When goavan, as if led wi' branks, moving stupidly rude bridle 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 ; devil-a-bit 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! cat-gut fellow 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 walking aimlessly damage bear 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, staff creep above My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase chosen The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, miserly gadflies 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, doubt jole expect blame smartly 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 winkers Wi' girnin' spite. But by yon moon! and that's high swearin'And every star within my hearin'! mad made-sleepless grinning 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. jades lost gone witching smitten praise Nae mair at present can I measure, R. B. |