But urchin Cupid shot a shaft, That played a dame a shavie, He was a care-defying blade His sang that night. AIR. Tune-"For a' that, an' a' that." I am a bard of no regard, But Homer-like, the glowran byke, CHORUS. For a' that, an' a' that, An' twice as muckle's a' that; I've lost but ane, I've twa behin', I've wife enough for a' that. I never drank the Muses' stank, Castalia's burn, an' a' that; But there it streams, and richly reams, My Helicon I ca' that. For a' that, &c. Great love I bear to a' the fair, Their humble slave, an' a' that; But lordly will, I hold it still A mortal sin to thraw that. For a' that, &c. In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, For a' that, &c. Their tricks and craft ha'e put me daft, CHORUS. For a' that, an' a' that; An' twice as muckle 's a' that; My dearest bluid, to do them guid, They 're welcome till 't for a' that. RECITATIVO. So sang the bard-and Nancie's wa's Re-echoed from each mouth; They toomed their pocks, an' pawned their duds, They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, To quench their lowan drouth. Then owre again the jovial thrang The poet did request, To loose his pack an' wale a sang, He, rising, rejoicing, Between his twa Deborahs, Looks round him, and found them Impatient for the chorus. AIR. Tune-"Jolly mortals, fill your glasses." See, the smoking bowl before us! Mark our jovial ragged ring! Round and round take up the chorus, And in raptures let us sing. CHORUS. A fig for those by law protected! What is title? what is treasure? A fig, &c. With the ready trick and fable, Round we wander all the day; And at night, in barn or stable, Hug our doxies on the hay. A fig, &c. Does the train-attended carriage Life is all a variorum, We regard not how it goes; Let them cant about decorum Who have characters to lose. A fig, &c. Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets! Here's to all the wandering train! Here's our ragged brats and callets! One and all cry out-Amen! A fig for those by law protected! TO A MOUSE. [There was still living in Kilmarnock in 1841, a sometime farm-servant of Burns at Mossgiel, by name John Blane, who remembered, when a boy fifty-six years previously, ie. in 1785, running in pursuit of a mouse across a field armed with a pettle or ploughshare scraper. His master, who was ploughing there at the time, he recollected well, called to him upon the instant to let the poor creature alone. Throughout the rest of the day Burns appeared to him more than usually thoughtful, and after nightfall, Blane recalled to mind his employer rousing him from his slumbers-the two of them sleeping in the same garret chamber-to repeat to him this poem about the mouse. Of all the Poet's effusions, it is perhaps the one marked by touches of his very tenderest sensibility. One of the happiest of these has risen almost to the height of a proverb-"The best-laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft a-gley." Carlyle, in reading verses like those which follow, exclaims in rapt admiration, "How his heart flows out in sympathy over universal nature !"] WEE, sleekit, cowrin', tim'rous beastie, I'm truly sorry man's dominion Which mak's thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, And fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 's a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, And never miss 't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! And bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell and keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, Thou thought to dwell, That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turned out for a' thy trouble, But house or hauld, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, And cranreuch cauld! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane And lea'e us nought but grief and pain Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT OF GLENCONNER. [Written in 1789 from Ellisland, not, as Allan Cunningham conjectured, to James Tait, but to James Tennant, the friend who towards the close of February, 1788, accompanied the Poet, who was then in search of a farm, on a visit of inspection to Nithsdale. It was of him that Burns wrote to Ainslie on the 3rd of March following: "The friend whom I told you would take with me, was highly pleased with the farm, and he is without exception the most intelligent farmer in the country."] AULD Comrade dear, and brither sinner, I To cast my een up like a pyet, My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, G When bending down wi' auld grey hairs, Beneath the load of years and cares, May He who made him still support him, ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHU. MOUS CHILD, FAMILY DISTRESS. An' views beyond the grave comfort him! BORN UNDER PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie, An' next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy, [This was the grandchild of the Poet's friend, Mrs. Dunlop-whose daughter Susan had married a M. Henri, a Frenchman; their infant son, the subject of these verses, being eventually the proprietor of the family estates.] SWEET Floweret, pledge o' meikle love, November hirples o'er the lea, Chill on thy lovely form; And gane, alas! the sheltering tree Should shield thee frae the storm. May He who gives the rain to pour, And wings the blast to blaw, Protect thee frae the driving shower, The bitter frost and snaw! For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them May He, the Friend of woe and want, fashious; Who heals life's various stounds, Protect and guard the mother plant, And heal her cruel wounds! But late she flourished, rooted fast, Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, |