I own man's credit was nae sma',
When he was new, an' tight, an' bra';
His pow'r was great to rule o'er a'
Things that were made;
But soon his pride did let him fa',
For a' that's said.

Although I am a creature made,
No pow'r o'er me old Adam had,

Then why should'st thou wi' names upbraid,
An' so ill use me,

Wha now am chain d by God's strong hand,
An' can't abuse thee?

Thou ca's me Hornie, Nick, an' Cloutie,
An' tells my cave is grim an' sootie;
But stop, thou'lt, may-be, be my booty;
I'll try my skill";

I'll gang as far as Fate will let me,
An' wi' guid will.

I'll thee entice baith day an' night;
O' me thou need be in nae fright;
As Deil I'll ne'er come in thy sight;
Thoul't still embrace
My motions, which will yield delight,
When done wi' grace.

I know thou hast a wanton turn,
Wi' passions stout as e'er were born;

In prose or rhyme. †

XX.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin',
A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin',
Some luckless hour will send him linkin'
To your black pit;

But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin',
An' cheat you yet.

XXI.

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! O wad ye tak a thought an' men'! Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken

Still hae a stake

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

Ev'n for your sake!!

Thou lik'st the maid wi' hainches roun'
An' waist genteel,

Wi' e'en jet black, an hair nut brown,
Thy heart she'll steal.

Wha walks sae neat, throws out her toes,
An' minches as she past thee goes:
By such thou'rt hookit by the nose
For a' thy skill;
Thou'lt ne'er me blame, I'm sae abstruse
Thou'lt take thy will.

Thou tells, thou ance was fear'd thysel',
Nae wonder; for 'tis guilt mak's hell;
Thy conscience check'd, wi' sic a knell,
Did mak' thee shake,
For naething mair than sugh o' quill
O' duck or drake."

Thou tells, by times I travel far,

An' that I'm neither blate nor scaurMock not! let never guid frien's jar Wi' ane anither,

Thou'rt my full mark, baith keel an' tar, If not a brither.

Pray R-b, the rhymer, just nae mair,
An' o' your titles tak' a care;
Or else ye ken how ye shall fare,
For a' your cracks,

An' muckle-thought-o' rhyming ware
An' catching snacks.

An' if your mocks I more shall hear,
I, by my cavern deep, do swear,
Upon you vengeance I will rear;
Thou shalt lament
What thou hast publish'd, far an' near,
Me to affront.

With irony thou spak'st wi' glee, Which shews thy disrespect to me, Bids me repent, an' then may-be, I'll hae a stake;

I thank thee for thy wae-like e'e For fashion's sake.

For o' my hopes I canna boast;
For sure an' certain I am lost;
The sure decree 'gainst me is past,
An' canna alter
May-be thou'lt ken't, unto thy cost,
If I thee halter.

Thy chance is little mair than mine; Thou mock'st at every thing divine; Thy rhetorick has made thee shine, To please the wicked; But ere thou round the corner twine, I'll hae thee nicked.]

Thou was a noble fittie-lan',
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun,
In guid March-weather,

Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',
For days thegither.

Thou never braindg't, and fech't, an' fliskit,
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,
Wi' pith and pow'r,

'Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket,
An' slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labour back to keep,

I gied thy cog a wee-bit heap

Aboon the timmer;

I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep
For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit ;
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;
Thou never lap, and stent', and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;

But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a';
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa,

That thou hast nurst:
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa,
The vera warst.

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
An' wi' the weary warl' fought!
An' monie an anxious day, I thought
We wad be beat!

Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
Wi' something yet.

And think na, my auld, trusty servan',
That now perhaps thou's less deservin',
An' thy auld days may end in starvin',
For my last fou,

A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane
Laid by for you.

We've worn to crazy years thegither ;
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether,

To some hain'd rig, Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, Wi' sma' fatigue.

