Cornwallis fought as lang 's he dought, An' did the buckskins claw, man; But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save, He hung it to the wa', man.

Then Montague, an' Guilford too,

Began to fear a fa', man;

And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure,

The German chief to thraw, man;
For Paddy Burke, like onie Turk,
Nae mercy had at a', man;
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box,
An' lowsed his tinkler jaw, man.

Then Rockingham took up the game,

Till death did on him ca', man;

But word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co.
Gowffed Willie like a ba', man,
Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise
Behind him in a raw, man;
An' Caledon threw by the drone,

An' did her whittle draw, man; An swoor fu' rude, through dirt an' blood

To make it guid in law, man.

THE DEAN OF FACULTY.

A NEW BALLAD.

[The Hal and Bob referred to in the opening stanzas meant, respectively, the Hon. Henry

cheek,

So, their worships of the Faculty,

Quite sick of merit's rudeness,

Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye

see,

To their gratis grace and goodness.

SKETCH OF A CHARACTER.

[As a specimen of a series of proposed por traitures, this sketch of character was sent by Burns in manuscript to Dugald Stewart, the Poet rather grandiosely speaking of it in his accompanying note as constituting "the postu

Of a son of Circumcision,

So may be, on this Pisgah height,

Bob's purblind, mental vision: Nay, Bobby's mouth may be opened yet, Till for eloquence you hail him, And swear he has the Angel met

That met the Ass of Balaam.

The Professor's silence upon the matter would seem to have implied discouragement.]

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,

And still his precious self his dear de

light;

Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets

Ye heretic eight-and-thirty!

But accept, ye sublime Majority,

My congratulations hearty.

With your honours and a certain king,

In your servants this is striking

The more incapacity they bring,
The more they're to your liking.

LINES UNDER THE PORTRAIT

OF FERGUSSON,

[These verses, dated the 19th March, 1787 were penned under an engraved portrait of Fergusson, in a copy of that poet's works presented by Burns to a young lady in Edinburgh.]

CURSE on ungrateful man! that can be pleased,

And yet can starve the author of the pleasure!

O 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?

A man of fashion, too, he made his tour, Learned Vive la bagatelle! et Vive

of the statement that he was a ploughman. The Poet not only at once replied per post as follows, but in the course of his Border tour, paid her and her husband a visit at Wauchope.]

GUIDWIFE,

I mind it weel, in early date,
When I was beardless, young, and blate,
And first could thrash the barn,
Or haud a yokin' at the pleugh;
And though forfoughten sair eneugh,
Yet unco proud to learn:
When first amang the yellow corn

A man I reckoned was,
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass,
Still shearing, and clearing,
The tither stooked raw,
Wi' claivers, and haivers,
Wearing the day awa'.

Even then a wish, (I mind its power,) A wish that to my latest hour

Shall strongly heave my breastThat I, for poor auld Scotland's sake, Some usefu' plan or beuk could make,

Or sing a sang at least.
The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,

I turned the weeder clips aside,
And spared the symbol dear:
No nation, no station,

My envy e'er could raise,
A Scot still, but blot still,

I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o' sang,
In formless jumble, right and wrang,
Wild floated in my brain;

Till on that hairst I said before,
My partner in the merry core,

She roused the forming strain:
I see her yet, the sonsie quean,
That lighted up my jingle,

Her witching smile, her pauky een,
That gart my heart-strings tingle.
I fired, inspired,

At every kindling keek,
But bashing, and dashing,
I feared aye to speak.

Health to the sex! ilk guid chiel says, Wi' merry dance in winter days,

And we to share in common: The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, The saul o' life, the heaven below,

Is rapture-giving woman.
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,
Be mindfu' o' your mither;

She, honest woman, may think shame
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.

For you, no bred to barn and byre,
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,
Thanks to you for your line:
The marlèd plaid ye kindly spare
By me should gratefully be ware;

'T wad 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';
May losses and crosses

Ne'er at your hallan ca'!

PROLOGUE.

SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT

NIGHT, MONDAY, APRIL 16, 1787.

[Woods, who was for a long while a popular actor in Edinburgh, and who before he came to know Burns had known Fergusson, died in the December of 1802, having retired from the boards only in the previous. April.]

WHEN by a generous public's kind acclaim,

That dearest meed is granted-honest fame:

When here your favour is the actor's lot, Nor even the man in private life forgot; What breast so dead to heavenly virtue's glow,

Equal to judge-you're candid to forgive.

throe?

Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng,

It needs no Siddons' powers in Southern's song;

But here an ancient nation famed afar

With decency and law beneath his feet; Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's

name:

Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame.

O Thou dread Power! whose empiregiving hand

war

Hail, Caledonia! name for ever dear! Before whose sons I'm honoured to appear!

Where every science-every nobler art— That can inform the mind, or mend the heart,

Is known; as grateful nations oft have found,

honoured land,

Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire!

May every son be worthy of his sire! Firm may she rise with generous disdain At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's, chain! Still self-dependent in her native shore, Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar,

bound.

Philosophy, no idle pedant dream,

Here holds her search by Heaven-taught

Reason's beam;

Here History paints, with elegance and

force,

The tide of Empire's fluctuating course;

be no more!