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YE true

In uproar

BURNS-EXTEMPORE.

Loyal Natives,' attend to my song, and riot rejoice the night long; From envy and hatred your corps is exempt; But where is your shield from the darts of contempt?

EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION
On being appointed to the Excise.

SEARCHING auld wives' barrels,
Och, ho! the day!

That clarty barm2 should stain my laurels,
But-what'll ye say?

These muvin' things ca'd wives and weans
Wad muve the very hearts o' stanes!

ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF LORD G.

WHAT dost thou in that mansion fair?

Flit, G, and find

Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave,

The picture of thy mind!

ON THE SAME.

No Stewart art thou G

The Stewarts all were brave;
Besides, the Stewarts were but fools
Not one of them a knave.

ON THE SAME.

BRIGHT ran thy line, O G-
Thro' many a far-fam'd sire!
So ran the far-fam'd Roman way,
So ended in a mire.

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TO THE SAME,

On the Author being threatened with his Resentment.

SPARE me thy vengeance G-
In quiet let me live:

I ask no kindness at thy hand,
For thou hast none to give.

EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION. Tune. Gillicrankie.

LORD ATE.

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist,
He quoted and he hinted,

Till in a declamation mist,

His argument he tint' it;

He gap'd for 't, he grap'd for 't,
He fand it was awa, man;

But what his common sense came short,
He eked it out wi' law, man.

MR. ER-NE.

COLLECTED Harry stood awee,
Then open'd out his arm, man;
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e,

And ey'd the gathering storm, man :

Like wind-driven hail it did assail,
Like torrents owre a linn,w man;
The Bench sae wise, lift their
up eyes,
Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man.

ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD IN
THE REV. DR. B'S VERY LOOKS.

THAT there is falsehood in his looks
I must and will deny,

They say their master is a knave-
And sure they do not lie.

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EXTEMPORE,

On the late Mr. William Smellie, Author of the Philosophy of Natural History, and Member of the Antiquarian and Roval Societies of Edinburgh.

To Crochallan came

The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same;
His bristling beard just rising in its might,
'Twas four long nights and days till shaving night;
His uncomb'd grizly locks wild staring, thatch'd
A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd;
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude,
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good.

EXTEMPORE, TO MR. SYME,"

On refusing to dine with him, after having been promised the first of company, and the first of cookery; 17th Dec. 1795.

No more of your guests, be they titled or not,
And cook'ry the first of the nation;

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit,
Is proof to all other temptation.

TO MR. S**E,

With a Present of a dozen of Porter.

O, HAD the malt thy strength of mind,
Or hops the flavour of thy wit,
'Twere drink for first of human kind,

A gift that e'en for S**e were fit.
Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries.

LINES ADDRESSED TO MR. J. RANKINE.

While he occupied the farm of Adamhill, in Ayrshire.

AE day, as Death, that grusome carl,
Was driving to the tither warl',

A mixtie-maxtie motley squad,

And monie a guilt-bespotted lad;

w An intimate friend of the Poet's, with whom he made a very pleasant tour over the counties of Kirkcudbright and Galloway, in July and August, 1793.

a Grim old man.

y Other world.

z Confusedly mixed.

Black gowns of each denomination,
And thieves of every rank and station,
From him that wears the star and garter,
To him that wintlesa in a halter;
Asham'd himself to see the wretches,
He mutters, glow'ring at the bitches:

By God, I'll not be seen behint them,
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual corps present them,
Without at least ae honest man,
To grace this damn'd infernal clan.'

By Adamhill a glance he threw,
'Lord God!' quoth he, 'I have it now;
There's just the man I want, i' faith;'
And quickly stopped Rankine's breath.

LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS, While on his death-bed, to John Rankine, and forwarded to him immediately after the Poet's death.

He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead,
And a green grassy hillock hides his head;
Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed!

EPITAPHS.

EPITAPH FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER.
O YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains,
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend!
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,
The tender father, and the gen'rous friend.

The pitying heart that felt for human woe;
The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride;

The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;

'For ev❜n his failings lean'd to virtue's side.

a Swings.

b Golasmith.

INSCRIPTION TO THE MEMORY OF
FERGUSSON.

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET.
Born September 5th, 1750.-Died 16th October, 1774.

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay,
'No storied urn nor animated bust,'
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way
To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust.

FOR ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.
KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name'
(For none that knew him need be told)
A warmer heart Death ne'er made cold.

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owrec fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blated to seek, owre proud to snool,
Let him draw near;

And owref this grassy heap sing dool,g
And drap a tear.

Is there a Bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,

That weekly this area throng,

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, thro' the starting tear,

Survey this grave.

e Too.
ƒ Over.

d Bashful.

e To submit tamely, to sneak.

g

To lament, to mourn.

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