Or your more dreaded hell to state,
Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Tied up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor Frailty names,
Suppose a change o' cases;

A dear-loved lad, convenience snug,
A treacherous inclination -
But, let me whisper i̇' your lug,
Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;

Though they may gang a kennin' wrang,

To step aside is human :

One point must still be greatly dark,

The moving why they do it: And just as lamely can ye mark How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 't is He alone
Decidedly can try us;

He knows each chord - its various tone,

Each spring its various bias.

Then at the balance let's be mute;

We never can adjust it;

What's done we partly may compute,

But know not what 's resisted.

THE INVENTORY.

IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SURVEYOR OF
THE TAXES.

SIR, as your mandate did request,
I send you here a faithfu' list

O' gudes and gear, and a' my graith,
To which I'm clear to gie my aith.

Imprimis, then, for carriage-cattle,
I have four brutes o' gallant mettle,
As ever drew afore a pettle.
My han' afore's a gude auld has-been,
And wight and wilfu' a' his days been.
My han' ahin's a weel-gaun filly,
That aft has borne me hame frae Killie,
And your auld burro' monie a time,
In days when riding was nae crime.
But ance, whan in my wooing pride,
I like a blockhead boost to ride,
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to

(L—, pardon all my sins, and that too!)
I played my filly sic a shavie,
She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie.
My fur ahin's a wordy beast,
As e'er in tug or tow was traced.
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie,
A d-d red wud Kilburnie blastie !
Forbye a cowte o' cowtes the wale,
As ever ran afore a tail,

If he be spared to be a beast,
He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least.

Wheel-carriages I hae but few,
Three carts, and twa are feckly new;
Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken;
I made a poker o' the spin'le,
And my auld mither brunt the trin'le.

For men, I've three mischievous boys, Run deils for rantin' and for noise; A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other, Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother. I rule them, as I ought, discreetly, And aften labour them completely; And aye on Sundays duly, nightly, I on the Questions targe them tightly; Till, faith, wee Davock's turned sae gleg, Though scarcely langer than your leg, He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling, As fast as ony in the dwalling. I've nane in female servin' station (L— keep me aye frae a' temptation !) I hae nae wife and that my bliss is, And ye have laid nae tax on misses. Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, Heaven sent me ane mae than I wanted. My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess, She stares the daddy in her face, Enough of ought ye like but grace; But her, my bonny sweet wee lady, I've paid enough for her already, And gin ye tax her or her mither, B' the L-! ye 'se get them a' thegither.

་

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,
Nae kind of licence out I'm takin’;
My travel a' on foot I'll shank it,

I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit.
Sae dinna put me in your buke,
Nor for my ten white shillings luke.

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it,
The day and date as under noted;
Then know all ye whom it concerns,
Subscripsi huic,

MOSSGIEL, February 22, 1786.

ROBERT BURNS.

TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY.

NOW, Kennedy, if foot or horse

E'er bring you in by Mauchline Corse,
L-, man, there's lasses there wad force
A hermit's fancy;

And down the gate, in faith, they 're worse,
And mair unchancy.

But, as I'm sayin', please step to Dow's
And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews,
Till some bit callan bring me news
That you are there;

And if we dinna haud a bouze,

I'se ne'er drink mair.

It's no I like to sit and swallow,

Then like a swine to puke and wallow;

But gie me just a true guid fallow,
Wi' right engine,

And spunkie, ance to make us mellow,
And then we'll shine.

Now, if ye 're ane o' warld's folk,
Wha rate the wearer by the cloak,
And sklent on poverty their joke,
Wi' bitter sneer,

Wi' you no friendship will I troke,
Nor cheap nor dear.

But if, as I'm informed weel,
Ye hate, as ill's the very deil,

The flinty heart that canna feel,

Come, sir, here's tae you!

Hae, there's my han', I wiss you weel,
And guid be wi' you!

R. B.

INSCRIBED ON THE BLANK-LEAF OF A COPY

OF MISS HANNAH MORE'S WORKS,
SENTED BY THE AUTHOR.

PRE

THOU flattering mark of friendship kind,
Still may thy pages call to mind
The dear, the beauteous Donor :
Though sweetly female every part,
Yet such a head, and more the heart,
Does both the sexes honour.
She shewed her taste refined and just
When she selected thee,

Yet deviating own I must,