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EPISTLE TO WILLIAM CREECH.1

AULD chuckie Reekie's2 sair distrest
Down drops her ance weel burnisht crest,
Nae joy her bonnie buskit3 nest
Can yield ava,

Her darling bird that she lo'es best,
Willie's awa!

O Willie was a witty wight,
And had o' things an unco slight;
Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight,
An' trig an' braw.

But now they'll busk her like a fright,
Willie's awa!

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd;
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd;
They durst nae mair than he allow'd,
That was a law:

We've lost a birkies weel worth gowd,
Willie's awa!

6

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools,
Frae colleges and boarding-schools,
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools
In glen or shaw ;7

He wha could brush them down to mools,
Willie's awa!

The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumers
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour;
He was a dictionar and grammar

Amang them a' ;

I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer,
Willie's awa!

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1 The inclosed I have just wrote, nearly extempore, in a solitary inn in Selkirk, after a miserable wet day's riding.-R. B.

2 Edinburgh.

3 Ornamented.

4 Neat.

5 Clever fellow.

6 Silly girls. 7 Wood in a hollow.
8 The Chamber of Commerce in Edinburgh.

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face,
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace;
M'Kenzie, Stewart-such a brace
As Rome ne'er saw ;

They a' maun meet some ither place,
Willie's awa!

Poor Burns e'en Scotch drink canna quicken,
He cheeps1 like some bewildered chicken
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin

By hoodie-craw; 2

Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin',
Willie's awa!

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum,3
And Calvin's fock, are fit to fell him;
And self-conceited critic skellum 1

His quill may draw ;

He wha could brawlie ward their bellum,
Willie's awa!

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped,
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,
And Ettrick banks now roaring red,
While tempests blaw;

But every joy and pleasure's fled,
Willie's awa!

May I be slander's common speech;
A text for infamy to preach;
And lastly, streekit out to bleach

In winter snaw;

When I forget thee, WILLIE CREECH,5
Tho' far awa!

May never wicked fortune touzle him!
May never wicked men bamboozle him!
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem

He canty claw !?

Then to the blessed New Jerusalem,

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INSCRIPTION ON THE TOMBSTONE ERECTED BY BURNS
TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON.1

"Here lies Robert Fergusson, Poet, born September 5th, 1751—
Died, 16th October, 1774."

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay,

66

No storied urn, nor animated bust ;"
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way
To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust.

A GRACE BEFORE DINNER.

O THOU, who kindly dost provide
For every creature's want!
We bless thee, God of Nature wide,

For all thy goodness lent:

And, if it please thee, Heavenly Guide,

May never worse be sent ;

But whether granted, or denied,

Lord, bless us with content!

Amen!

A VERSE COMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURNS, TO
THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE, ON TAKING LEAVE
AT A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS, WHERE HE HAD
BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED.

WHEN death's dark stream I ferry o'er,
A time that surely shall come;
In Heaven itself I'll ask no more,
Than just a Highland welcome.

LIBERTY-A FRAGMENT.2

THEE, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of Freedom fled?

Immingled with the mighty dead!

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies!

1 Burns had asked permission of the Bailies of Canongate, to "lay a simple stone over the revered ashes" of Fergusson.

2 The Fragment was the amusement of a lonely hour at a village inn, in

the summer of 1794.

Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!
Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep;
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,
Nor give the coward secret breath.
Is this the power in Freedom's war,
That wont to bid the battle rage?
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate,
Crushing the despot's proudest bearing,
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate,
Brav'd usurpation's boldest daring!

One quench'd in darkness, like the sinking star,
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX.1

Now Robin lies in his last lair,

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair,
Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare,

Nae mair shall fear him :

Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care

E'er mair come near him.

To tell the truth, they seldom fasht him,
Except the moment that they crusht him;
For sune as chance, or fate, had husht 'em,
Tho' e'er sae short,

Then wi' a rhyme, or sang, he lasht 'em,
And thought it sport.

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark,

And counted was baith wight and stark,2
Yet that was never Robin's mark

To mak a man;

But tell him, he was learn'd and clark,

Ye roos'd him than!

ANSWER TO VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE POET BY THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE.3

GUIDWIFE,

I MIND it weel, in early date,

When I was beardless, young, and blate,

1 In Ruisseaux, Burns plays on his own name. 2 Stout and enduring. 3 Mrs. Scott, who had some skill in rhyming and painting.

An' first could thrash the barn,
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh.
An' tho' forfoughten' sair enough,
Yet unco' proud to learn:
When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckon'd was,
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass,
Still shearing and clearing
The tither stooked raw,'
Wi' claivers, an' haivers,3
Wearing the day awa;

Ev'n then a wish (I mind its power),
A wish that, to my latest hour,

Shall strongly heave my breast;
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake,
Some usefu' plan, or beuk could make,
Or sing a sang at least.

The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,*
I turn'd the weeding-hook aside,
An' spar'd the symbol dear:
No nation, no station,

My envy e'er could raise
A Scot still, but blot still,
I knew nae higher praise.

;

But still the elements o' sang
In formless jumble, right an' wrang,
Wild floated in my brain;

Till on that har'st I said before,
My partner in the merry core,
She rous'd the forming strain:
I see her yet, the sonsie quean,
That lighted up my jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky een,
That gart my heart-strings tingle;
I fired, inspired,

At ev'ry kindling keek,5
But bashing, and dashing,
I feared aye to speak.

Health to the sex! ilk guid chiel says,
Wi' merry dance in winter days,

1 Tired.

2 The other row of shocks.
5 Look.

3 Nonsense.

• Barley.

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