Said nothing like his works were ever printed, With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?" I could no more-askance the creature eyeing, I'll laugh, that's poz-nay, more, the world shall know it: I also think-so may I be a bride! That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL. BURNS died within a few months of writing the following lines. Mr. Mitchell, a sincere friend of the poet's, would not seem to have been aware of the pressing necessities under which he suffered at the time. FRIEND of the poet, tried and leal, Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal; :: And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted,3 So may the auld year gang out moaning Domestic peace and comforts crowning POSTSCRIPT. Ye've heard this while how I've been licket,5 And by fell Death was nearly nicket But by guid luck I lap a wicket, And turn'd a neuk. But by that health, I've got a share o't, Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't, TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER.* Surrounded thus by bolus pill And potion glasses. Oh, what a canty10 warld were it, Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it ; * Arentz de Peyster, to whom these lines were addressed in reply to kind inquiries as to the poet's health, was colonel of the Gentlemen Volunteers of Dumfries. And fortune favour worth and merit And aye a rowth,1 roast beef and claret ; Dame Life, though fiction out may trick hier, Aye wavering, like the willow-wicker,4 Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, Syne whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on- Ah, Nick! ah, Nick! it is na fair, Syne weave, unseen, the spider snare Poor man, the flee aft bizzes by, And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, Already, in thy fancy's eye, Thy sicker treasure. Soon, heels-o'er-gowdie !8 in he gangs, As, dangling in the wind, he hangs But lest you think I am uncivil, .10 To plague you with this draunting 1o drivel, TO MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUMFRIES, WITH A PRESENT OF BOOKS. CUNNINGHAM says: "Miss Jessy Lewars watched over the poet and his little household during his declining days with all the affectionate reverence of a daughter. For this she has received the silent thanks of all who admire the genius of Burns, or look with sorrow on his setting sun; she has received more -the undying thanks of the poet himself: his songs to her honour, and his simple gifts of books and verse, will keep her name and fame long in the world." THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair, And with them take the poet's prayer- "ROUGH, rude, and ready-witted," seems to have been an appropriate delineation of this intimate friend and correspondent of the poet, although he had other and more genial qualities. He was a farmer at Adamhill, near Torbolton. With reference to the personal circumstances alluded to in Burns's epistle, Lockhart says:-"He was compelled, according to the then almost universal custom of rural parishes in Scotland, to do penance in church, before the congregation, in consequence of the birth of an illegitimate child; and, whatever may be thought of the propriety of such exhibitions, there can be no difference of opinion as to the culpable levity with which he describes the nature of his offence." O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine, The wale1 o' cocks for fun and drinkin'! 1 Choice. * A certain humorous dream of his was then making a noise in the countryside.-B. The story of the dream is worth telling. Lord K, it is said, was in the practice of calling all his familiar acquaintances "brutes," and sometimes "damned brutes."-"Well, ye brute, how are ye to-day, ye damned brute?" was his usual mode of salutation. Once, in company, his lordship having indulged in this rudeness more than his wont, turned to Rankine, and exclaimed, "Ye damned brute, are ye dumb? Have ye no queer, sly story to tell us?" "I have nae story," said Rankine, "but last night I had an odd dream." "Out with it, by all means," said the other. 'Aweel, ye see," said Rankine, "I dreamed I was dead, and that for keeping other than good company upon earth I was damned. When I knocked at hell-door, wha should open it but the deil; he was in a rough humour, and said, 'Wha may ye be, and what's your name?' 'My name, quoth I, 'is John Rankine, and my dwelling-place was Adamhill. Gae wa' wi' ye,' quoth Satan, 'ye canna be here; ye're ane of Lord K's damned brutes-hell's fu' o' them already!" This sharp rebuke, it is said, was not lost on his lordship. |