
Thus resign'd and quiet, creep
To the bed of lasting sleep;

Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake,
Night, where dawn shall never break.
Till future life, future no more,
To light and joy the good restore,
To light and joy unknown before.

Stranger, go! Heav'n be thy guide!
Quoth the Beadsman of Nith-side.

ODE,1 SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD.

DWELLER in yon dungeon dark,
Hangman of creation! mark

Who in widow-weeds appears,
Laden with unhonoured years,
Noosing with care a bursting purse,
Baited with many a deadly curse!

1 Ellisland, March 23, 1788. The enclosed Ode is a compliment to the memory of the late Mrs. Oswald, of Auchencruive. You probably knew her personally, an honour which I cannot boast; but I spent my early years in her neighbourhood, and among her servants and tenants. I know that she was detested with the most heartfelt cordiality. However, in the particular part of her conduct which roused my poetic wrath, she was much less blameable. In January last, on my road to Ayrshire, I had put up at Bailie Wigham's, in Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place. The frost was keen, and the grim evening and howling wind were ushering in a night of snow and drift. My horse and I were both much fatigued with the labours of the day, and just as my friend the Bailie and I were bidding defiance to the storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantry of the late great Mrs. nd poor I am forced to brave all the horrors of the tempestuous night, and jade my horse, my young favourite horse, whom I had just christened Pegasus, twelve miles farther on, through the wildest muirs and hills of Ayrshire, to New Cumnock, the next inn. The powers of poesy and prose sink under me, when I would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good fire, at New Cumnock, had so far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat down and wrote the enclosed Ode.-BURNS to Dr. Moore, March 23, 1789.