beast,

Wha has mair honour in his breast
Than mony scores as guid 's the priest
Wha sae abus't him.

An' may a bard no crack his jest

What way they've use 't him?

See him, the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word an' deed,
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed
By worthless skellums,
An' not a Muse erect her head,

To cowe the bellums?"

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts, To gi'e the rascals their deserts! I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, An' tell aloud

Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts

To cheat the crowd.

God knows I'm no the thing I should be,
Nor am I even the thing I could be,
But twenty times, I rather would be

An atheist clean,
Than under gospel colours hid be
Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a glass,
An honest man may like a lass,
But mean revenge, an' malice fause,
He'll still disdain,
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws,
Like some we ken.

They take religion in their mouth; They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth, For what?-to gi'e their malice skouth On some puir wight,

An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth, To ruin straight.

Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, Who, in her rough, imperfect line

Thus daurs to name thee;

To stigmatize false friends of thine Can ne'er defame thee.

Though blotch't an foul wi' mony a stain,

An' far unworthy of thy train,

With trembling voice I tune my strain
To join with those

Who boldly daur thy cause maintain
In spite o' foes:

In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs,
In spite o' undermining jobs,
In spite o' dark banditti stabs
At worth an' merit,
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes,
But hellish spirit.

O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,
Within thy presbyterial bound
A candid, liberal band is found,
Of public teachers,
As men, as Christians too, renowned,
An' manly preachers.

Sir, in that circle you are named;
Sir, in that circle you are famed;
An' some, by whom your doctrine's
blamed,

(Which gi'es you honour,) Even, sir, by them your heart 's esteemed, An' winning manner.

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en,
An' if impertinent I've been,
Impute it not, good sir, in ane

Whase heart ne'er wranged ye,
But to his utmost would befriend
Ought that belanged t' ye.

CRAIGENGILLAN,

[Burns wrote this epistle in acknowledgment of an obliging letter he had received from Mr. M'Adam, who was one of his earliest patrons. It was to his Factor at Craigengillan, David Woodburn by name, that the Poet presented the manuscript copy of "The Jolly Beggars," through the careful preservation of which that poem, given here immediately after this epistle, eventually became known to the world through Thomas Stewart of Glasgow and Greenock.]

SIR, o'er a gill I gat your card,

I trow it made me proud; "See wha tak's notice o' the bard!" I lap and cried fu' loud.

Now de'il-ma-care about their jaw,

The senseless, gawky million; I'll cock my nose aboon them a'— I'm roosed by Craigengillan!

'T was noble, sir, 't was like yoursel',
To grant your high protection:
A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well,
Is aye a blest infection.

Though by his banes wha in a tub

Matched Macedonian Sandy! On my ain legs, through dirt and dub, I independent stand aye.

And when those legs to guid warm kail,
Wi' welcome canna bear me;
A lee dike-side, a sybow-tail,

And barley-scone shall cheer me.

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath
O' mony flowery simmers!
And bless your bonnie lasses baith-

I'm tauld they're lo'esome kimmers !

The blossom of our gentry!

And may he wear an auld man's beard, A credit to his country!

THE JOLLY BEGGARS.
A CANTATA.

[The scene of this forgathering of tramps and gaberlunzies at Mauchline is still well remembered in that neighbourhood. Mrs. Gibson was the Poosie Nancy of the Cantata, which was composed in 1785, when the Poet was at Mossgiel. But for the accidental presentation of the poem to Woodburn, as mentioned in the last note, it would never have come to the world's knowledge as it did for the first time in 1823, when published by Stewart. Speaking of this work, Sir Walter Scott says emphatically of "The Jolly Beggars," that "for humorous description and nice discrimination of character [it] is inferior to no poem of the same length in the whole range of English poetry."]

RECITATIVO.

WHEN lyart leaves bestrew the yird,
Or wavering like the bauckie-bird,
Bedim cauld Boreas' blast;
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte,
And infant frosts begin to bite,

In hoary cranreuch drest;
Ae night, at e'en, a merry core
O' randie, gangrel bodies,
In Poosie Nansie's held the splore,
To drink their orra duddies:

Wi' quaffing and laughing,
They ranted and they sang;
Wi' jumping and thumping,
The vera girdle rang.
First, niest the fire, in auld red rags,
Ane sat, weel braced wi' mealy bags,

And knapsack a' in order;
His doxy lay within his arm,
Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm-
She blinket on her sodger:

many wars,

tother bottle tell,