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TO DR. BLACKLOCK.

ELLISLAND, Oct. 21, 1789.
Wow, but your letter made me vauntie!'
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie?"
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie3
Wad bring ye to:

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

The ill-thief blaw the Heron' south!
And never drink be near his drouth!
He tald mysel', by word o' mouth,
He'd tak my letter!

I lippen'd' to the chiel in trouth,

And bade nae better.

But aiblins' honest Master Heron
Had at the time some dainty fair one,
To wear his theologic care on,

And holy study;

An' tired o' sauls to waste his learR on,
E'en tried the body.

But what d' ye think, my trusty fier?"
I'm turn'd a gauger-peace be here!
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear,

Ye'll now disdain me,

And then my fifty pounds a year

10

Will little gain me.

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

That strang necessity supreme is

’Mang sons o men.

I hae a wife and twa wee" laddies,

They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies;13

1 Proud.-2 Cheerful.-3 Short journey.-4 Mr. Heron, author of a History of Scotland, and of various other works.-5 Depended.-6 Fellow.-7 Perhaps, 8 Learning.-9 Friend. 10 Inattentive. 11 Meandering. -12 Little.

3 Food and raiment.

Ye ken yoursel my heart right proud is,
I needna vaunt,

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

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

Not but I hae a richer share

Than monie 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!
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 daintie chuckie,

As e'er tread clay!

An' gratefully, my guid auld cockie,
I'm yours for ay.

ROBERT BURNS.

TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER.

DUMFRIES, 1796.

My honor'd Colonel, deep I feel

Your interest in the Poet's weal;

Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel®

The steep Parnassus,

1 Lop, or cut.-2 Twist willow ropes.-3 Late and early.-4 Sometimes.Know.

To climb.

Surrounded thus by bolus pill

And potion glasses.

Oh what a cantie' warl were it,

Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it;
And Fortune favor worth and merit,
As they deserve;

(And ay a rowth roast-beef and claret,
Syne3 wha wad starve?)

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her,
And in paste gems and frippery deck her;
Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker1

I've found her still,

Ay wavering like the willow-wicker,
'Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrans by a rattan,o
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut' on
Wi' felon ire;

Syne, whip! his tail ye 'll ne'er cast saut on,
He's aff like fire.

Ah Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,
First showing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,
To put us daft;8

Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare,
O' hell's damn'd waft.

Poor man, the fly, aft bizzes by,

And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks" wi' joy,
And hellish pleasure;

Already in thy fancy's eye,

Thy sicker" treasure,

Soon heels-o'er-gowdie!" in he gangs,

And like a sheep-head on a tangs,

1 Cheerful.-2 Plenty.-3 Then.-4 Unsteady.-5 The cat.- A rat.-7 To get hold of.-8 Mad, or off our guard.-9 To buzz.

10 Literally, itches. Some persons manifest a high degree of pleasure by a quick motion of the elbow.

11 Sure.-12 Topsy-turvy.

Thy girning' laugh enjoys his pangs
And murdering wrestle,

As dangling in the wind he hangs
A gibbet's tassel.

But lest you think I am uncivil,

To plague you with this draunting2 drivil,
Abjuring a' intentions evil,

I quit my pen:

The Lord preserve us frae the Devil!
Amen! Amen!

TO A TAILOR,

In answer to an epistle which he had sent to the Author.

WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie b-ch,
To thresh my back at sic a pitch?
Losh man! hae mercy wi' your natch,
Your bodkin's bauld,

I did na suffer half sae much

Frae daddie Auld.

What tho' at times, when I grow crouse,
I gie their wames a random pouse,
Is that enough for you to souse

Your servant sae?

Gae mind your seam, ye prick the louse,
An' jag the flae.

King David, o' poetic brief,

Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief
As fill'd his after life with grief

An' bluidy rants,

An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief
O' lang-syne saunts.

1 Grinning hideously.-2 Drawling.

3 This answer to a trimming letter, is omitted in Dr. Currie's edition o the Poems, published for the benefit of the Author's family; not because he had any doubt that the verses were written by Burns, but because he was of opinion that they were discreditable to his memory-and for the same reason, the editor and commentator, in this edition, has forborne to elucidate what he deems already sufficiently indelicate.

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,
My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants,
I'll gie auld cloven Clooty's haunts
An unco slip yet,

An' snugly sit amang the saunts,
At Davie's hip yet.

But fegs, the Session says I maun
Gae fa' upo' anither plan,

Than garrin lasses cowp the cran

Clean heels owre body,
And sairly thole their mither's ban,
Afore the howdy.

This leads me on to tell for sport,
How I did wi' the Session sort-
Auld Clinkum, at the inner post,

Cried three times, "Robin!

Come hither lad, an' answer for 't,

Ye're blamed for jobbin'!"

Wi' pinch I put a Sunday face on,
An' snoov'd awa before the Session-
I made an open, fair confession,
I scorn to lie;

And syne Mess John, beyond expression,
Fell foul o' me.

A fornicator loun he call'd me,

An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me;
I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me;
"But what the matter,"
Quo' I, "I fear, unless ye geld me,

I'll ne'er be better."

"Geld you!" quo' he, "and whatfore no If that your right hand, leg, or toe, Should ever prove your spiritual foe,

You should remember

To cut it aff, an' whatfore no

Your dearest member?"

"Na, na," quo' I, "I'm no for that, Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't, I'd rather suffer for my faut

A hearty flewit,

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