Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder;
Auld-Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished the gender
O' Balaam's ass;

A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor,
Weel shod wi' brass.

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg,
The cut of Adam's philibeg:

The knife that nicket Abel's craig
He'll prove you fully.

It was a faulding jocteleg,

Or lang kail-guillie.

But wad ye see him in his glee,
For meikle glee and fun has he,
Then set him down, and twa or three
Guid fellows wi' him:

And port, O port! shine thou a wee,
And then ye'll see him!

Now, by the powers o' verse and prose! Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose! Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,

They sair misca' thee;

I'd take the rascal by the nose,

Wad say, Shame fa' thee!

LINES

WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER, INCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPTAIN GROSE TO BE LEFT WITH MR. CARDONNEL, ANTIQUARIAN.

Tune-"Sir John Malcolm."

KEN ye aught o' Captain Grose?
Igo, and ago,

If he's amang his friends or foes?

Iram, coram, dago.

Is he South, or is he North?

Igo, and ago,

Or drowned in the river Forth?

Iram, coram, dago.

Is he slain by Highland bodies?

Igo, and ago,

And eaten like a weather haggis?

Iram, coram, dago.

Is he to Abram's bosom gane?

Igo, and ago,

Or hauden Sarah by the wane?

Iram, coram dago.

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him!
Igo, and ago,

As for the Deil, he durst na steer him,

Iram, coram, dago.

But please transmit the enclosed letter,
Igo, and ago,

Which will oblige your humble debtor,
fram, coram, dago.

So may ye hae auld stanes in store,
Igo, and ago,

The very satnes that Adam bore.

Iram, coram, dago.

So may ye get in glad possession,

Igo, and ago,

The coins o' Satan's coronation!
Iram, coram, dago.

THE Deil got notice that Grose was a-dying,
So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying;
But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay
moaning,

And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning,
Astonished! confounded! cry'd Satan, By G--d,
I'll want 'im, ere I take such a d- -ble load.*

*Mr. Grose was exceedingly corpulent, and used to rally himself with the greatest good humor, on the singular rotundity of his figure. This Epigram, written by Burns, in a moment of festivity, was so much relished by the antiquarian, that he made it serve as an excuse for prolonging the convivial occasion that gave it birth to a very late Hour:

VOL. II.-F

THIS Wot ye all whom it concerns,
I Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,

October twenty-third,

A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day,

Sae far I spreckled up the brae,

I dinner'd wi' a Lord.

I've been at drucken writers' feasts,
Nay, been bitch fou' mang godly priests,
Wi' rev'rence be it spoken;

I've even join'd the honor'd jorum,
When mighty Squireships of the quorum,
Their hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi' a Lord-stand out my shin,
A Lord-a Peer-an Earl's son,

Up higher yet, my bonnet;

And sic a Lord-lang Scotch ells twa,
Our peerage he o'erlooks them a',
As I look o'er my sonnet,

But oh for Hogarth's magic pow'r!
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glow'r,

And how he star'd and stammer'd,
When goavan, as if led wi' branks,
An' stumpin on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlour hammer'd,

I sliding shelter'd in a nook,
An' at his lordship steal't a look

Like some portentous omen ;
Except good-sense and social glee,
An' (what surpris'd me) modesty,

I marked nought uncommon.

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great,
The gentle pride, the lordly state,
The arrogant assuming;

The fient a pride nae pride, had he,
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see,
Mair than an honest ploughman

Then from his Lordship I shall learn,
Henceforth to meet with unconcern
One rank as well's another:
Nae honest worthy man need care,
To meet with noble, youthful Daer,
For he but meets a brother.

THE INVENTORY,

IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SURVEYOR OF THE TAXES.

SIR, as your mandate did request,
I send you here a faithfu' list,
O' gudes an' gear, an' a' my graith,
To which I'm clear to gie my aith.

Imprimis then, for carriage cattle,
I have four brutes o' gallant mettle,
As ever drew afore a pettle.