Those mighty periods of years

Which seem to us so vast, Appear no more before Thy sight Than yesterday that's past.

Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature man,
Is to existence brought;

Again Thou say'st: "Ye sons of men,

Return ye into nought!"

Thou layest them with all their cares
In everlasting sleep;

As with a flood Thou tak'st them off,
With overwhelming sweep.

They flourish like the morning flower,
In beauty's pride arrayed;

But long ere night, cut down, it lies
All withered and decayed.

EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE.

Rankine was a prince of boon-companions, and mingled a good deal in the society of the neighboring gentry, but was too free a liver to be on good terms with the stricter order of the clergy. Burns and he had taken to each other, no doubt in consequence of their community of feeling and thinking on many points.

Rankine had amused the fancy of Burns by a trick which he played off upon a guest of rigid professions, which ending in making the holy man thoroughly drunk.

Он rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine,

The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin'!
There's mony godly folks are thinkin',
Your dreams and tricks

Will send you, Korah-like, a sinkin',
Straught to Auld Nick's.

Ye hae sae mony cracks and cants,
And in your wicked, drucken rants,
Ye mak a devil o' the saunts,

And fill them fou;

And then their failings, flaws, and wants,
Are a' seen through.

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it!

That holy robe, oh dinna tear it!

Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it,
The lads in black!

But your curst wit, when it comes near it,
Rives't aff their back.

choice

Tears

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing: harming It's just the blue-gown badge and claithing'

1 Alluding to a blue uniform and badge worn by a select number of privileged beggars in Scotland, usually called King's Bedesmen. Edie Ochiltree, in the Antiquary, is an example of the corps.

O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naithing
To ken them by,

Frae ony unregenerate heathen
Like you or I.

I've sent you here some rhyming ware,
A' that I bargained for, and mair;
Sae, whan ye hae an hour to spare,
I will expect

Yon sang, ye'll sen't wi' canny care, thoughtful And no neglect.

Though, faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing;
I've played mysel a bonnie spring,

And danced my fill;

I'd better gaen and sair't the king
At Bunker's Hill.

'Twas ae night lately, in my fun,

I gaed a roving wi' the gun,

And brought a paitrick to the grun',
A bonnie hen,

And as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane wad ken.

The poor wee thing was little hurt;

I straikit it a wee for sport,

1 A song he had promised the author. - B.

can

served

partridge

stroked

Ne'er thinking they wad fash me for't;
But deil-ma-care!

Somebody tells the poacher-court

The hale affair.

Some auld used hands had taen a note
That sic a hen had got a shot;

I was suspected for the plot;
I scorned to lie;

So gat the whistle o' my groat,
And pay't the fee.

...

As soon's the clocking-time is by,
And the wee pouts begun to cry,
L-, I'se hae sportin' by and by,

For my gowd guinea,

Though I should hunt the buckskin kye
For't in Virginia. . . .

It puts me aye as mad's a hare;
So I can rhyme and write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient:

Meanwhile I am, respected sir,

Your most obedient.

trouble

breeding

poulta

IN

GREEN GROW THE RASHES.

TUNE- Green grow the Rashes.

THERE'S nought but care on every hand,
In every hour that passes, 0:
What signifies the life o' man,
And 'twere na for the lasses, O.

CHORUS.

Green grow the rashes, O!

Green grow the rashes, O!

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend
Are spent amang the lasses, O.

The warly race may riches chase,

worldly

And riches still may fly them, O;
And though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

Gie me a canny hour at e'en,

My arms about my dearie, O; And warly cares, and warly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, O.

happy

topsy-turvy

For you sae douce ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, 0:
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,

He dearly loved the lasses, O.

grave