My Lan' afore's* a guid auld has-been,
An' wight an' willfu' a' his days been.
My Lan' ahin'st a weel gaun fillie,
That aft has born me hame frae Killiet,
An' your auld burro' monie a time,
In days when riding was nae crime-
But ance whan in my wooing pride
I, like a blockhead, boost to ride,
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to,
(L-d pardon a' my sins an' that too!)
play'd my fillie sic a shavie,
She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie.
My Furr ahin's a wordy beast,
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd.
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie,
A d-n'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie ;
Forbye a Cowto' Cowt's the wale,
As ever ran afore a tail.

If he be spar'd to be a beast,
He'll draw me fifteen pun' at least.

Wheel carriages I hae but few,
Three carts, an' twa are feckly new ;
Ae auld wheel-barrow, mair for token,
Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken;
I made a poker o' the spin'le,

An' my auld mither brunt the trin'le.

For men, I've three mischievous boys,
Run deils for rantin and for noise;
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other
Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother.

*The fore-horse on the left-hand in the plough. The hindmost on the left-hand in the plough. Kilmarnock.

The hindmost horse on the right hand in the plough.

I rule them as I ought, discreetly,
An' after labor them completely.
An' ay on Sundays duly nightly,
I on the Questions targe them tightly;
Till faith! wee Davock's turn'd sae gleg,
Tho' scarcely langer than your leg,
He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling,
As fast as onie in the dwalling.

I've nane in female servan' station,
(L-d keep me ay frae a' temptation!)
I hae nae wife; and that my bliss is,
An' ye have laid nae tax on misses;
An' then if kirk folks dinna clutch me,
I ken the devils dare na touch me.

Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented,
Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted.
Ny sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bess
She states the daddie in her face,
Enough of ought ye like but grace;
But her, my bonie sweet, wee lady,
I've paid enough for her already,
An' gin ye tax her or her mither,
B' the L-d! ye'se get them a' thegither

And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,
Nae kind of licence out I'm takin :
Frae this time forth, I do declare,
I'se ne'er, ride horse nor hizzie mair;
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;
My travel a' on foot I'll shank it,
I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit.

The kirk an' you may tak you that,
It puts but little in your pat:
Sae dinna put me in your buke,
Nor for my ten white shillings luke.

This list, wi' my ain hand I wrote it,
Day and date as under notit,

Then know all ye whom it concerns,
Subscripsi huic,

Mossgiel. Feb. 22, 1786.

ROBERT BURNS.

TO A LOUSE,

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT
CHURCH.

HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly;
I canna say but ye strunt rarely,

Owre gauze and lace;

Tho' faith, I fear, ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,
Detested, shunn'd, by saunt an' sinner,
How dare ye set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a lady!

Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner,
On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle Wi' ither kindred, jumpin cattle,

In shoals and nations:

Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle

Your thick plantations.

Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight,
How the fatt'rils, snug an' tight:

Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right
Till ye've got on it,

The vera tapmost, tow'ring height,
O'Miss's bonnet.

My sooth right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump and gray as onie grozet; O for some rank, mercurial rozet,

Ór fell red smeddum,

I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't,

Wad dress your droddum!

I wad na been surpris'd to spy You on an auld wife's flainen toy; Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, On's wyliecoat; But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie,

How dare you do❜t?

O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, An' set your beauties a' abread! Ye little ken what cursed speed

The blastie's makin!

Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin!

O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us
It wad frae monie a blunder free us
And foolish notion:

What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us
And ev'n Devotion !

ADDRESS

TO THE TООТН АСНЕ.

My curse upon thy venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang;
An' thro' my lugs gies monie a twang,

Wi' gnawing vengeance;

Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,

Like racking engines!

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes, Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan; But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases

Ay mocks our groan!

Adown my beard the slavers trickle!
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets keckle
To see me loup;
While raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were in their doup.

O' a' the num'rous human dools,
Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends rack'd i' the mools,
Sad sight to see!

The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools,
Thou bear'st the gree.

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell,