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lady.

      Tell yon guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s

      I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,

      An’ drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock’s[48]

      Nine times a-week,

      If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks,

      Wad kindly seek.

      Could he some commutation broach,

      I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,

      He need na fear their foul reproach

      Nor erudition,

      Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch,

      The Coalition.

      Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;

      She’s just a devil wi’ a rung;

      An’ if she promise auld or young

      To tak their part,

      Tho’ by the neck she should be strung,

      She’ll no desert.

      An’ now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,

      May still your mither’s heart support ye,

      Then, though a minister grow dorty,

      An’ kick your place,

      Ye’ll snap your fingers, poor an’ hearty,

      Before his face.

      God bless your honours a’ your days,

      Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claise,

      In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes,

      That haunt St. Jamie’s:

      Your humble Poet signs an’ prays

      While Rab his name is.

      POSTSCRIPT

      Let half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies

      See future wines, rich clust’ring, rise;

      Their lot auld Scotland ne’er envies,

      But blythe and frisky,

      She eyes her freeborn, martial boys,

      Tak aff their whiskey.

      What tho’ their Phœbus kinder warms,

      While fragrance blooms and beauty charms!

      When wretches range, in famish’d swarms,

      The scented groves,

      Or hounded forth, dishonour arms

      In hungry droves.

      Their gun’s a burden on their shouther;

      They downa bide the stink o’ powther;

      Their bauldest thought’s a’ hank’ring swither

      To stan’ or rin,

      Till skelp—a shot—they’re aff, a’ throther

      To save their skin.

      But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,

      Clap in his check a Highland gill,

      Say, such is royal George’s will,

      An’ there’s the foe,

      He has nae thought but how to kill

      Twa at a blow.

      Nae could faint-hearted doubtings tease him;

      Death comes, wi’ fearless eye he sees him;

      Wi’ bluidy han’ a welcome gies him;

      An’ when he fa’s,

      His latest draught o’ breathin’ lea’es him

      In faint huzzas!

      Sages their solemn een may steek,

      An’ raise a philosophic reek,

      An’ physically causes seek,

      In clime an’ season;

      But tell me whiskey’s name in Greek,

      I’ll tell the reason.

      Scotland, my auld, respected mither!

      Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather,

      Till whare ye sit, on craps o’ heather

      Ye tine your dam;

      Freedom and whiskey gang thegither!—

      Tak aff your dram!

      XXXIX. ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS

      “My son, these maxims make a rule,

      And lump them ay thegither;

      The Rigid Righteous is a fool,

      The Rigid Wise anither:

      The cleanest corn that e’er was dight

      May hae some pyles o’ caff in;

      So ne’er a fellow-creature slight

      For random fits o’ daffin.”

Solomon.—Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16.

      [“Burns,” says Hogg, in a note on this Poem, “has written more from his own heart and his own feelings than any other poet. External nature had few charms for him; the sublime shades and hues of heaven and earth never excited his enthusiasm: but with the secret fountains of passion in the human soul he was well acquainted.” Burns, indeed, was not what is called a descriptive poet: yet with what exquisite snatches of description are some of his poems adorned, and in what fragrant and romantic scenes he enshrines the heroes and heroines of many of his finest songs! Who the high, exalted, virtuous dames were, to whom the Poem refers, we are not told. How much men stand indebted to want of opportunity to sin, and how much of their good name they owe to the ignorance of the world, were inquiries in which the poet found pleasure.]

      I.

      O ye wha are sae guid yoursel’,

      Sae pious and sae holy,

      Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell

      Your neibor’s fauts and folly!

      Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,

      Supply’d wi’ store o’ water,

      The heaped happer’s ebbing still,

      And still the clap plays clatter.

      II.

      Hear me, ye venerable core,

      As counsel for poor mortals,

      That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door

      For glaikit Folly’s portals;

      I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,

      Would here propone defences,

      Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,

      Their failings and mischances.

      III.

      Ye see your state wi’ theirs compar’d,

      And shudder at the niffer,

      But cast a moment’s fair regard,

      What maks the mighty differ?

      Discount what scant occasion gave,

      That purity ye pride in,

      And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave)

      Your better art o’ hiding.

      IV.

      Think, when your castigated pulse

      Gies now and then a wallop,

      What ragings must his veins convulse,

      That still eternal gallop:

      Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail,

      Right on ye scud your sea-way;

      But in the teeth o’ baith to sail,

      It

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