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whiskey Jean, that took her gill

      In Galloway sae wide.

      And black Joan, frae Crighton-peel,

      O’ gipsey kith an’ kin;—

      Five wighter carlins were na found

      The south countrie within.

      To send a lad to London town,

      They met upon a day;

      And mony a knight, and mony a laird,

      This errand fain wad gae.

      O mony a knight, and mony a laird,

      This errand fain wad gae;

      But nae ane could their fancy please,

      O ne’er a ane but twae.

      The first ane was a belted knight,

      Bred of a border band;

      And he wad gae to London town,

      Might nae man him withstand.

      And he wad do their errands weel,

      And meikle he wad say;

      And ilka ane about the court

      Wad bid to him gude-day.

      The neist cam in a sodger youth,

      And spak wi’ modest grace,

      And he wad gae to London town,

      If sae their pleasure was.

      He wad na hecht them courtly gifts,

      Nor meikle speech pretend;

      But he wad hecht an honest heart,

      Wad ne’er desert his friend.

      Then wham to chuse, and wham refuse,

      At strife thir carlins fell;

      For some had gentlefolks to please,

      And some wad please themsel’.

      Then out spak mim-mou’d Meg o’ Nith,

      And she spak up wi’ pride,

      And she wad send the sodger youth,

      Whatever might betide.

      For the auld gudeman o’ London court

      She didna care a pin;

      But she wad send the sodger youth

      To greet his eldest son.

      Then slow raise Marjory o’ the Lochs

      And wrinkled was her brow;

      Her ancient weed was russet gray,

      Her auld Scotch heart was true.

      “The London court set light by me—

      I set as light by them;

      And I wilt send the sodger lad

      To shaw that court the same.”

      Then up sprang Bess of Annandale,

      And swore a deadly aith,

      Says, “I will send the border-knight

      Spite o’ you carlins baith.

      “For far-off fowls hae feathers fair,

      And fools o’ change are fain;

      But I hae try’d this border-knight,

      I’ll try him yet again.”

      Then whiskey Jean spak o’er her drink,

      “Ye weel ken, kimmersa’,

      The auld gudeman o’ London court,

      His back’s been at the wa’.

      “And mony a friend that kiss’d his caup,

      Is now a fremit wight;

      But it’s ne’er be sae wi’ whiskey Jean,—

      We’ll send the border-knight.”

      Says black Joan o’ Crighton-peel,

      A carlin stoor and grim,—

      “The auld gudeman, or the young gudeman,

      For me may sink or swim.

      “For fools will prate o’ right and wrang,

      While knaves laugh in their sleeve;

      But wha blaws best the horn shall win,

      I’ll spier nae courtier’s leave.”

      So how this mighty plea may end

      There’s naebody can tell:

      God grant the king, and ilka man,

      May look weel to himsel’!

      CXIV. THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS O’ NITH

      [This short Poem was first published by Robert Chambers. It intimates pretty strongly, how much the poet disapproved of the change which came over the Duke of Queensberry’s opinions, when he supported the right of the Prince of Wales to assume the government, without consent of Parliament, during the king’s alarming illness, in 1788.]

      The laddies by the banks o’ Nith,

      Wad trust his Grace wi’ a’, Jamie,

      But he’ll sair them, as he sair’d the King,

      Turn tail and rin awa’, Jamie.

      Up and waur them a’, Jamie,

      Up and waur them a’;

      The Johnstones hae the guidin’ o’t,

      Ye turncoat Whigs awa’.

      The day he stude his country’s friend,

      Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie:

      Or frae puir man a blessin’ wan,

      That day the Duke ne’er saw, Jamie.

      But wha is he, his country’s boast?

      Like him there is na twa, Jamie,

      There’s no a callant tents the kye,

      But kens o’ Westerha’, Jamie.

      To end the wark here’s Whistlebirk,[94]

      Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie;

      And Maxwell true o’ sterling blue:

      And we’ll be Johnstones a’, Jamie.

      CXV. EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRAY: ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS.

      [“I am too little a man,” said Burns, in the note to Fintray, which accompanied this poem, “to have any political attachment: I am deeply indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for individuals of both parties: but a man who has it in his power to be the father of a country, and who acts like his Grace of Queensberry, is a character that one cannot speak of with patience.” This Epistle was first printed in my edition of Burns in 1834: I had the use of the Macmurdo and the Afton manuscripts for that purpose: to both families the poet was much indebted for many acts of courtesy and kindness.]

      Fintray, my stay in worldly strife,

      Friend o’ my muse, friend o’ my life,

      Are ye as idle’s I am?

      Come then, wi’ uncouth, kintra fleg,

      O’er Pegasus I’ll fling my leg,

      And ye shall see me try him.

      I’ll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears,

      Who left the all-important cares

      Of princes and their darlings;

      And, bent on winning borough towns,

      Came shaking hands wi’ wabster lowns,

      And kissing barefit carlins.

      Combustion thro’ our boroughs rode,

      Whistling

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