THE GALLANT WEAVER.
WHERE Cart rins rowin to the sea,
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree,
Thers lives a lad, the lad for me,
He is a gallant weaver.

Oh I had wooers aucht or nine,
They gied me rings and ribbons fine:
And I was fear'd my heart would tine,
And I gied it to the weaver.

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band
To gie the lad that has the land,
But to my heart I'll had my hand,
And give it to the weaver.

While birds rejoice in loafy bowers;
While bees delight in opening flowers;
While corn grows green in simmer showers,
I'll love my gallant weaver. 135

LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE? LOUIS, what reck I by thee,

Or Geordie on his ocean?

Dyvour, beggar louns to me-
I reign in Jeanie's bosom.
Let her crown my love her law,

And in her breast enthrone me:
Kings and nations-swith awa'!
Reif randies, I disown ye!

FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY.
My heart is sair-I dare nae tell-
My heart is sair for somebody;
I could wake a winter night
For the sake of somebody.

Oh-hon! for somebody!
Oh-hey! for somebody!
I could range the world around,
For the sake of somebody.

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,
O'sweetly smile on somebody!
Frae ilka a danger keep him free,
And send me safe my somebody!
Oh-hon! for somebody!
Oh-hey! for somebody!
I wad do what wad 1 not?
For the sake of somebody!

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. THE lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en and morn she cries, alas!
And aye the saut tear blins her e'e:
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,
A waefu' day it was to me;
For their I lost my father dear,
My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding sheet the bloody clay,
Their graves are growing green to see:
And by them lies the dearest lad

That ever blest a woman's e'e!
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man, I trow, thou be;

For mony a heart thou hast made sair,
That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee.

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON.

Tune-"Finlayston House."

FATE gave the word. the arrow sped,
And pierced my darling's heart:
And with him all the joys are fled
Life can to me impart.

By cruel hands the sapling drops,
In dust dishonour'd laid:
So fell the pride of all my hopes,
My age's future shade.
The mother linnet in the brake
Bewails her ravished young;
So I for my lost darling's sake,
Lament the live-long day.
Daath, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow,
Now fond I bare my breast.
O do thou kindly lay me low
With him I love at rest!

O WHAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN. O WHAT ye wha's in yon town,

Ye see the c'ening sun upon?
The fairest dame's in yon town,
That e'en sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw
She wanders by yon spreading tree;
How blest ye flow'rs that mind her blaw,
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e!
How blest ye birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year,
And doubly welcome be the spring,
The season to iny Lucy dear!

The sun blinks blythe on yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr;
But my delight in yon town,

And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair,
Without my love, not a' the charms,
O' paradise could yield me joy;
But gie my Lucy in my arms,
And welcome Lapland's dreary sky!

A RED, RED ROSE.

O MY love's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O my love's like the melody

That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I;

And I will love thee still, my dear, "Till a' the seas gang dry.

"Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run,
And fare thee weel, my only love!
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my love,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

A VISION.

As I stood by yon roofless tower,
Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air,
Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight moon her care.
The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky;
The fox was howling on the hill,

Whase distant echoing glens reply.
The stream adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's.
The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din:
Athort the lift they start and shift,
Like fortune's favours' tint as win.
By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,
And, by the moon-beam, shook, to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be."
Had I a statue been o' stane,

His darin look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, The sacred posie-Liberty!

And frae his harp sic strains did flow,

Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear;

But oh, it was a tale of woe,

As ever met a Briton's ear!

He sang wi' joy for his former day,
He weeping wail'd his latter times
But what he said it was nae play,
I winua ventur't in my rhymes,137

COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER,

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE. REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,

Of Stuart, a name once respected

A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart,

But now 'tis despised and neglected.

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my cye,

Let no one misdeem me disloyal;

A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh,

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal.

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne; My fathers have fallen to right it;

Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it.

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join,

The Queen and the rest of the gentry:

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of

mine;

Their title's avow'd by the country.

But why of that epocha make such a fuss,
That gave us the Hanover stem.

If bringing them over was lucky for us,
I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them.

But loyalty, true! we're on dangerous ground,
Who knows how the fashions may alter,
The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring as a halter!

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard,
A trifle scarce worthy your care;
But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard,
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye,
And ushers the long dreary night:
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky,
Your course to the latest is bright.

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.

CALEDONIA.

Tune-"Caledonian Hunt's Delight."

