TO DR. BLACKLOCK.

ELLISLAND, OCTOBER, 21, 1789.

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie!
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie?
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie
Wad bring ye to:

Lord send ye ay as weel's I want ye,
And then ye'll do.

The ill-thief blaw the Heron* south!
And never drink be near his drouth!
He tald mysel, by word o' mouth,
He'd tak my letter;
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth,
And bade nae better.

But aiblins honest Master Heron
Had at the time some dainty fair one,
To ware his theologic care on,

And holy study;

And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on
E'en tried the body.

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier,
I'm turn'd a guager - peace be here!
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear

Ye'll now disdain me;

* Mr. Heron, author of a History of Scotland, and various othet works.

And then my fifty pounds a year
Will little gain me.

Ye glaikit, gleesome, daintie damies
Wha, by Castalia's wimplin streamies,
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,
Ye ken, ye ken

That strang necessity supreme is

’Mang sons o men.

I hae a wife an' twa wee laddies;
They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies
Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is,
I need nae vaunt,

But I'll sned besoms-thraw saugh woodies,
Before they want.

Lord help me thro' this warld o'care'
I'm weary, sick o't late and air!

Not but I hae a richer share

Than monie ithers:

But why should ae man better fare,
And a' men brithers?

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van,
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man!

And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan
A lady-fair;

Wha does the utmost that he can,
Will whyles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme,
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,)
To make a happy fire-side clime

To weans and wife.

That's the true pathos and sublime
Of human life.

My compliments to sister Beckie ;
And eke the same to honest Lucky,
I wat she is a dainty chuckie,

As e'er trod clay!

An' gratefully, my guid auld cockie,
I'm yours for ay.

ROBERT BUrns

TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER.

DUMFRIES, 1796.

My honor'd Colonel, deep I feel
Your int'rest in the Poet's weal;
Ah! how sma' heart hae I to speel
The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus pill,
And potion glasses.

O, what a cantie world were it,

Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it; And fortune favor worth and merit,

As they deserve:

(And ay a rowth, roast-beef and claret;

Syne wha wad starve ?)

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, And in paste gems and fripp'ry deck her; Oh! flick'ring, feeble, and unsicker

I've found her still.

Ay wav'ring like the willow wicker, "Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrans by a rattan,
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on,
Wi' felon ire;

Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on,
He's aff like fire.

Ah, Nick! ah, Nick! it is na fair,
First showing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonie lasses rare,
To put us daft;

Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare,
O' hell's damn'd waft.

Poor man, the flie, aft bizzies by,
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy,
And hellish pleasure;

Already in thy fancy's eye

Thy sicker treasure.

Soon, heels o'er gowdie! in he gangs,
And, like a sheep-head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs
And murd'ring wrestle,

As, dangling in the wind, he hanga,
A gibbet's tassel.

But, lest you think I am uncivil,

To plague you with this draunting drivel,

Abjuring a' intentions evil,

I quat my pen:

The Lord preserve us frae the devil.
Amen! Amen!

LETTER

TO J

S T-T GL-NC-R.

AULD Comrade dear, and brither sinner,
How's a' the folk about Gl-nc-r?
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 my Johnny Simson,
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling,
An' Reid to common sense appealing.
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled,
And meikle Greek an' Latin mangled,
Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd,
An' in the depth of science mir'd,
To common sense they now appeal,
What wives and wabsters see an' feel:
But hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly,
Peruse them an' return them quickly;

For now I'm grown sae cursed douce,

I

pray an' ponder butt the house,

My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin,
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston.