EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN.* HAIL, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie! But take it like the unback'd filly, When idly goavan whyles we saunter Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle! Until you on a crummock driddle A gray-ha r'd carl. Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon A fifth or mair, The melancholious, lazie croon O' cankrie care. May still your life from day to day Naelente largo' in the play, But allegretto forte' gay Harmonious flow A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey Encore! Bravo! This gentleman lived at Parkhouse, near Ayr, and was not only a first-rate performer on the violin, but a feasant man, and not a little of a wit. The original of this piece is now in the possession of David Auld, Esq. Ayr. A blessing on the cheery gang But as the clegs o' feeling stang My hand-waled curse keep nard in chase May fire-side discords jar a base To a' their parts! But come, your hand, my careless brither, An' that there is I've little swither About the matter; We cheek for chow shall jog thegither, We've faults and failings-granted clearly, But still, but still, I like them dearly- Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers, And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, But by yon moon!-and that's high swearin'- An' by her een wha was a dear ane! I hope to gie the jads a clearin' My loss I mourn, but not repent it, Some cantraip hour, By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, Faites mes baissemains respectueuse, An' honest Lucky; no to roose you, Ye may be proud, That sic a couple fate allows ye To grace your blood. Nae mair at present can I measure, An' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure; Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION. LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks Burns has given the following account of these beautiful lines The enclosed was written in consequence of your suggestion last time I had the pleasure of seeing you. It cost me an hour or Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves, O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear! Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, two of next morning's sleep, but did not please me, so it laid by, an ill-digested effort, till the other day I gave it a critic-brush. These kinds of subjects are much hackneyed, and, besides, the wailings of the rhyming tribe over the ashes of the great are cursedly suspicious, and out of all character for sincerity. These ideas damped my muse's fire: however I have done the best I could. And in another letter to Dr. Geddes, he writes thus: The foregoing poem has some tolerable lines in it, but the incurable wound of my pride will not suffer me to correct, or even peruse it. I sent a copy of it, with my best prose letter, to the son of the great man, the theme of the piece, by the hands of one of the noblest men in God's world, Alexander Wood, surgeon. When, behold! his solicitorship took no more notice of my poem or me than I had been a stroling fiddler, who had made free with his lady's name over a silly new reel! Did the gentleman imagine that I looked for any dirty gratuity? View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong: Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, ON THE BANKS OF NITH. This is from the original rough draft of the poem, in the possession of Mrs. Hyslop. THOU whom chance may hither lead, Be thou deckt in silken stole, Grave these maxims on thy soul. Life is but a day at most, |