THERE was once a day-but old Time then was

young

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, From some of your northern deities sprung, (Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?)

From Tweed to the Oreades was her domain, To hunt, or to pasture, or to do what she would:

Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good.

A lambkin in peace. but a lion in war,
The pride of her kindred the heroine grew:
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore,-
"Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter

shall rue!"

With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling

Long quiet she reign'd; 'till thitherward steers
A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand: 138
Repeated, successive, for many long years,
They darken'd the air, and they plundered the
land:

Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry,

They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside: She took to her hills aud her arrows let fly

The daring invaders they fled or they died. The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore: 139

The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth

To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore :140 O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd,

No arts could appease them, nor arms could repel;

But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd,

As Large well can witness, and Loncartie tell. 141

The cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose,
With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife:
Provoked beyond bearing, at last she rose,
And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his
life: 142

The Anglian lion, the terror of France.

Oft prowling, ensanguine'd the Tweed's silver flood;

But taught by the bright Caledonian lance,

He learned to fear in his own native wood.

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, Her bright course of glory for ever shall run: For brave Caledonia immortal must be;

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun: Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose, The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base;

But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse; Then ergo she'll match them, and match them always.143

THE FOLLOWING POEM

WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT
HIM A NEWSPAPER, 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, ony body spak o't;

Or Poiand, who 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 ought amiss:
Or how our merry lads at hame,

In Britain's court kept up the game:

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 raxed,
Or if bare a- yet were taxed;
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls;
If that daft bubkie, Geordie Wales,
Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails,

HAIL, Poesic! thou nymph reserved!
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved
Frae common sense, or sunk enerved

'Mang heaps o' clavers; And ock! owre aft thy joes hae starved, 'Mid a' thy favours!

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

To death or marriage;
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang
But wi' miscarriage?

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus' pen Will Shakespear 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 skinlin' patches
O' heathen tatters:

I pass by hunders, nameless wretches,
That ape their betters.

In this braw age o' wit and lear,
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mai
Blaw sweetly, in its native air
And rural grace;

And wi' the far-famed 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 so clever;
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan,
But thou's for ever.

Thou paints auld nature to the nines,
In thy sweet Caledonian lines;

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines,
Where Philomel,

While nightly breezes sweep the vines,
Her griefs will tell!

In gowany glens thy burnie strays,
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes;
Or trots by hazely shaws or bracs,
Wi' hawthorns gray,
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays,
At close o' day.

Thy rural loves are nature's sel';
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell;
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell
O' witchin' love,
That charm that can the strongest quell,
The sternest move.

ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR. BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL OF MAR.

"O, CAM ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?
Or were ye at the Sherra-mnir,
And did the battle see, man?"
"I saw the battle, sair and teugh,
And reekin'-red ran mony a sheugh,
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds,
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds,

Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades,
To meet them were na slow, man;
They rush'd, and push d, and bluid outgush'd,
And mony a bouk did fa', man:
The great Argyle led on his files,

I wat they glanced twenty miles:

They hack d and hash'd while broadswords clash'd,

And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd, and smash'd, Till fey men died awa', man.

But had you seen the philabegs,

And skyrin tartan trews, man,
When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs
And covenant true-blues, man;
In lines extended lang and large,
When bayonets opposed the large,
And thousands listen'd to the charge,

Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath,
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath,
They fled like frighted does, man.'
"O how deil, Tam, can that be true?
The chase gaed frae the North, man;

I saw myself, they did pursue

The horseman back to Forth, man;
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight,
They took the brig wi' a' their might;

And straught to Stirling winged their flight,
But cursed lot! the gates were shut,

And mony a hunted poor red-coat,

For fear amaist did swarf, man.'

"My sister Kate came up the gate
Wi' crowdie unto me, man:
She swore she saw some rebels run,
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man;
Their left-hand general had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae good will

That day their neiboors' blood to spill;
For fear, by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o' brose-all crying woes,

And so it goes, you see, man.
They've lost some gallant gentlemen,
Amang the Highland clans, man;
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain,

Or fallen in whiggish hands, man:
Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right;
But mony bade the world guid-night;
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,
By red claymores, and muskets' knell,
WI' dying yell, the Tories fell,

And whigs to hell did flee, man."144

SKETCH ON NEW YEAR'S DAY.
TO MRS. DUNLOP, 1790.

THIS day, Time winds th' exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonths' length again:
I see the old, bald-pated fellow!
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpair'd machine,
To wheel the equal, dull routine.

