And your life like the new-driven snaw,
Yet that winna save ye,

Old Satan must have ye,

For preaching that three's ane an' twa.

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons,
Seize your spiritual guns,
Ammunition ye never can need;
Your hearts are the stuff,
Will be powder enough,

And your skulls are storehouses of lead.

Rumble John, Rumble John,1
Mount the steps wi' a groan,
Cry, the book is with heresy cramm'd
Then lug out your ladle,

Deal brimstone like adle,2
And roar every note o' the damn'd.

Simper James, Simper James,3
Leave the fair Killie dames,
There's a holier chase in your view;
I'll lay on your head,

That the pack ye'll soon lead,
For puppies like you there's but few.

Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie,"
Are ye herding the penny,
Unconscious what danger awaits?
With a jump, yell, and howl,
Alarm every soul,
For Hannibal's just at your gates.

Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk,5

Ye may slander the book,

;

And the book nought the waur-let me tell you;
Tho' ye're rich and look big,

Yet lay by hat and wig,

And ye'll hae a calf's-head o' sma' value.

Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie,6
What mean ye? what mean ye?

1 John Russell, with the loud voice.

3 James M'Kinla.

4 Alexander Moodie. 6 Stephen Young, Barr.

2 Stagnant water.
5 Dr. Mitchell.

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence
To havins and sense

Wi' people wha ken ye nae better.

Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose,1
Ye hae made but toom roose,
In hunting the wicked Lieutenant;
But the Doctor's your mark,-
For the Lord's haly ark,

He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrang pin in't.

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster,2
For a saunt if ye muster,
It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits,
Yet to worth let's be just,

Royal blood ye might boast,

If the ass was the king o' the brutes.

Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock,3
When the L- makes a rock,
To crush Common Sense for her sins;
If ill manners were wit,

There's no mortal so fit,
To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

Cessnockside, Cessnockside,
Wi' your turkey-cock pride,
O' manhood but sma' is your share;
Ye've the figure, it's true,

And

Even our faes maun allow,

your friends daurna say ye hae mair.

Why desert ye your auld native shire?
Tho' your Muse is a gipsy,

Yet were she even tipsy,

She could ca' us nae waur than we are.1

DAINTIE DAVIE.

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers,
To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers ;
And now come in my happy hours,

To wander wi' my

Davie.

CHORUS.

Meet me on the warlock-knowe,2
Daintie Davie, daintie Davie,
There I'll spend the day wi' you,
My ain dear daintie Davie.

The crystal waters round us fa',
The merry birds are lovers a',
The scented breezes round us blaw,
A wandering wi' my Davie.
Meet me, &c.

When purple morning starts the hare,
To steal upon her early fare,

Then through the dews I will repair,
To meet my faithfu' Davie.
Meet me, &c.

When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws o' Nature's rest,
I flee to his arms I lo'e best,

And that's my ain dear Davie.
Meet me, &c.

1 The chosen champions of the Auld Light, in Ayrshire, presented, in many particulars of personal conduct and demeanour, as broad a mark as ever tempted the shafts of a satirist. That Burns has grossly overcharged the portraits of them, deepening the shadows that were sufficiently dark, and excluding altogether those brighter, and perhaps softer, traits of character which redeemed the originals within the sympathies of many of the worthiest and best of men, seems equally clear.-Lockhart, p. 62.

2 A knoll where wizards have held tryste.

THE SELKIRK GRACE.1

SOME hae meat, and canna eat,

And some wad eat that want it ;
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF PEG NICHOLSON. PEG NICHOLSON was a gude bay mare,

As ever trode on airn;

But now she's floating down the Nith,
An' past the mouth o' Cairn.

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare,
An' rode thro' thick an' thin;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
An' wanting ev'n the skin.

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare,
An' ance she bare a priest;

But now she 's floating down the Nith,
For Solway fish a feast.

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare,
An' the priest he rode her sair;

An' meikle oppress'd an' bruised she was,
As priest-rid cattle are.

ON SEEING MISS FONTENELLE IN A FAVOURITE
CHARACTER.

SWEET naïveté of feature,

Simple, wild, enchanting elf,
Not to thee, but thanks to Nature,
Thou art acting but thyself.

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected,
Spurning nature, torturing art;
Loves and graces all rejected,

Then indeed thou'd'st act a part.

1 Said by Burns, at the request of the Earl of Selkirk.

THE LEAGUE AND COVENANT.1
THE Solemn League and Covenant

Cost Scotland blood-cost Scotland tears:
But it seal'd Freedom's sacred cause-
If thou 'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers.

ON MISS JESSY LEWARS.

TALK not to me of savages
From Afric's burning sun,
No savage e'er could rend my heart,
As, Jessy, thou hast done."

But Jessy's lovely hand in mine,

A mutual faith to plight,

Not ev'n to view the Heavenly choir,

Would be so blest a sight.

EPITAPH ON MISS JESSY LEWARS.2

SAY, Sages, what's the charm on earth

Can turn Death's dart aside ?

It is not purity and worth,

Else Jessy had not died.

THE RECOVERY OF JESSY LEWARS.

BUT rarely seen since Nature's birth,

The natives of the sky,

Yet still one Seraph's left on earth,

For Jessy did not die.

THE TOAST.

FILL me with the rosy

wine,

Call a toast, a toast divine;
Give the Poet's darling flame,
Lovely Jessy be the name;
Then thou mayest freely boast,

Thou hast given a peerless toast.

1 In reply to a gentleman who undervalued the sufferings of Scotland "for

conscience sake."

2 Playfully written, when she was indisposed.