V. SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. [David Sillar, to whom these epistles are addressed, was at that time master of a country school, and was welcome to Burns both as a scholar and a writer of verse. This epistle he prefixed to his poems printed at Kilmarnock in the year 1789: he loved to speak of his early comrade, and supplied Walker with some very valuable anecdotes: he died one of the magistrates of Irvine, on the 2d of May, 1830, at the age of seventy.] AULD NIBOR, I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, For your auld-farrent, frien❜ly letter; Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, Ye speak sae fair. For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter Some less maun sair. Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle; Till bairn's bairns kindly cuddle Your auld, gray hairs. But DAVIE, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit; An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket Until ye fyke; Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket, For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think Braw sober lessons. Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, O' rhymin' clink, The devil-haet, that I sud ban, They ever think. Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin', An' while ought's there, Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure, The Muse, poor hizzie! Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, She's seldom lazy. Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie: Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie VI. ADDRESS TO THE DEIL "O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, That led th' embattled Seraphim to war." MILTON. [The beautiful and relenting spirit in which this fine poem finishes moved the heart of one of the coldest of our critics. "It was, I think," says Gilbert Burns, "in the winter of 1784, as we were going with carts for coals to the family fire, and I could yet point out the particular spot, that Robert first repeated to me the Address to the Deil.' The idea of the address was suggested to him by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts we have of that august personage."] O THOU! whatever title suit thee, To scaud poor wretches! Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion, Some luckless hour will send him linkin To your black pit; But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin, An' cheat you yet. But fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben! Still hae a stakeI'm wae to think upo' yon den, Ev'n for your sake! VII. THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. ["Whenever Burns has occasion," says Hogg, "to address or mention any subordinate being, however mean, even a mouse or a flower, then there is a gentle pathos in it that awakens the finest feelings of the heart." The Auld Farmer of Kyle has the spirit of a knighterrant, and loves his mare according to the rules of chivalry; and well he might: she carried him safely home from markets, triumphantly from wedding-brooses; she ploughed the stiffest land; faced the steepest brae, and, moreover, bore home his bonnie bride with a consciousness of the loveliness of the load.] A GUID New-year I wish thee, Maggie! Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie Out-owre the lay. Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, Sin' thou was my guid-father's Meere; He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, That day ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, For heels an' win'! An' ran them till they a' did wauble, Far, far, behin'! When thou an' I were young an' skeigh, Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, Thou was a noble fittie-lan', Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' fliskit, But thy 'auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, |