TO WILLIAM CREECH.

The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer 1
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour;
He was a dictionar' and grammar

Amang them a’;

I fear they'll now mak' mony a stammer,

Willie's awa'!

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face,
Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace;
Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace

As Rome ne'er saw;

They a' maun meet some ither place,

Willie's awa'!

Poor Burns-e'en Scotch drink canna quicken,
He cheeps like some bewildered chicken,
Scared frae its minnie and the cleckin'

By hoodie-craw;

Grief's gi'en his heart an unco kickin',-
Willie's awa'!

Now every sour-mou'd girnin' blellum,3
And Calvin's fock, are fit to fell him ;
And self-conceited critic skellum

His quill may draw;
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum,"

Willie's awa'!

Up wimpling, stately Tweed I've sped,
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,

And Ettrick banks now roaring red,

While tempests blaw;

But every joy and pleasure's fled,

Willie's awa'!

May I be slander's common speech;
A text for infamy to preach;

And lastly, streekit out to bleach

In winter snaw;

Though far awa'!

When I forget thee, Willie Creech,

1 At Edinburgh.

201

2 Mr. Creech gave breakfasts to his authors-they were called Creech's

Levées.

2 Idle chatterer.

• Worthless fellow. 5 Nonsense.

Ellisland, October 21, 1789.

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie!
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie? ·
I kenned it still your wee bit jauntie

Wad bring ye to:

Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye,
And then ye'll do.

The ill-thief blaw the Heron 2 south!
And never drink be near his drouth!
He tald myself, by word o' mouth,

He'd tak' my letter;

I lippened to the chiel in trouth,

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier ?7
I'm turned a gauger --Peace be here!
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear

Ye'll now disdain me,

And then my fifty pounds a year

66

Will little gain me.

and to try his fortune as a poet.
History of Scotland," 1800.

A blind poet, whose encouragement induced Burns to go to Edinburgh instead of to the West Indies, 2 Mr. Heron, author of a 3 Trusted. Learning.

4 Deserved.

7 Friend.

5 Spend.

8 Exciseman.

1 Foolish.

203

TO DR. BLACKLOCK.

Ye glaiket,' gleesome, dainty damies,
Wha by Castalia's wimplin' streamies,
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,
Ye ken, ye ken,

2

That strang necessity supreme is

’Mang sons o men.

I ha'e a wife and twa wee laddies,

They maun ha'e brose and brats o' duddies;
Ye ken yoursel's my heart right proud is,
I need na vaunt,

But I'll sned besoms-thraw saugh woodies,"
Before they want.

Lord help me through this warld o' care!
I'm weary sick o't late and air!

Not but I ha'e a richer share

Than mony ithers;

But why should ae man better fare,

And a' men brithers?

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van,
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man!

6

And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan

A lady fair;

Wha does the utmost that he can,

"Will whyles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme,
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time)

To make a happy fireside clime

To weans and wife,

That's the true pathos and sublime

Of human life.

My compliments to sister Beckie;"
And eke the same to honest Luckie,
I wat she is a dainty chuckie,

As e'er tread clay!
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie,
yours for aye.

I'm

ROBERT BURNS.

4 Cut brooms.

2 Jump.

5 Twist willow-withes.

3 Rags of clothes.

6 The seed-bearing hemp.

LETTER TO JAMES TAIT, OF GLENCONNER.

AULD Comrade dear, and brither sinner,
How's a' the folk about Glenconner?
How do ye this blae eastlin' win',
That's like to blaw a body blin'?
For me, my faculties are frozen,
My dearest member nearly dozen'.
I've sent you here, by Johnnie Simson,
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on!
Reid, wi' his sympathetic feeling,

An' Smith, to common sense appealing.
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled,
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled,
Till wi' their logic-jargon tired,
An' in the depth of science mired,
To common sense they now appeal,
What wives an' wabsters' see and feel.
But, hark ye, frien'! I charge you strictly,
Peruse them, an' return them quickly,
For now I'm grown sae cursed douce,

I

pray an' ponder butt the house;

My shins, my lane," I there sit roastin',
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an' Boston;
Till by-an'-by, if I haud on,

I'll grunt a real gospel-groan:
Already I begin to try it,
To cast my een up like a pyet,
When by the gun she tumbles o'er,
Fluttering an' gasping in her gore:
Sae shortly you shall see me bright,
A burning an' a shining light.

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,
The ace an' wale of honest men :
When bending down wi' auld grey hairs,
Beneath the load of

and cares,

years
May He who made him still support him,
An' views beyond the grave comfort him!
His worthy family, far and near,
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear!

My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie,
The manly tar, my mason Billie,
An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy;
If he's a parent, lass or boy,

1 Weavers.

2 Alone.

8 Choice.

TO R. GRAHAM.

May he be dad, and Meg the mither,
Just five-and-forty years thegither!
An' no forgetting wabster Charlie,
I'm tauld he offers very fairly.

An', Lord, remember singing Sannock,
Wi' hale-breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock.
An' next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy,
Since she is fitted to her fancy;
An' her kind stars ha'e airteď till her
A good chiel wi' a pickle siller.
My kindest, best respects I sen' it,
To cousin Kate an' sister Janet;

Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious,

For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious;

To grant a heart is fairly civil,

But to grant a maidenhead 's the devil!
An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel',
May guardian angels tak' a spell,
An' steer you seven miles south o' hell:
But first, before you see heaven's glory,
May ye get monie a merry story,
Monie a laugh, and monie a drink,
And aye eneugh o' needfu' clink.

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you!
For my sake this I beg it o' you,
Assist poor Simson a' ye can,

Ye'll fin' him just an honest man:

Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter,

Your's, saint or sinner,-ROB THE RANTER.

203

FIRST EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ., OF
FINTRY.'

WHEN Nature her great masterpiece designed,
And framed her last, best work, the human mind,
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan,

She formed of various parts the various man.

Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry, was one of the Commissioners of Excise, and having met the Poet at the Duke of Athol's, he became interested in his behalf, and showed him many kindnesses. In August, 1788, Burns sent Mrs. Dunlop fourteen lines of this Epistle, beginning with— "Pity the tuneful Muses' helpless train,'

saying, "Since I am in the way of transcribing, the following lines were the production of yesterday, as I jogged through the wild hills of New