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When goavan, as if led wi' branks,
And stumpin' on his ploughman shanks,
I sidling sheltered in a nook,
I marked nought uncommon.
I watched the symptoms o' the great,
The fient a pride, nae pride had he,
Then from his lordship I shall learn
One rank as weel's anither ;
1 Lord Daer was a young nobleman of the greatest promise. He had just returned from France, where he cultivated the society of some of those men who afterwards figured in the Revolution (particularly Condorcet), and had contracted their sentiments. -"The foregoing verses were really extempore, but a little corrected since."— B.
EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN.
In the course of his visits to Ayr, Burns had formed an acquaintance with Major William Logan, a retired military officer, noted for his wit, his violin-playing, and his convivial habits, who lived a cheerful bachelorlife with his mother and an unmarried sister. Burns had visited Logan at his villa of Park, near Ayr, had enjoyed his fiddle and his waggery, and run over-so to speak the whole gamut of his congenial heart. He had also been much pleased with the manners of the old lady and her daughter. On the 30th of October, he is found addressing the major in an epistle expressed in merry but careless verse.
HAIL, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!
When idly goavan whyles we saunter,
Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter
Uphill, down brae, till some mischanter, accident Some black bog-hole,
Arrests us, then the scaith and banter
Hale be your heart!-hale be your fiddle!
Until you on a crummock driddle
The melancholious, lazy croon,
Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon, poverty
May still your life from day to day
A sweeping, kindling, bauld Strathspey—
A blessing on the cheery gang
But as the clegs o' feeling stang,
My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase chosen The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, miserly
Wha count on poortith as disgrace!
May fireside discords jar a base
But come, your hand, my careless brither,
We cheek for chow shall jog thegither;
For our grand fa' ;
But still, but still I like them dearly-
We've faults and failings granted clearly,
Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers, sprightly girls The witching cursed delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte, And gart me weet my waukrife
Wi' girnin' spite.
But by yon moon! and that's high swearin'And every star within my hearin'!
And by her een wha was a dear ane!
I hope to gie the jads a clearin'
My loss I mourn, but not repent it,
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted,
Faites mes baise-mains respectueuses,
That sic a couple Fate allows ye
MOSSIGEL, 30th October, 1786.
Nae mair at present can I measure,