VERSES TO J. RANKEN.

Aɛ day, as Death, that gruesome carl, Was driving to the tither warl A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, And mony a guilt-bespotted lad; Black gowns of each denomination, And thieves of every rank and station, From him that wears the star and garter, To him that wintles* in a halter: Asham'd himself to see the wretches, He mutters, glow'rin at the bitches, "By G-d I'll not be seen behint them, Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them, Without, at least ae honest man, To grace this d-d infernal clan." By Adamhill a glance he threw, "L-d G-d!" quoth he, "I have it now There's just the man I want, in faith," And quickly stoppit Ranken's breath.

FOR Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, E'en let them die-for that they're born: But oh! prodigious to reflec'!

A Toumont, Sirs, is gane to wreck!
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space
What dire events hae taken place!
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!

Dr. B's very Looks.

THAT there is falsehood in his looks
I must and will deny :
They say their master is a knave-
And sure they do not lie.

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, Fifeshire.

HERE lie Willie M-hie's banes,

O Satan, when ye tak him, Gie him the schulin of your weans; For clever Deils he'll mak cm!

The Spanish empire 's tint a head, An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead; The tulzie 's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox, And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks The tane is game, a bluidie devil, But to the hen-birds unco civil; The tither's something dour o' treadin, But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden

Ye ministers, come mount the poupet, An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupit, For Eighty-eight, he wish'd you weel, An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal; E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck, Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!

Ye bonnie lasses, dight your een,

In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again.

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, How dowf and dowie now they creep; Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry, For E'nbrugh wells are grutten dry.

Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, An' no o'er auld, I hope, to learn! Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, Thou now has got thy Daddy's chair

Up in the morning's no for me,

Up in the morning early;
When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.

COLD blaws the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly;
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,

A' day they fare but sparely;

And lang's the night frae e'en to morn, I'm sure it's winter fairly.

Up in the morning, &c.

SONG.

I DREAM'D I LAY WHERE FLOWERS WERE SPRINGING.t

I DREAM'D I lay where flowers were springing, Gaily in the sunny beam;

* The chorus is old.

These two stanzas I composed when I was sevenseen, and are among the oldest of my printed pieces. Burns' Reliques, p. 242.

List'ning to the wild birds singing,

By a falling, crystal stream; Straight the sky grew black and daring Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave; Trees with aged arms were warring O'er the swelling, drumlie wave.

Such was my life's deceitful morning,
Such the pleasures I enjoy'd;
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming
A'my flow'ry bliss destroy'd.
Tho' fickle fortune has deceived me,
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me,
She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill;
I bear a heart shall support me still.

SONG.*

BEWARE O' BONNIE ANN.

Ye gallants bright I red you right,
Beware o' bonnie Ann;
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace,
Your heart she will trepan.
Her een sae bright, like stars by night,
Her skin is like the swan;

Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist,
That sweetly ye might span.

Youth, grace, and love, attendant move, And pleasure leads the van:

In a' their charms, and conquering arms,
They wait on bonnie Ann.

The captive bands may chain the hands,
But love enslaves the man;
Ye gallants braw, I red ye a',
Beware o' bonnie Ann.

SONG.

MY BONNIE MARY.t

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
An' fill it in a silver tassie;
That I may drink before I go,

A service to my bonnie lassie ;
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith;
Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry;
The ship rides by the Berwick-law,

And I maun lea'e my bonnie Mary.

*I composed this song out of compliment to Miss Awa Masterton, the daughter of my friend Allan Masterton, the author of the air of Strathallan's Lament, and two or three others in this work. Burns' Reliques, p. 266. †This air is Oswald's; the first half-stanza of the song is old.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
The glittering spears are ranked ready ;
The shouts o' war are heard afar,

The battle closes thick and bloody;
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore
Wad make me langer wish to tarry;
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar,
It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

SONG.

THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY.*

THERE's a youth in this city, it were a great pity

That he from our lasses should wander awa; For he's bonnie and braw, weel-favour'd with a',

And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue;

His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw; His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae,

And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. His coat is the hue, &c.

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin;

Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted and braw;

But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her,

The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'.— There's Meg wi' the mailen, that fain wad a haen him,

And Susy whase daddy was Laird o'the ha'; There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his fancy,

-But the laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest of a'.

SONG.

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.t

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;

My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

*This air is claimed by Niel Gow, who calls it his lament for his brother. The first half-stanza of the ong is old.

t The first half-stanza is old.

SONG.

I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR.t

I DO Confess thou art sae fair,

I wad been o'er the lugs in luve;

* I composed this song pretty early in life, and sent it to a young girl, a very particular acquaintance of mine, who was at that time under a cloud.

Burns' Reliques, p. 278. †This song is altered from a poem by Sir Robert Ayton.

Had I na found the slightest prayer
That lips could speak, thy heart could

muve.

I do confess thee sweet, but find
Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets,
Thy favours are the silly wind

That kisses ilka thing it meets.

See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew,
Amang its native briers sae coy
How sune it tines its scent and hue
When pu'd and worn a common toy!

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide,

Tho' thou may gayly bloom a while; Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside, Like ony common weed and vile.

SONG.*

TUNE-" Craigie-burn Wood."+

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie,
And O to be lying beyond thee,

O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep,
That's laid in the bed beyond thee.

SWEET closes the evening on Craigie-burn

wood,

And blithly awakens the morrow;

burn-wood

Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. Beyond thee, &c.

I see the spreading leaves and flowers,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But pleasure they hae nane for me,
While care my heart is wringing.
Beyond thee, &c.

private secretary to Mary and Anne, queens of Scotland. -The poem is to be found in James Watson's Collection of Scots Poems, the earliest collection printed in Scotland.-I think that I have improved the simplicity of the sentiments, by giving them a Scots dress.

Burns' Reliques, p. 292.

It is remarkable of this place that it is the confine of that country where the greatest part of our Lowland

music (so far as from the title, words, &c. we can localize it) has been composed. From Craigie-burn, near Moffat, until one reaches the West Highlands, we have scarcely one slow air of any antiquity.

The song was composed on a passion which a Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, had for a Miss Lorimer, afterwards a Mrs. Whelpdale. The young lady was born at Craigie-burn-wood.-The chorus is part of an old foolish ballad.

Burns' Reliques, p. 284. + The chorus is old.-Another copy of this will be found. ante, p. 101

That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the

Clyde,