[The haggis is a dish peculiar to Scotland, though supposed to be of French extraction. It is composed of minced offal of mutton, mixed with oat-meal and suet, and boiled in a sheep's stomach. When made in Elspa's way, with "a curn o' spice" (see the Gentle Shepherd) it is an agreeable, albeit a somewhat heavy, dish, always providing that no horror be felt at the idea of its preparation. The Edinburgh Literary Journal, 1829, makes the following statement:" About sixteen years ago, there resided at Mauchline a Mr. Robert Morrison, cabinet-maker. He was a great

"It was the token of a true knight in chivalry to be kind to his charger: the Kyle farmer | shares in the same feeling, for he is gentle, both! in word and deed, to his 'Auld Mare.' He recollects when she bore him triumphantly home when mellow, from markets and other meetings: how she ploughed the stiffest land and faced the steepest brae, and moreover brought home his bonnie bride

'An' sweet and gracefa' she did ride,
Wi maiden air!

Kyle-Stewart I could hae bragged wide,
For sic a pair.''

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

["Burns must have been an exceedingly good and kind-hearted being; for whenever he has occasion to address or mention any subordinate being, however mean, even a mouse or a flower, then there is a gentle pathos in his language that awakens the finest feelings of the heart." THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.]

To a Haggis.*

FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin', rich!

Then horn for horn they stretch an' strive,
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
'Till all their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld guid man, maist like to rive,
Bethankit hums.

crony of Burns, and it was in Mr. Morrison's house that the poet usually spent the 'mids o' the day' on Sunday. It was in this house that he wrote his celebrated Address to a Hoggis, after partaking liberally of that dish, as prepared by Mrs. Morrison." The Ettrick Shepherd has, on the contrary, averred that the poem was written in the house of Mr. Andrew Bruce, Castle Hill, Edinburgh, after in like manner partaking of the dish. It was first published in the Scots Magazine for January 1787.-ROBERT CHAMBERS.]

Is there that o'er his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak' her spew

Wi' perfect sconner,

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;

Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r,

Gie her a Haggis !

[The joyous nationality of this poem is but part of its merit. The "Haggis" forms one of the most savoury morsels in Scottish cookery. Burns, it is said, once uttered something like this poem in prose, when called on to say grace where a Haggis was on the board, and the applause which he obtained induced him to work it into verse. I heard, when a boy, the Address to the Haggis recited in a boon of reapers: an old highland bandsman listened with great attention; when these lines were repeated,

Clap in his wailie nieve a blade

He'll mak it whissle,"

he could no longer contain himself, but cried out, "Its the God's truth! To make a steel blade whistle requires a man! There was Donald Bane, when sixty-six years old, and no sae souple as he had been, was called on to fight for the honour o' the broad sword, with a foreign braggart. 'Donald-said his chief-d'ye think y're yauld enough for him?' with that he whipt out his claymore-a broad bright bit o' steel it

the

was-and made it whistle in the air like a
hunting hawk; weel! away he gaed up
Lawn-market to the strife, and ye'll na hinder
some ane frae saying Ah Donald's failed; I
doubt he'll no do!' When Donald heard this,
I wish ye had seen but his e'e-it glented fire
he lap right up into the air, and seizing a lamp-
iron far aboon other men's reach, hung by ae
hand for a moment, sprang proudly down, and
cried, 'She'll do yet!""

• Another version of the last stanza reads thus:-
Ye Powers wha gie us a' that's gude,
Still bless auld Caledonia's brood

Wi' great John Barleycorn's heart's blude,

The component parts of a Haggis are sometimes inquired anxiously into by men who love the pleasures of the table.-" Pray, sir," said a man of the south, "why do you boil it in a sheep's bag; and, above all, what is it made of?"-"Sir," answered a man of the north,

we boil it in a sheep's bag because such was the primitive way: it was invented, sir, before linen was thought of: and as for what it is made of, I dare not trust myself with tellingI can never name all the savoury items without tears; and surely you would not wish me to expose myself in a public company?" A Haggis, in the witty and whimsical "Noctes Ambrosiana" of Blackwood, bursts when cut up over plate and table, floods the apartment, to the horror of the Ettrick Shepherd, and the astonishment of Christopher North. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.]

