O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naething
To ken them by,

Frae ony unregen'rate heathen,
Like you or I.

I've sent you here some rhyming ware,
A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair;
Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare,
I will expect

Your sang,* ye'll sen't wi' cannie care,
And no neglect.

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing!

My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing

I've play'd mysel a bonie spring,

An' danc'd my fill!

I'd better gaen an' sair'd the king,
At Bunker's Hill!

"Twas ae night, lately, in my fun,
I gaed a roving wi' the gun,
An' brought a paitrick to the grun,
A bonie hen;

An', as the twilight was begun,
Thought nane wad ken.

The poor, wee thing was little hurt,
I straikit it a wee for sport,
Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't,
But deil-may-care!

Somebody tells the poacher-court

The hale affair.

* A song he had promised the author.

Some Luld-us'd hands had taen a note
That sic a hen had got a shot ;

I was suspected for the plot;
I scorn'd to lie,

So gat the whissle o' my groat,
An' pay't the fee.

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale,
An' by my pouther an' my hail,
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,
I vow an' swear!

The game shall pay, o'er moor an' dale,
For this, niest year.

As soon's the clockin-time is by,
An' the wee pouts begin to cry,
L-d, I'se hae sportin by an' by,
For my gowd guinea,

Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye
For't in Virginia.

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame!
"Twas neither broken wing nor limb,
But twa-three draps about the wame,
Scarce thro' the feathers
An' baith a yellow George to claim,
An' thole their blethers!

It pits me ay as mad's a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair
But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient

Meanwhile, I am, respected sir,

Your most obedient

TO DR. BLACKLOCK.

ELLISLAND, OCTOBER, 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 jauntie
Wad bring ye to:

Lord send ye 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 ware his theologic care on,

And holy study;

And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on
E'en tried the body.

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

Ye'll now disdain me;

* Mr. Heron, author of a History of Scotland, and various othet works.

And then my fifty pounds a year
Will little gain me.

Ye glaikit, gleesome, daintie damies
Wha, by Castalia's wimplin streamies,
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,
Ye ken, ye ken

That strang necessity supreme is

’Mang sons o men.

I hae a wife an' twa wee laddies;
They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies
Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is,
I need nae 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 fire-side 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 Lucky,
I wat she is a dainty chuckie,

As e'er trod 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 int'rest in the Poet's weal;
Ah! how sma' heart hae I to speel
The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus pill,

And potion glasses.

O, what a cantie world 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; Syne wha wad starve ?)

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, And in paste gems and fripp'ry deck her; Oh! flick'ring, feeble, and unsicker

I've found her still.