Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder; A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, Forbye he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, It was a faulding jocteleg, Or lang kail-gullie. But wad ye see him in his glee, Then set him down, and twa or three And Port, O Port! shine thou a wee, Now, by the pow'rs o' verse and prose! I'd tak the rascal by the nose, Wad say, Shame fa' thee' LINES WRITTEN IN A WRAPPER, ENCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPTAIN GROSE, TO BE LEFT WITH MR. CARDONNEL, ANTIQUARIAN. TUNE "Sir John Malcolm." KEN ye aught o' Captain Grose? If he's amang his friends or foes? Is he south, or is he north? Igo, and ago. Or drowned in the river Forth? Iram, coram, dago. Is he slain by Highland bodies? And eaten like a wether-haggis? Iram, coram, dago. Is he to Abram's bosom gane? Or hauden Sarah by the wane? Where'er he be, the Lord be near him! As for the Deil, he daur na steer him! But please transmit the enclosed letter, Which will oblige your humble debtor, So may ye hae auld stanes in store, The very stanes that Adam bore, So may ye get in glad possession, The coins o' Satan's coronation! Iram, coram, dago. EPIGRAM ON CAPTAIN GROSE. THE Deil got notice that Grose was a-dying, So, whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying; But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay moan. ing, And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning, Astonish'd! confounded! cried Satan, "By G-d, I'll want 'im, ere I take such a d- -ble load."* • Mr. Grose was exceedingly corpulent, and used to rally himself, with the greatest good humor, on the singular rotundity of his figure. This epigram, written by Burns in a moment of festivity, was so much relished by the antiquarian, that he made it serve as an excuse for proonging the convivial occasion that gave it birth, to a very late hour. LINES ON AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER. THIS Wot ye all whom it concerns, A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, Sae far I spreckled up the brae, I've been at drucken writers' feasts, But wi' a Lord-stand out my shin! Up higher yet, my bonnet! And sic a Lord - lang Scotch ells twa! As I look o'er my sonnet. But oh, for Hogarth's magic power! And how he star'd and stammer'd, When goavan, as if led wi' branks, I, sliding, shelter'd in a nook, Like some portentous omen; I marked nought uncommon. I watch'd the symptoms o' the great, The fient a pride, nae pride had he, Then from his Lordship I shall learn, One rank as weel's another: THE INVENTORY. IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SURVEYOR OF THE TAXES. SIR, as your mandate did request, |