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not a muse erect her head

      To cowe the blellums?

      O Pope, had I thy satire’s darts

      To gie the rascals their deserts,

      I’d rip their rotten, hollow hearts,

      An’ tell aloud

      Their jugglin’ hocus-pocus arts

      To cheat the crowd.

      God knows, I’m no the thing I shou’d be,

      Nor am I even the thing I cou’d be,

      But twenty times, I rather wou’d be

      An atheist clean,

      Than under gospel colours hid be

      Just for a screen.

      An honest man may like a glass,

      An honest man may like a lass,

      But mean revenge, an’ malice fause

      He’ll still disdain,

      An’ then cry zeal for gospel laws,

      Like some we ken.

      They take religion in their mouth;

      They talk o’ mercy, grace, an’ truth,

      For what?—to gie their malice skouth

      On some puir wight,

      An’ hunt him down, o’er right, an’ ruth,

      To ruin straight.

      All hail, Religion! maid divine!

      Pardon a muse sae mean as mine,

      Who in her rough imperfect line,

      Thus daurs to name thee;

      To stigmatize false friends of thine

      Can ne’er defame thee.

      Tho’ blotch’d an’ foul wi’ mony a stain,

      An’ far unworthy of thy train,

      With trembling voice I tune my strain

      To join with those,

      Who boldly daur thy cause maintain

      In spite o’ foes:

      In spite o’ crowds, in spite o’ mobs,

      In spite of undermining jobs,

      In spite o’ dark banditti stabs

      At worth an’ merit,

      By scoundrels, even wi’ holy robes,

      But hellish spirit.

      O Ayr! my dear, my native ground,

      Within thy presbyterial bound

      A candid lib’ral band is found

      Of public teachers,

      As men, as Christians too, renown’d,

      An’ manly preachers.

      Sir, in that circle you are nam’d;

      Sir, in that circle you are fam’d;

      An’ some, by whom your doctrine’s blam’d,

      (Which gies you honour,)

      Even Sir, by them your heart’s esteem’d,

      An’ winning manner.

      Pardon this freedom I have ta’en,

      An’ if impertinent I’ve been,

      Impute it not, good Sir, in ane

      Whase heart ne’er wrang’d ye,

      But to his utmost would befriend

      Ought that belang’d ye.

      XXXVI. TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1785

      [This beautiful poem was imagined while the poet was holding the plough, on the farm of Mossgiel: the field is still pointed out: and a man called Blane is still living, who says he was gaudsman to the bard at the time, and chased the mouse with the plough-pettle, for which he was rebuked by his young master, who inquired what harm the poor mouse had done him. In the night that followed, Burns awoke his gaudsman, who was in the same bed with him, recited the poem as it now stands, and said, “What think you of our mouse now?”]

      Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie,

      O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!

      Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

      Wi’ bickering brattle!

      I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,

      Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

      I’m truly sorry man’s dominion

      Has broken nature’s social union,

      An’ justifies that ill opinion,

      Which makes thee startle

      At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

      An’ fellow-mortal!

      I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;

      What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

      A daimen icker in a thrave

      ‘S a sma’ request:

      I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave,

      And never miss’t!

      Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin;

      Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’!

      An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,

      O’ foggage green!

      An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’,

      Baith snell and keen!

      Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,

      An’ weary winter comin’ fast,

      An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,

      Thou thought to dwell,

      ’Till, crash! the cruel coulter past

      Out thro’ thy cell.

      That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,

      Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!

      Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,

      But house or hald,

      To thole the winter’s sleety dribble,

      An’ cranreuch cauld!

      But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

      In proving foresight may be vain:

      The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men,

      Gang aft a-gley,

      An’ lea’e us nought but grief and pain,

      For promis’d joy.

      Still thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!

      The present only toucheth thee:

      But, Och! I backward cast my e’e,

      On prospects drear!

      An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,

      I guess an’ fear.

      XXXVII. SCOTCH DRINK

      “Gie him strong drink, until he wink,

      That’s sinking in despair;

      An’ liquor guid to fire his bluid,

      That’s prest wi’ grief an’ care;

      There let him bouse, an’ deep carouse,

      Wi’ bumpers flowing o’er,

      Till he forgets his loves or debts,

      An’ minds his griefs no more.”

Solomon’s Proverb, xxxi. 6, 7.

      [“I

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