LITMIR.BIZ

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brother to his back;

      Steal thro’ a winnock frae a whore,

      But point the rake that taks the door;

      Be to the poor like onie whunstane,

      And haud their noses to the grunstane,

      Ply ev’ry art o’ legal thieving;

      No matter—stick to sound believing.

      Learn three-mile pray’rs an’ half-mile graces,

      Wi’ weel-spread looves, and lang wry faces;

      Grunt up a solemn, lengthen’d groan,

      And damn a’ parties but your own;

      I’ll warrant then, ye’re nae deceiver,

      A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.

      O ye wha leave the springs o’ Calvin,

      For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin’!

      Ye sons of heresy and error,

      Ye’ll some day squeal in quaking terror!

      When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath,

      And in the fire throws the sheath;

      When Ruin, with his sweeping besom,

      Just frets ’till Heav’n commission gies him:

      While o’er the harp pale Mis’ry moans,

      And strikes the ever-deep’ning tones,

      Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!

      Your pardon, Sir, for this digression.

      I maist forgat my dedication;

      But when divinity comes cross me

      My readers still are sure to lose me.

      So, Sir, ye see ’twas nae daft vapour,

      But I maturely thought it proper,

      When a’ my works I did review,

      To dedicate them, Sir, to you:

      Because (ye need na tak it ill)

      I thought them something like yoursel’.

      Then patronize them wi’ your favour,

      And your petitioner shall ever—

      I had amaist said, ever pray,

      But that’s a word I need na say:

      For prayin’ I hae little skill o’t;

      I’m baith dead sweer, an’ wretched ill o’t;

      But I’se repeat each poor man’s pray’r,

      That kens or hears about you, Sir—

      “May ne’er misfortune’s gowling bark,

      Howl thro’ the dwelling o’ the Clerk!

      May ne’er his gen’rous, honest heart,

      For that same gen’rous spirit smart!

      May Kennedy’s far-honour’d name

      Lang beet his hymeneal flame,

      Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen,

      Are frae their nuptial labours risen:

      Five bonnie lasses round their table,

      And seven braw fellows, stout an’ able

      To serve their king and country weel,

      By word, or pen, or pointed steel!

      May health and peace, with mutual rays,

      Shine on the ev’ning o’ his days;

      ’Till his wee curlie John’s-ier-oe,

      When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,

      The last, sad, mournful rites bestow.”

      I will not wind a lang conclusion,

      With complimentary effusion:

      But whilst your wishes and endeavours

      Are blest with Fortune’s smiles and favours,

      I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent,

      Your much indebted, humble servant.

      But if (which pow’rs above prevent)

      That iron-hearted carl, Want,

      Attended in his grim advances

      By sad mistakes and black mischances,

      While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,

      Make you as poor a dog as I am,

      Your humble servant then no more;

      For who would humbly serve the poor!

      But by a poor man’s hope in Heav’n!

      While recollection’s pow’r is given,

      If, in the vale of humble life,

      The victim sad of fortune’s strife,

      I, thro’ the tender gushing tear,

      Should recognise my Master dear,

      If friendless, low, we meet together,

      Then Sir, your hand—my friend and brother.

      LIV. ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX

      [Cromek found these verses among the loose papers of Burns, and printed them in the Reliques. They contain a portion of the character of the poet, record his habitual carelessness in worldly affairs, and his desire to be distinguished.]

      Now Robin lies in his last lair,

      He’ll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair,

      Cauld poverty, wi’ hungry stare,

      Nae mair shall fear him;

      Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care,

      E’er mair come near him.

      To tell the truth, they seldom fash’t him,

      Except the moment that they crush’t him;

      For sune as chance or fate had hush’t ‘em,

      Tho’ e’er sae short,

      Then wi’ a rhyme or song he lash’t ‘em,

      And thought it sport.

      Tho’ he was bred to kintra wark,

      And counted was baith wight and stark.

      Yet that was never Robin’s mark

      To mak a man;

      But tell him he was learned and clark,

      Ye roos’d him than!

      LV. LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT, OF GLENCONNER

      [The west country farmer to whom this letter was sent was a social man. The poet depended on his judgment in the choice of a farm, when he resolved to quit the harp for the plough: but as Ellisland was his choice, his skill may be questioned.]

      Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner,

      How’s a’ the folk about Glenconner?

      How do you this blae eastlin wind,

      That’s like to blaw a body blind?

      For me, my faculties are frozen,

      My dearest member nearly dozen’d,

      I’ve sent you here, by Johnie Simson,

      Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;

      Smith, wi’ his sympathetic feeling,

      An’ Reid, to common sense appealing.

      Philosophers have fought and wrangled,

      An’ meikle Greek and Latin mangled,

      Till wi’ their logic-jargon tir’d,

      An’ in the depth of science mir’d,

      To common sense they now appeal,

      What

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