It is recorded by Galt in his "Autobiography," that he sat next to the Duke of York at an anniversary dinner in honour of the Poet, when his Royal Highness was attracted by the savoury steam proceeding from a Scotch Haggis. It was evidently ill made; the bag was dingy, -altogether an ugly, flabby, desultory, trencher66 Pray what dish is that?" ful of fat things. inquired the Duke. "A boiled pair of bagpipes!" gravely replied Galt, who dearly relished a joke, in his own quiet humourous way. The dish was immediately ordered to be removed.-C.

A Winter Night.t

"Poor naked wretches, wheresoc'er you are,
That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm!
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness defend you,
From seasons such as these?"

SHAKESPEARE.

WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;
When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r

Far south the lift,
Dim-dark'ning through the flaky show'r,
Or whirling drift:

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked,
Wild-eddying swirl,

Or thro' the mining outlet bocked,

Down headlong hurl. List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle

O' winter war, And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle, Beneath a scaur.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing,
That, in the merry months o' spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o' thee?

Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, An' close thy e'e?

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd,
Lone from your savage homes exil'd,
The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd,
My heart forgets,

While pitiless the tempest wild

Sore on you beats.

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign,
Dark muff'd, view'd the dreary plain;
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
Rose in my soul,

When on my ear this plaintive strain,

Slow, solemn, stole :

"Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost!
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows!
Not all your rage, as now united, shows
More hard unkindness, unrelenting,
Vengeful malice unrepenting, [bestows.
Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man
See stern oppression's iron grip,

Or mad ambition's gory hand,
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,

Woe, want, and murder o'er a land!
Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale,
Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,
How pamper'd luxury, flatt'ry by her side,
The parasite empoisoning her ear,

With all the servile wretches in the rear,
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide;
And the simple rustic hind,

eyes

Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, A creature of another kind,

Some coarser substance unrefin'd, Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. Where, where is love's fond, tender throe, With lordly honour's lofty brow,

The pow'rs you proudly own?

Is there, beneath love's noble name, Can harbour, dark the selfish aim, To bless himself alone! Mark maiden-innocence a prey To love-pretending snares, This boasted honour turns away, Shunning soft pity's rising sway, Regardless of the tears and unavailing pray'rs! Perhaps, this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest, She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking

blast!

Oh ye! who sunk, in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown! Ill-satisfied keen nature's clam'rous call,

Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap! Think on the dungeon's grim confine, Where guilt and poor misfortune pine! Guilt, erring man, relenting view! But shall thy legal rage pursue The wretch, already crushed low By cruel fortune's undeserved blow? Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!"

I heard nae mair, for chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery snaw,

And hail'd the morning with a cheer-
A cottage-rousing craw.

But deep this truth impress'd my mindThrough all his works abroad,

The heart benevolent and kind

The most resembles God.

"The beginning of this poem gives a capital Then description of the rising of a storm. again appears the kind feeling heart for suffering humanity."-THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

my

This

Neither the subjects of his poems, nor his manner of handling them, allow us long to forget their author. On the basis of his human character he has reared a poetic one, which, with more or less distinctness, presents itself to view in almost every part of his earlier, and, in estimation, his most valuable, verses. poetic fabric, dug out of the quarry of genuine humanity, is airy and spiritual; and though the materials in some parts are coarse, and the disposition is often fantastic and irregular, yet the whole is agreeable and strikingly attractive." -WORDSWORTH.

"The voice which the Poet hears, amid the those which the Poet claims as his own in the winter storm, utters sentiments in unison with introduction. He prepares us for sympathising in the sufferings of the human race, by the description of the rivulets choked with snow; the cattle crowding to the shelter of some precipitous bank, and the birds, which cheered him with their songs in summer, sitting chittering | among the leafling trees."-CUNNINGHAM.

"How touching is it, amid the glooms of personal misery that broods over and around

him; yet, amid the storm, he thinks of the cattle, the silly sheep, and the wee harmless burdies!' yes, the tenant of the mean lowly hut whole volume of homilies on mercy; for it is has the heart to pity all these. This is worth a the voice of mercy itself. Burns lives in sym- | pathy: his soul rushes forth into all the realms of being nothing that has existence can be indifferent to him."-CARLISLE.