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charge you strictly

      Peruse them, an’ return them quickly,

      For now I’m grown sae cursed douce

      I pray and ponder butt the house,

      My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin’,

      Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an’ Boston;

      Till by an’ by, if I haud on,

      I’ll grunt a real gospel groan:

      Already I begin to try it,

      To cast my e’en up like a pyet,

      When by the gun she tumbles o’er,

      Flutt’ring an’ gasping in her gore:

      Sae shortly you shall see me bright,

      A burning and a shining light.

      My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen,

      The ace an’ wale of honest men:

      When bending down wi’ auld gray hairs,

      Beneath the load of years and cares,

      May He who made him still support him,

      An’ views beyond the grave comfort him,

      His worthy fam’ly far and near,

      God bless them a’ wi’ grace and gear!

      My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie,

      The manly tar, my mason Billie,

      An’ Auchenbay, I wish him joy;

      If he’s a parent, lass or boy,

      May he be dad, and Meg the mither,

      Just five-and-forty years thegither!

      An’ no forgetting wabster Charlie,

      I’m tauld he offers very fairly.

      An’ Lord, remember singing Sannock,

      Wi’ hale breeks, saxpence, an’ a bannock,

      An’ next my auld acquaintance, Nancy,

      Since she is fitted to her fancy;

      An’ her kind stars hae airted till her

      A good chiel wi’ a pickle siller.

      My kindest, best respects I sen’ it,

      To cousin Kate, an’ sister Janet;

      Tell them, frae me, wi’ chiels be cautious,

      For, faith, they’ll aiblins fin’ them fashious;

      To grant a heart is fairly civil,

      But to grant the maidenhead’s the devil

      An’ lastly, Jamie, for yoursel’,

      May guardian angels tak a spell,

      An’ steer you seven miles south o’ hell:

      But first, before you see heaven’s glory,

      May ye get monie a merry story,

      Monie a laugh, and monie a drink,

      And aye eneugh, o’ needfu’ clink.

      Now fare ye weel, an’ joy be wi’ you,

      For my sake this I beg it o’ you.

      Assist poor Simson a’ ye can,

      Ye’ll fin’ him just an honest man;

      Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter,

      Your’s, saint or sinner,

      Rob the Ranter.

      LVI. ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD

      [From letters addressed by Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, it would appear that this “Sweet Flow’ret, pledge o’ meikle love,” was the only son of her daughter, Mrs. Henri, who had married a French gentleman. The mother soon followed the father to the grave: she died in the south of France, whither she had gone in search of health.]

      Sweet flow’ret, pledge o’ meikle love,

      And ward o’ mony a pray’r,

      What heart o’ stane wad thou na move,

      Sae helpless, sweet, and fair!

      November hirples o’er the lea,

      Chill on thy lovely form;

      And gane, alas! the shelt’ring tree,

      Should shield thee frae the storm.

      May He who gives the rain to pour,

      And wings the blast to blaw,

      Protect thee frae the driving show’r,

      The bitter frost and snaw!

      May He, the friend of woe and want,

      Who heals life’s various stounds,

      Protect and guard the mother-plant,

      And heal her cruel wounds!

      But late she flourish’d, rooted fast,

      Fair on the summer-morn:

      Now feebly bends she in the blast,

      Unshelter’d and forlorn.

      Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,

      Unscath’d by ruffian hand!

      And from thee many a parent stem

      Arise to deck our land!

      LVII. TO MISS CRUIKSHANK, A VERY YOUNG LADY. WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOOK, PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR

      [The beauteous rose-bud of this poem was one of the daughters of Mr. Cruikshank, a master in the High School of Edinburgh, at whose table Burns was a frequent guest during the year of hope which he spent in the northern metropolis.]

      Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay,

      Blooming in thy early May,

      Never may’st thou, lovely flow’r,

      Chilly shrink in sleety show’r!

      Never Boreas’ hoary path,

      Never Eurus’ poisonous breath,

      Never baleful stellar lights,

      Taint thee with untimely blights!

      Never, never reptile thief

      Riot on thy virgin leaf!

      Nor even Sol too fiercely view

      Thy bosom blushing still with dew!

      May’st thou long, sweet crimson gem,

      Richly deck thy native stem:

      ’Till some evening, sober, calm,

      Dropping dews and breathing balm,

      While all around the woodland rings,

      And ev’ry bird thy requiem sings;

      Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,

      Shed thy dying honours round,

      And resign to parent earth

      The loveliest form she e’er gave birth.

      LVIII. WILLIE CHALMERS

      [Lockhart first gave this poetic curiosity to the world: he copied it from a small manuscript volume of Poems given by Burns to Lady Harriet Don, with an explanation in these words: “W. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as follows.” Chalmers was a writer in Ayr. I have not heard that the lady was influenced by this volunteer effusion: ladies are seldom rhymed into the matrimonial snare.]

      I.

      Wi’ braw new branks in mickle pride,

      And eke a braw new brechan,

      My Pegasus I’m got astride,

      And up Parnassus pechin;

      Whiles

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