That ye're connected with her.
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men
That slight the lovely dears;
To shame ye, disclaim ye,

Ilk honest birkie swears.

woful

fellow

For you, no bred to barn and byre, cow-house
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,

Thanks to you for your line:

worn

The marled plaid ye kindly spare, checkered
By me should gratefully be ware;
'Twad please me to the Nine.
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,
Douce hingin' owre my curple,
Than ony ermine ever lap,

Or proud imperial purple.
Fareweel then, lang heal then,
And plenty be your fa',

covering

rump wrapped

health

lot

May losses and crosses

Ne'er at your hallan ca'!

door

WILLIAM SMELLIE.

Prns was introduced by his printer to one of those envivial clubs composed of men of good condition which then abounded in Edinburgh, each usually founded upon some whim or conceit which shone

through all its proceedings. The club in question assumed the name of the Crochallan Fencibles, from a composite cause. Its landlord Douglas was noted for singing a beautiful Gaelic song called Crochallan (properly, Cro Chalein - that is, Colin's Cattle) This, with the raising of fencible regiments going on at the time to protect the country while the army was chiefly engaged in fighting the American colonists, had given the convivial society an appellation. It was customary to subject a new entrant to a severe ordeal of raillery, by way of proving his temper, and Burns acknowledged that on that happening to himself, he had been "thrashed" in a style beyond all his experience. Here Burns met several of the men whose acquaintance he had previously made at the Canongate Kilwinning Lodge, particularly one William Dunbar, an uncommonly merry uproarious good fellow, who in the hours of mirthful relaxation ap peared as Colonel of the Crochallans, but in the moments of daylight sobriety, practised as a douce writer to the Signet, from which position he ultimately stepped up to the dignity of Inspector-general of Stamp-duties for Scotland. William Smellie, the printer, has been thus described by Burns.

To Crochallan came, The old cocked-hat, the gray surtout, the same; His bristling beard just rising in its might; 'Twas four long nights and days till shaving night;

His uncombed grizzly locks, wild staring,

thatched

A head for thought profound and clear un

matched;

Yet though his caustic wit was biting rude,
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good.

RATTLIN', ROARIN' WILLIE.

Willie Dunbar was commemorated in verses of a different strain. There was an old rough Border ditty referring to a certain Rattling, Roaring Willie, of great celebrity in his day as a wandering violer. To this Burns added a stanza, which we are to take as a picture of the Colonel in his place of command and moment of highest exaltation.

As I cam by Crochallan,

I cannilie keekit ben;

Rattlin' roarin' Willie

Was sitting at yon boord-en'
Sitting at yon boord en',

And amang gude companie;
Rattlin', roarin' Willie,

Ye're welcome hame to me!

slyly peeped in

INSCRIPTION FOR THE GRAVE OF
FERGUSSON.

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET.

BORN, SEPTEMBER 5TH, 1751 — DIED, 16TH OCTOBER, 1774.

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay,
"No storied urn, nor animated bust;"
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way
To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust.

VERSES UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF
FERGUSSON.

The keen sympathy felt by Burns for Fergusson was expressed on many occasions. Very soon after making the arrangements for the tombstone (March 19, 1787), he presented a copy of the works of the Edinburgh poet to a young lady, and wrote the following lines under the portrait which served for a frontispiece.

CURSE on ungrateful man, that can be pleased, And yet can starve the author of the pleasure! Oh thou, my elder brother in misfortune,

By far my elder brother in the Muses,
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!
Why is the bard unpitied by the world,
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?

VERSES INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN BE-
LOW A NOBLE EARL'S PICTURE. [THE
EARL OF GLENCAIRN.]

WHOSE is that noble, dauntless brow?
And whose that eye of fire?
And whose that generous princely mien
Even rooted foes admire?

Stranger, to justly shew that brow,
And mark that eye of fire,

Would take His hand, whose vernal tints
His other works admire.

Bright as a cloudless summer sun,
With stately port he moves;
His guardian seraph eyes with awe
The noble ward he loves.

Among the illustrious Scottish sons
That chief thou may'st discern;
Mark Scotia's fond returning eye,
It dwells upon Glencairn.