My muse jilted me here, and turned a corner on me, and I have not got again into her good graces. Do me the justice to believe me sincere in my grateful remembrance of the many civilities you have honoured me with since I came to Edinburgh, and in assuring you that I have the honour to be

Reverend Sir,

Your obliged and very humble Servant,

Edinburgh, 1787.

R. BURNS.

The

The following Poem was written to a Gentleman who had sent him a News-paper, and offered to continue it free of expense.

KIND Sir, I've read your paper through,
And faith, to me, 'twas really new!
How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted?
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted,
To ken what French mischief was brewin;
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin;
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie works
Atween the Russians and the Turks;
Or if the Swede, before he halt,
Would play anither Charles the twalt:
If Denmark, any body spak o't;

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't;
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin;
How libbet Italy was singin;

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss,
Were sayin or takin aught amiss :
Or how our merry lads at hame,
In Britain's court kept up the game:
z 2

How

How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him!
Was managing St. Stephen's quorum;

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin,
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ;
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin,
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin;
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd,
Or if bare as yet were tax'd;
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls;
If that daft buckie, Geordie W***s,
Was threshin still at hizzies' tails;
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,
And no a perfect kintra cooser.
A' this and mair I never heard of;
And but for you I might despair'd of.
So gratefu', back your news I send you,
And pray, a' guid things may attend you!

Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790.

POEM

POEM

ON PASTORAL POETRY.*

HAIL Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd!
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd
Frae common sense, or sunk enerv'd

'Mang heaps o' clavers; And och! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, Mid a' thy favors!

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, While loud, the trump's heroic clang, And sock or buskin skelp alang

To death or marriage;

Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang

But wi' miscarriage?

In

* This poem was found by Dr. Currie among Burns's papers, and in his handwriting; but there is some doubt of its being his.

G. B.

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives; Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives

Horatian fame;

In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives
Even Sappho's flame.

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches; Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches O' heathen tatters:

pass by hunders, nameless wretches,

In this braw age o' wit and lear, Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair Blaw sweetly in its native air

And rural grace;

And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share

A rival place?

Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan! There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan! Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,

A chiel sae clever;

The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan,

But thou's for ever.

Thou