TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., MAUCHLINE.

RECOMMENDING A BOY.

Mosgaville, May 3, 1786.

I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty,
To warn you how that Master Tootie,
Alias, Laird M'Gaun,1

Was here to lure the lad away
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day,

An' wad hae don't aff han':2

But lest he learn the callan tricks,

As, faith, I muckle doubt him,

Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks,

An' tellin' lies about them;
As lieve then, I'd have then,
Your clerkship he should sair,
If sae be, ye may be

Not fitted otherwhere.

Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough,
An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough,
The boy might learn to swear;
But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught,
An' get sic fair example straught,
I hae na ony fear.

Ye'll catechise him every quirk,

An' shore him weel wi' hell;

An' gar5 him follow to the kirk

-Aye when ye gang yoursel.
If ye then, maun be then

Frae hame this comin' Friday,
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir,
The orders wi' your lady.

My word of honour I hae gi'en,
In Paisley John's, that night at e'en,

To meet the warld's worm:

To try to get the twa to gree,

An' name the airles" an' the fee,

In legal mode an' form:

1 Master Tootie then lived in Mauchline; a dealer in cows. It was his common practice to cut the nicks or markings from the horns of cattle, to disguise their age. He was an artful trick-contriving character; hence he is called a snick-drawer. Burns styles the Devil, in his address to that personage, an auld, snick-drawing dog."-Cromek.

* Off hand.

8 Sharp.
4 Threaten.
6 Earnest money.

5 Make.

I ken he weel a snick can draw,1

When simple bodies let him;

An' if a Devil be at a',

In faith he's sure to get him.
To phrase you, an' praise you,
Ye ken your Laureat scorns:
The pray'r still, you share still,
Of grateful Minstrel-BURNS.

EPISTLE TO MR. M'ADAM OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN, IN
ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER HE SENT IN THE
COMMENCEMENT OF MY POETIC CAREER.

SIR, o'er a gill I gat your card,
I trow it made me proud;
"See wha taks notice o' the Bard!"
I lap and cry fu' loud.

"Now deil-ma-care about their jaw,
The senseless, gawky million;
I'll cock my nose aboon them a',
I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan!"

'Twas noble, Sir; 'twas like yoursel,
To grant your high protection:
A great man's smile, ye ken fu' weel,
Is aye a blest infection.

Tho', by his banes wha in a tub
Match'd Macedonian Sandy!
my ain legs, thro' dirt and dub,
I independent stand aye.—

On

And when those legs to gude, warm kail,

Wi' welcome canna bear me;

A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail,

And barley scone shall cheer me.

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath
O' mony flow'ry simmers!

And bless your bonnie lasses baith,
I'm tald they're loosome kimmers !3

And God bless young Dunaskin's laird,
The blossom of our gentry!

And may he wear an auld man's beard,
A credit to his country.

1 Contrive a trick.

2 Diogenes.

8 Girls.

TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, GLENRIDDEL.

EXTEMPORE LINES ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER.

Ellisland, Monday Evening.

YOUR News and Review, Sir, I've read through and through, Sir,

With little admiring or blaming :

The papers are barren of home-news or foreign,

No murders or rapes worth the naming.

Our friends the Reviewers, those chippers and hewers,
Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir;

But of meet, or unmeet, in a fabrick complete,

I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir.

My goose-quill too rude is, to tell all your goodness
Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet;

Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun,
And then all the world, Sir, should know it!

TO TERRAUGHTY,' ON HIS BIRTHDAY.
HEALTH to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief!
Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief:
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sibyl leaf

This natal morn,

I see thy life is stuff o' prief,2

Scarce quite half worn.

This day thou metes threescore eleven,
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given

To ilka Poet)

On thee a tack o' seven times seven

Will yet bestow it.

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow
Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow,
May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow,
Nine miles an hour,

Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah,
In brunstane stoure-3

1 Mr. Maxwell, of Terraughty, near Dumfries.

8 Dust.

2 Proof.

But for thy friends, and they are monie,
Baith honest men and lasses bonnie,
May couthie' fortune, kind and cannie,
In social glee,

Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny
Bless them and thee!

Fareweel, auld birkie !2 Lord be near ye,
And then the Deil he daur na steer3 ye :
Your friends love, your faes
aye
aye fear
For me, shame fa' me,
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye

ye;

While BURNS they ca' me.

TO A LADY, WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKING GLASSES.

Edinburgh, March 17th, 1788.

FAIR Empress of the Poet's soul,

And Queen of Poetesses;

Clarinda, take this little boon,

This humble pair of glasses.

And fill them high with generous juice,
As generous as your mind;

And pledge me in the generous toast-
The whole of human kind!"

66

"To those who love us !"-second fill;
But not to those whom we love;
Lest we love those who love not us!
A third-"To thee and me, love!"4

THE VOWELS.

A TALE.

'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd, The noisy domicile of pedant pride;

Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws,

And cruelty directs the thickening blows;

Upon a time, Sir Abece the great,

In all his pedagogic powers elate,

1 Loving.

2 A clever fellow.

3 Molest.

The lady was the Clarinda of the Poet's letters; some account of her will be found in the prefatory Memoir.

His awful chair of state resolves to mount,
And call the trembling Vowels to account.

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight,
But ah! deform'd, dishonest to the sight!
His twisted head look'd backward on his way
And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ai!
Reluctant, E stalk'd in; with piteous race
The jostling tears ran down his honest face!
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own,
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne!
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound;
And, next, the title following close behind,
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd.
The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y!
In sullen vengeance, I disdained reply:
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round,
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground!
In rueful apprehension enter'd O,

The wailing minstrel of despairing woe;
Th' Inquisitor of Spain, the most expert,
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art:
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering, U
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew!
As trembling U stood staring all aghast,
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast,
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right,
Baptis'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight.

SKETCH.1

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,
And still his precious self his dear delight;
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets;

A man of fashion too, he made his tour,
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive l'amour;

1 The piece inscribed "R. G., Esq.," is a copy of verses I sent Mr. Graham, of Fintry, accompanying a request for his assistance in a matter to me of very great moment. This poem is a species of composition new to me, but I do not intend it shall be my last essay of the kind, as you will see by the "Poet's Progress." These fragments, if my design succeed, are but a small part of the intended whole. I propose it shall be the work of my utmost exertions, ripened by years. The fragment beginning, "A little, upright, pert, tart," &c., forms the postulate, the axioms, the definition of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This particular part I send you merely as a sample of my hand at portraitsketching.-To Professor D. Stewart, Jan. 20, 1789.