Solwayside, Annan; Whiskey Jean, Kirkcudbright; and Black Joan, Sanquhar. On the part of Miller, all the Whig interest of the Duke of Queensberry was exerted, and all the Tory interest on the side of the Johnstone : the poet's heart was with the latter. Annan and Lochmaben stood staunch by old names and old affections: after a contest, bitterer than anything of the kind remembered, the Whig interest prevailed.]

THERE were five carlins in the south,

They fell upon a scheme,

To send a lad to London town,
To bring them tidings hame.

Not only bring them tidings hame,
But do their errands there;
And aiblins gowd and honour baith
Might be that laddie's share.

There was Maggy by the banks o' Nith,
A dame wi' pride eneugh;
And Marjory o' the mony lochs,
A carlin auld and teugh.

And blinkin' Bess of Annandale,

That dwelt near Solway-side; And whiskey Jean, that took her gill In Galloway sae wide.

And black Joan, frae Crighton-peel, O' gipsey kith an' kin;

Five wighter carlins were na found The south countrie within.

To send a lad to London town,
They met upon a day;

And mony a knight, and mony a laird,
This errand fain wad gae.

O mony a knight, and mony a laird, This errand fain wad gae;

But nae ane could their fancy please, O ne'er a ane but twae.

The first ane was a belted knight, Bred of a border band;

And he wad gae to London town, Might nae man him withstand.

And he wad do their errands weel,
And meikle he wad say;
And ilka ane about the court
Wad bid to him gude-day.

The neist cam in a sodger youth, And spak wi' modest grace, And he wad gae to London town, If sae their pleasure was.

CXV.

EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ.

OF FINTRAY:

ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS.

["I am too little a man," said Burns, in the note to Fintray, which accompanied this poem, "to have any political attachment: I am deeply indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for individuals of both parties: but a man who has it in his power to be the father of a country, and who acts like his Grace of Queensberry, is a character that one cannot speak of with patience." This Epistle was first printed in my edition of Burns in 1834: I had the use of the Macmurdo and the Afton manuscripts for that purpose: to both families the poet was much indebted for many acts of courtesy and kindness.]

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears,
Who left the all-important cares

Of princes and their darlings;
And, bent on winning borough towns,
Came shaking hands wi' wabster lowns,
And kissing barefit carlins.

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode,
Whistling his roaring pack abroad
Of mad unmuzzled lions;
As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd,
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd
To every Whig defiance.

But cautious Queensberry left the war,
Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star;
Besides, he hated bleeding:
But left behind him heroes bright,
Heroes in Cæsarean fight,

Or Ciceronian pleading.

O! for a throat like huge Mons-meg,
To muster o'er each ardent Whig

Beneath Drumlanrig's banner;

Heroes and heroines commix,
All in the field of politics,

To win immortal honour.

1 John M'Murdo, Esq., of Drumlanrig.

2 Fergusson of Craigdarroch.

3 Riddel of Friars-Carse

The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar,

When all his wintry billows pour

XCI.

Against the Buchan Bullers.

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night, Departed Whigs enjoy the fight,

And think on former daring: The muffled murtherer1 of Charles The Magna Charter flag unfurls,

All deadly gules it's bearing.

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame,
Bold Scrimgeour2 follows gallant Graham,3
Auld Covenanters shiver.
(Forgive, forgive, much-wrong'd Montrose!
Now death and hell engulph thy foes,

Thou liv'st on high for ever!)

Still o'er the field the combat burns,
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;
But fate the word has spoken:
For woman's wit and strength o' man,
Alas! can do but what they can!

The Tory ranks are broken.

O that my een were flowing burns,
My voice a lioness that mourns

Her darling cubs' undoing!
That I might greet, that I might cry,
While Tories fall, while Tories fly,

And furious Whigs pursuing!

What Whig but melts for good Sir James!
Dear to his country by the names

Friend, patron, benefactor! Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save! And Hopeton falls, the generous brave!

And Stewart, bold as Hector.

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow;
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe;

And Melville melt in wailing!

How Fox and Sheridan rejoice!
And Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise,
Thy power is all prevailing!

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar
He only hears and sees the war,

A cool spectator purely; So, when the storm the forests rends, The robin in the hedge descends,

And sober chirps securely.

1 The executioner of Charles i, was masked. 2 Scrimgeour, Lora Dunaee.

ON

CAPTAIN GROSE'S

PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND,

COLLECTING THE

ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM.

[This "fine, fat, fodgel wight" was a clever man, a skilful antiquary, and fond of wit and wine. He was well acquainted with heraldry, and was conversant with the weapons and the armour of his own and other countries. He found his way to Friars-Carse, in the Vale of Nith, and there, at the social "board of Glenriddel," for the first time saw Burns. The Englishman heard, it is said, with wonder, the sarcastic sallies and eloquent bursts of the inspired Scot, who, in his turn, surveyed with wonder the remarkable corpulence, and listened with pleasure to the independent sentiments and humourous turns of conversation in the joyous Englishman. This Poem was the fruit of the interview, and it is said that Grose regarded some passages as rather personal ]

HEAR, Land o' Cakes and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's;
If there's a hole in a' your coats,

I rede you tent it:

A chiel's amang you taking notes,
And, faith, he'll prent it!

If in your bounds ye chance to light
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,
O' stature short, but genius bright,

That's he, mark weel

And wow! he has an unco slight
O' cauk and keel.

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,
Or kirk deserted by its riggin,
It's ten to one ye'll find him snug in
Some eldritch part,

Wi' deils, they say, L―d save's! colleaguin'
At some black art.

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer,
Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamour,
And you deep read in hell's black grammar,
Warlocks and witches;
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,
Ye midnight b―s!

It's tauld he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa'n than fled;

3 Graham, Marquis of Montrose, 4 Stewart of Hillside.