Your Luath, Cæsar bites right sair;
An' when ye paint the Holy Fair,
Ye draw it to a very hair;

Or when ye turn,

An' sing the follies o' the Fair,

How sweet ye mourn!

Let Coila's plains wi' me rejoice,

An' praise the worthy Bard, whose lays Their worth an' beauty high doth raise To lasting fame;

His works, his worth will ever praise,
An' crown his name.

Brave Ramsay now an' Fergusson,
Wha hae sae lang time fill'd the Throne
O' Poetry, may now lie down

Quiet i' their urns,

Since Fame, in justice, gies the crown
To Coila's Burns.

Hail! happy Bard! ye're now confest
The King o' singers i' the West:
Edina hath the same exprest;
Wi' joy they fin'

That ye're, when try'd by Nature's test,

Gude sterlin' coin.

Sing on my frien'; your fame's secur'd,
An' still maintain the name o' Bard;
But yet tak tent an' keep a guard :
For envy's tryin'

To blast your fame; mair just reward
For the envyin'.

But tho' the tout o' fame may please you, Letna the flatt'rin ghaist o'erheeze you: Nier flyte nor fraise tae gar fock roose you: For men o' skill

When ye write weel, will always praise you
Out o' gude will.

Great numbers on this earthly ba',
As soon as death gies them the ca',
Permitted are to slide awa'

An' straught forgot

Forbid that ever this should fa'

To be your lot.

I ever had an anxious wish;

Forgive me, Heav'n! if 'twas amiss,
That fame in life my name would bless,
An' kin❜ly save

It from the cruel tyrant's crush,

Beyond the grave.

Tho' th' fastest liver soonest dies,

An' length o' days sud mak ane wise;
Yet haste wi' speed, to glory rise

An' spur your horse;
They're shortest ay wha gain the prize
Upo' the course.

Sae to conclude, auld Frien' an' Neebor,
Your Muse forget na weel to feed her,
Then steer thro' life wi' birr an' vigour,
To win a horn,

Whase soun' shall reach ayont the Tiber
Mang ears unborn.

SILLAR'S VERSES OCCASIONED BY A REPLY TO BURNS' CALF, BY AN UNCO calf.

Vide Vol. 1. p. 56, 57.

A preachin' Ca'f-a Poet wearin' cloots-
Are surely ferlies 'mang the nat❜ral brutes.

WERE Father Adam now tae rise,
An' view us face tae face,
I'm sure he'd scarce believe his eyes,
That he begat our race.

Tho' in his days mischief there was,
Men still were human creatures;
An' for his children they did pass,
Tho' changed i' their natures.

Balaam, 'twas strange, an ass he heard,
Foretellin' him o' danger;

But surely cloots upon a Bard,

An' preachin' calves, are stranger.

For Gude's sake, Sirs, your flytin' cease,
Misca'na ane anither;

Lest calves an' stirks, by keepin' peace,
Disgrace you a' thegither.

But if ye winna cease tae rair,
Tae rout, tae girn, an' gape,
Ye're hafflins beasts; in naething mair,
Ye differ but the shape.

Gae satire vice; let men alane,
Tho' diff'rent in opinion;
Wha's right we canna always ken:
Man's mind is his dominion.

I'm sorry, Sirs, I hae't tae say,
Our passions are sae strong,
As mak us tine the beaten way,
An rin sae aften wrong.

But, Sirs, mair sorry I am still,
When without provocation,
A brother's character we'd kill,
Or bring him tae vexation.

Then for the future let's be mute,
Reverin' those above us;

Wi' such as we, let's not dispute,
An' syne our frien's will love us.

Sae rout or no, just tak your will,
I tell you tae your face,
The actions which befit a bull

Affront the human race.

LAPRAIK'S REPLY TO BURNS' EPISTLE.

Vide Vol. I. p. 187.

O FAR fam'd Rab! my silly Muse,
That thou sae frais'd langsyne,

When she did scarce ken verse by prose,

Now dares to spread her wing.

Unconscious of the least desert,
Nor e'er expecting fame,
I sometimes did myself divert,
Wi' jingling worthless rhyme.

When sitting lanely by myself,
Just unco griev'd and wae,
To think that Fortune, fickle Joe!
Had kick'd me o'er the brae!

And when I was amaist half-drown'd
Wi' dolefu' grief and care,
I'd may-be rhyme a verse or twa,
To drive away despair.

Or when I met a chiel like you,
Sae gi'en to mirth an' fun,
Wha lik'd to speel Parnassus' hill
An' drink at Helicon,