O' stature short, but genius bright, And wow! he has an unco slight By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,* It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in Wi' deils, they say, L-d save's! colleaguin Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or cham'er, Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, Ye midnight bitches! It's tauld he was a sodger bred, And taen the antiquarian trade, I think they call it. He has a fouth o' al. nick-nackets! Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets,f And paraitch-pats, and auld saut-backets, * Vide his Antiquities of Scotland † Vide his Treatise on Ancient Armor and Weapons. Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder; A oroom-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: Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose! Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, They sair misca' thee; I'd tak the rascal by the nose, Wad say, Shame fa' thee WRITTEN IN A WRAFPER, ENCLOSING A LETTER TO 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? 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' davr 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, 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, Tuis 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, I've even join'd the honor'd jorum, But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin! Up higher yet, my bonnet! And sic a Lord - lang Scotch ells twa! But oh, for Hogarth's magic power! When goavan, as if led wi' branks, |