GONE TO THE WEST INDIES.

A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink,
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,
A' ye wha live and never think,

Come, mourn wi' me!

Our billie's gien us a' a jink,
And owre the sea.

Lament him a' ye rantin' core,
Wha dearly like a random-splore,
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar
In social key;

For now he's ta'en anither shore,
And owre the sea!

Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear,
And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear;
"Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,
In flinders flee;

He was her laureat mony a year,
That's owre the sea.

quantities versifying

brother, the slip

over

noisy folks who, frolic

no more

cheerful salt

splinters

jilt

rod

meal and water

wrapped himself

given would not

too

bashful, succumb

o'er, sorrow

drop

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seck, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,

That weekly this area throng,

Oh, pass not by!

But, with a frater-feeling strong,
Here, heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs himself life's mad career,
Wild as the wave;

Here pause-and, through the starting tear,
Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below,

Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,
And stained his name!

Reader, attend-whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit;

Know, prudent, cautious self-control
Is wisdom's root.

A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.

EXPECT na.sir, in this narration,

A fleechin, flethr'in dedication,

To roose you up, and ca' you guid,
And sprung o' great and noble bluid,

not

wheedling, flattering

praise, call, good

blood

Because ye're surnamed like his Grace; (Duke of Hamilton)

Perhaps related to the race;

Then when I'm tired, and sae are ye,

80

Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie,

Set up a face, how I stop short,

For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do-maun do, sir, wi' them who

Maun please the great folk for a wamefou;
For me! sae laigh I needna bow,

must belly full low

cannot, nag

Then, I'LL be thankfu' I can beg;

Sae I shall sae, and that's nao flatterin',
It's just sic poet, and sic patron.

The Poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him,
He may do weel for a' he's done yet,
But only he's no just begun yet.

The Patron (sir, ye maun forgie me,
I winna lie, come what will o' me),

On every hand it will allowed be,

He's just-nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant,

He downa see a poor man want;
What's no his ain he winna tak it,
What ance he says he winna break it;
Ought he can lend he'll no refus't
Till aft his gudeness is abused;
And rascals whiles that do him wrang,
Even that, he does na mind it lang:
As master, landlord, husband, father,
He does na fail his part in either.

But then nae thanks to him for a that,
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that;
It's naething but a milder feature
Of our poor sinfu', corrupt nature:
Ye'll get the best o' moral works,
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks,
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,
Wha never heard of orthodoxy.
That he's the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word and deed.

Morality, thou deadly bane,

Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain!

Vain is his hope whose stay and trust is
In moral mercy, truth, and justice!

No-stretch a point to catch a plack;
Abuse a brother to his back;
Be to the poor like ony whunstane,
And haud their noses to the grunstane,
Ply every art o' legal thieving;
No matter-stick to sound belioving!

coin

any whinstone hold, grindstone

Learn three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces,

Wi' weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces;
Grunt up a solemn, lengthened groan,
CONDEMN a' parties but your own;

I'll warrant, then, ye're nae deceiver-
A steady, sturdy, stanch believer.

Oh
ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin,
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin'!
Ye sons of heresy and error,

Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror!
When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath,
And in the fire throws the sheath;

When Ruin, with his sweeping besom,

Just frets, till Heaven commission gies him:
While o'er the harp pale Misery moans,
And strikes the ever-deepening tones,
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!
Your pardon, Sir, for this digression,
I maist forgot my dedication;
But when divinity comes cross me,
My readers still are sure to lose me.

So, sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour,
But I maturely thought it proper,
When a' my works I did review,
To dedicate them, sir, to you:

But that's a word I need na say:
For prayin' I hae little skill o't;

palms, long

muddy

almost

foolish

almost

I'm baith dead sweer, and wretched ill o't;
But I'se repeat each poor man's prayer
That kens or hears about you, sir-
"May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark
Howl through the dwelling o' the Clerk!
May ne'er his generous, honest heart,
For that same generous spirit smart!
May Kennedy's far-honoured name
Lang beet his hymeneal flame,
Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen,
Are by their canty fireside risen:

both, unwilling

knows galling

(Mr Hamilton)

dozen comfortable

Five bonnie lassies round their table,
And seven braw fellows, stout and able,
To serve their king and country weel,
By word, or pen, or pointed steel!
May health and peace, with mutual rays,
Shine on the evening o' his days,
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe,
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow."

I will not wind a lang conclusion
With complimentary effusion :

But whilst your wishes and endeavours

Are blest with fortune's smiles and favours,
I am, dear sir, with zeal most fervent,
Your much indebted, humble servant.

But if (which powers above prevent!)
That iron-hearted carl, Want,
Attended in his grim advances

well

great-grandchild

By sad mistakes and black mischances,
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,
Make you as poor a dog as I am,

Your humble servant then no more;
For who would humbly serve the poor?
But by a poor man's hopes in Heaven!
While recollection's power is given,
If, in the vale of humble life,
The victim sad of fortune's strife,
I, through the tender-gushing tear,
Should recognize my master dear,
If friendless, low, we meet together,
Then, sir, your hand-my friend and brother.

no more

TO MR M'KENZIE.

FRIDAY first's the day appointed
By the Right Worshipful anointed,
To hold our grand procession;

To get a blad o' Johnie's morals,

And taste a swatch o' Manson's barrels

I' the way of our profession.

The Master and the Brotherhood
Would a' be glad to see you;

For me I would be mair than proud
To share the mercies wi' you.

If Death, then, wi' skaith, then,
Some mortal heart is hechtin',
Inform him, and storm him,

That Saturday you'll fecht him.

MOSSGIEL, An. M. 5790.

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entertainment

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fight

ROBERT BURNS.