Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished the gender
O' Balaam's ass;

A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor,
Weel shod wi' brass.

Forbye he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg,
The cut of Adam's philibeg;
The knife that nicket Abel's craig
He'll prove you fully:

It was a faulding jocteleg,

Or lang kail-gullie.

But wad ye see him in his glee,
For meikle glee and fun has he,

Then set him down, and twa or three
Guid fellows wi' him:

And Port, O Port! shine thou a wee,
And then ye'll see him!

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose!
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,
They sair misca' thee;

I'd tak the rascal by the nose,

Wad say, Shame fa' thee'

LINES

WRITTEN

IN A WRAPPER, ENCLOSING A LETTER TO

CAPTAIN GROSE, TO BE LEFT WITH MR. CARDONNEL, ANTIQUARIAN.

TUNE "Sir John Malcolm."

KEN ye aught o' Captain Grose?
Igo, and ago,

If he's amang his friends or foes?
Iram, coram, dago.

Is he south, or is he north?

Igo, and ago.

Or drowned in the river Forth?

Iram, coram, dago.

Is he slain by Highland bodies?
Igo, and ago,

And eaten like a wether-haggis?

Iram, coram, dago.

Is he to Abram's bosom gane?
Igo, and ago,

Or hauden Sarah by the wane?
Iram, coram, dago.

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him!
Igo, and ago,

As for the Deil, he daur na steer him!
Iram, coram, dago.

But please transmit the enclosed letter,
Igo, and ago,

Which will oblige your humble debtor,
Iram, coram, dago.

So may ye hae auld stanes in store,
Igo, and ago,

The very stanes that Adam bore,
Iram, coram, dago.

So may ye get in glad possession,
Igo, and ago,

The coins o' Satan's coronation!

Iram, coram, dago.

EPIGRAM ON CAPTAIN GROSE.

THE Deil got notice that Grose was a-dying,

So, whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying; But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay moan. ing,

And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning, Astonish'd! confounded! cried Satan, "By G-d, I'll want 'im, ere I take such a d- -ble load."*

• Mr. Grose was exceedingly corpulent, and used to rally himself, with the greatest good humor, on the singular rotundity of his figure. This epigram, written by Burns in a moment of festivity, was so much relished by the antiquarian, that he made it serve as an excuse for proonging the convivial occasion that gave it birth, to a very late hour.

LINES

ON AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER.

THIS Wot ye all whom it concerns,
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,
October twenty-third,

A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day,

Sae far I spreckled up the brae,
I dinner'd wi' a Lord!

I've been at drucken writers' feasts,
Nay, been bitch fou 'mang godly priests,
Wi' rev'rence be it spoken:
I've even join'd the honor'd jorum,
When mighty squireships of the quorum
Their hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi' a Lord-stand out my shin!
A Lord, a Peer, an Earl's son!

Up higher yet, my bonnet!

And sic a Lord - lang Scotch ells twa!
Our peerage he o'erlooks them a',

As I look o'er my sonnet.

But oh, for Hogarth's magic power!
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glow'r,

And how he star'd and stammer'd,

When goavan, as if led wi' branks,
An' stumpin on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlor hammer'd.

I, sliding, shelter'd in a nook,
An' at his Lordship steal't a look

Like some portentous omen;
Except good sense and social glee,
An' (what surpris'd me) modesty,

I marked nought uncommon.

I watch'd the symptoms o' the great,
The gentle pride, the lordly state,
The arrogant assuming;

The fient a pride, nae pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,
Mair than an honest ploughman.

Then from his Lordship I shall learn,
Henceforth to meet with unconcern

One rank as weel's another:
Nae honest, worthy man need care,
To meet with noble, youthful Daer,
For he but meets a brother.

THE INVENTORY.

IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SURVEYOR OF THE TAXES.

SIR, as your mandate did request,
I send you here a faithfu' list
O' gudes an' gear, an' a' my graith,
To whh I'm clear to gie my aith.