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Said nothing like his works were ever printed,
And last, my Prologue-business slily hinted.
"Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes,
"I know your bent-these are no laughing times:
Can you-but, Miss, I own I have my fears-
Dissolve in pause and sentimental tears;

With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance;
Paint Vengeance, as he takes his horrid stand,
Waving on high the desolating brand,

Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?"

I could no more-askance the creature eyeing,
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying?

I'll laugh, that's poz-nay, more, the world shall know it:
And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet!
Firm as my creed, sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief,
That Misery's another word for Grief;

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,
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye;
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive-
To make three guineas do the work of five:
Laugh in Misfortune's face-the bedlam witch!
Say you'll be merry, though you can't be rich.
Thou other man of care, the wretch in love,
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ;
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project,
Measured in desperate thought—a rope-thy neck—
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep,
Peerest to meditate the healing leap :
Wouldst thou be cured, thou silly, moping elf,
Laugh at her follies-laugh e'en at thyself:
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific,
And love a kinder-that's your grand specific.

To sum up all, be merry, I advise ;
And as we're merry, may we still be wise!

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;

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And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted,3
I'd bear't in mind.

So may the auld year gang out moaning
To see the new come laden, groaning,
Wi' double plenty o'er the loaning*
To thee and thine;

Domestic peace and comforts crowning
The hale design.

POSTSCRIPT.

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket,5

And by fell Death was nearly nicket
Grim loun! he gat me by the fecket,?
And sair me sheuk;

But by guid luck I lap a wicket,

And turn'd a neuk.

But by that health, I've got a share o't,
And by that life I'm promised mair o't,
My hale and weel I'll tak a care o't,
A tentier way:

Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't,
For ance and aye!

TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER.*
My honour'd colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the poet's weal:
Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel9
The steep Parnassus,

Surrounded thus by bolus pill

And potion glasses.

Oh, what a canty10 warld were it,

Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it ;

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* 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.

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And fortune favour worth and merit
As they deserve!

And aye a rowth,1 roast beef and claret ;
Syne2 wha wad starve?

Dame Life, though fiction out may trick hier,
And in paste gems and frippery deck her;
Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker3
I've found her still,

Aye wavering, like the willow-wicker,4
'Tween good and ill.

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrons by a ratton,
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on
Wi' felon ire;

Syne whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on-
He's aff like fire.

Ah, Nick! ah, Nick! it is na fair,
First showing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonny lasses rare,
To put us daft;

Syne weave, unseen, the spider snare
O' hell's damn'd waft.

Poor man, the flee aft bizzes by,

And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks' wi' joy,
And hellish pleasure;

Already, in thy fancy's eye,

Thy sicker treasure.

Soon, heels-o'er-gowdie !8 in he gangs,
And, like a sheep-head on a tangs,
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs
And murdering wrestle,

As, dangling in the wind, he hangs
A gibbet's tassel.

But lest you think I am uncivil,

.10

To plague you with this draunting 1o drivel,
Abjuring a' intentions evil,

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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-
That Fate may in her fairest page,
With every kindliest, best presage
Of future bliss, enrol thy name;
With native worth, and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution still aware
Of ill-but chief, man's felon snare.
All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind-
These be thy guardian and reward;
So prays thy faithful friend-the Bard.

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"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'!
There's mony godly folks are thinkin'
Your dreams* and tricks

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.

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