The absent lover, minor heir,

In vain assail him with their prayer,
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.

Will you (the Major's with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day, 145
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray ;)
From housewife cares a minute borrow
-That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-
And join with me a moralizing,
This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver?
"Another year is gone for ever,"

And what is this day's strong suggestion!
"The passing moment's all we rest on!"
Rest on-for what? What do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may--a few years must-
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes-all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
Hang matters of eternal weight;
That future-life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone:
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as misery's woeful night.
Since then, my honour'd first of friends,
On this poor being all depends:
Let us th' important now employ,
And live as those who never die.
Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd,
Witness that filial circle round.
(A sight life's sorrows to repulse,
A sight pale Envy to convulse)
Others now claim your chief regard;
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

EXTEMPORE,

HIS

ON THE LATE MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE,146
AUTHOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATURAL
TORY, AND MEMBER OF THE ANTIQUARIAN AND
ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH.
SHREWD Willie Smellie to Crochallan came,
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same;
His bristling beard just rising in its might.
"Twas four long nights and days to shaving
night;

His uncombed grizzly locks wild, staring, thatch'd,

A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd;

Yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting rude,
His heart was warm, benevolent and good

How can ye please, ye flowers, with all your dyes?

Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend: How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain pours round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies: 147

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe, And soothe the Virtues weeping on his bier; The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, Is in his narrow honse for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet: Me, mein'ry of my loss will only meet!

ANSWER TO A MANDATE.
SENT BY THE SURVEYOR OF THE WINDOWS, CAR-
RIAGES, &C., TO EACH FARMER, ORDERING HIM
TO SEND A SIGNED LIST OF HIS HORSES, SER-
VANTS. WHEEL-CARRIAGES, &C., AND WHETHER
HE WAS A MARRIED MAN OR A BACHELO AND
WHAT CHILDREN THEY HAD.

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

My horses, servants, carts, and graith,
To which I'm free to tak my aith.

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle,
I had four brutes o' gallant mettle,
As ever drew before a pettle,
My hand-afore's,148 a guid auld has-been,
And wight and wilfu' a' his days been;
My hand a hin's, 149 a weel gaun filly,
Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie ;150
And your auld borough mony a time,
In days when riding was nae crime-
But ance, when in my wooing pride,
I like a blockhead boost to ride,
The wilfu' creature sae I put to,
(Lord pardon a' my sins and that too!)

I play'd my filly sic a shavie.
She's a' bedevil'd with the spavie.
My fur-a-hin's,151 a wordy beast,
As e'er in tug or tow was traced:
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie,
A damn'd red-wud. Kilburnie blastie!
Forby a cowte, of cowtes the wale,
As ever ran before a tail;
An' he be spared to be a beast,
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least.
Wheel carriages I hae but few-
Three carts, and twa are feckly new;
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token,
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken;
1 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 gadsman ane, a thresher t'other,
We Davoc hauds the nowte in fother.
I rule them, as I aught, discreetly,
And often labour them completely;
And aye on Sundays, duly, nightly.
I on the questions targe them tightly,
Till. faith; wee Davoc's grown sae gleg,
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg)
He'll screed you aff effectual calling,
As fast as ony in the dwalling.
I've nane in female servant station,
(Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation!)
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is,
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses;
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented,
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted:
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess,
She stares the daddie in her face,
Enough of ought ye like but grace.
But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady,
I've said enough for her already,
And if ye tax her or her mither,
By the Lord ye'se get them a' thegither!
And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,
Nae kind of license out I'm taking,
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it,
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit!
So 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 notit;
Then know all ye whom it concerns,
Subscripsi huic,

SONG.

ROBERT BURNS.

NAE gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair;132
Shall ever be my muse's care;
Their title's a' are empty show;
Gie me my Highland Lassie, O!

Within the glen sae bushy, O!
Aboon the plain sae rush, O!
I set me down, wi' right good will,
To sing my Highland Lassie, O!
O were yon hills and valleys mine,
Yon palace and yon gardens fine!
The world then the love should know
I bear my Highland Lassie, O!
Within the glen, &c.

But fickle fortune frowns on me,
And I maun cross the raging sea;
But while my crimson currents flow,
I'll love my Highland Lassie, O!

Within the glen, &c.

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range,
1 know her heart will never change,
For her hosom burns with honour's glow,
My faithful Highland Lassie, O!
Within the glen, &c.