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As get a single line of Virgil.
And then sae slee ye crack

your jokes

O' Willie Pitt and Charlie Fox,
Our great men a' sae weel descrive,
And how to gar the nation thrive,

Ane maist wad swear ye dwalt amang them,
And as ye saw them, sae ye sang them.
But be ye ploughman, be ye peer,
Ye are a funny blade, I swear

And though the cauld I ill can bide,
Yet twenty miles and mair I'd ride
O'er moss and moor, and never grumble,
Though my auld yad should gie a stumble,
To crack a winter night wi' thee,
And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee.
Oh gif I kenn'd but whare ye baide,
I'd send to you a marled plaid;

'T wad haud your shouthers warm and braw,
And douce at kirk or market shaw;
Fra' south as weel as north, my lad,
A' honest Scotsmen lo'e the maud.

BURNS TO THE GUDEWIFE OF WAUCHOPE

I

HOUSE.

MIND it weel in early date,

When I was beardless, young, and blate,
And first could thrash the barn,

Or haud a yokin' at the pleugh,

And though forfoughten sair eneugh,

Yet unco proud to learn: When first among the yellow corn

A man I reckoned was,

And wi' the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass,
Still shearing, and clearing,
The tither stooked raw,
Wi' claivers, and haivers,
Wearing the day awa'.

E'en then, a wish, I mind its power
A wish that to my latest hour

Shall strongly heave my breast That I, for poor auld Scotland's sake, Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, Or sing a sang at least.

The rough burr-thissle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,

I turned the weeder-clips aside,
And spared the symbol dear!
No nation, no station,

My envy e'er could raise,
A Scot still, but blot still,

I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o' sang,
In formless jumble, right and wrang,
Wild floated in my brain;

Till on that har'st I said before,
My partner in the merry core,
She roused the forming strain.
I see her yet, the sonsie quean,
That lighted up my jingle,

Her witching smile, her pauky een
That gart my heart-strings tingle :
I fired, inspired,

At every kindling keek,
But bashing, and dashing,
I feared aye to speak.

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says,
Wi' merry dance in winter days,
And we to share in common:
The gust o' joy, the balm of wo,
The saul o' life, the heaven below,
Is rapture-giving woman.

Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,
Be mindfu' o' your mither;

She, honest woman, may think shame That ye're connected with her. Ye're wae men, ye 're nae men

That slight the lovely dears; To shame ye, disclaim ye,

Ilk honest birkie swears.

For you, no bred to barn and byre,
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre,
Thanks to you for your line:
The marled plaid ye kindly spare,
By me should gratefully be ware;
'T wad please me to the Nine.
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,
Douce hingin' owre my curple,
Than ony ermine ever lap,

Or proud imperial purple.

Fareweel then, lang heal then,
And plenty be your fa',
May losses and crosses

Ne'er at your hallan ca'!

WILLIAM SMELLIE.

To Crochallan came,

The old cocked-hat, the gray surtout, the same;
His bristling beard just rising in its might;
'Twas four long nights and days till shaving-night;
His uncombed grizzly locks, wild staring, thatched
A head for thought profound and clear unmatched;
Yet though his caustic wit was biting rude,
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good.

RATTLIN', ROARIN' WILLIE.

ASI cam by Crochallan,

I cannilie keckit ben;

Rattlin', roarin' Willie

Was sitting at yon boord-en';
Sitting at yon boord-en',

And amang gude companie;
Rattlin', roarin' Willie,

Ye're welcome hame to me!

INSCRIPTION FOR THE GRAVE OF FERGUSSON.

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET.

BORN, SEPTEMBER 5TH, 1751; DIED, 16TH OCTOBER, 1774.

NO sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay,

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"No storied urn, nor animated bust; This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust.

VERSES UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FERGUS

CURSE

SON.

on ungrateful man, that can be pleased, And yet can starve the author of the pleasure!

Oh thou, my elder brother in misfortune,

By far my elder brother in the Muses,
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!
Why is the bard unpitied by the world,
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ?

VERSES INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN BELOW A NOBLE EARL'S PICTURE. [THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN.]

WHOSE is that noble, dauntless brow?

And whose that eye of fire?

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