"In his flesh there's a famine,"

A starv'd reptile cries;
"An' his heart is rank poison,"
Another replies.

ON CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE.

[This was a festive sally: it is said that Grose, who was very fat, though he joined in the laugh, did not relish it.]

THE devil got notice that Grose was a-dying,

So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying;

But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay moaning,
And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning,
Astonish'd confounded! cry'd Satan, "By
I'll want him, ere I take such a damnable load!"

IMPROMPTU, TO MISS AINSLIE.

[These lines were occasioned by a sermon on sin, to which the poet and Miss Ainslie of Berrywell had listened, during his visit to the border.]

FAIR maid, you need not take the hint,

Nor idle texts pursue:

'Twas guilty sinners that he meant,

Not angels such as you!

THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON.

[One rough, cold day, Burns listened to a sermon, so little to his liking, in the kirk of Lamington, in Clydesdale, that he left this protest on the seat where he sat.]

As cauld a wind as ever blew,
As caulder kirk, an in't but few;
As cauld a minister's e'er spak,
Ye'se a' be het ere I come back.

THE LEAGUE AND COVENANT.

[In answer to a gentleman, who called the solemn League and Covenant ridiculous and fanatical.]

THE solemn League and Covenant

Cost Scotland blood-cost Scotland tears;

But it seal'd freedom's sacred cause

If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers.

WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS,

IN THE INN AT MOFFATT.

[A friend asked the poet why God made Miss Davies so little, and a lady who was with her, so large: before the ladies, who had just passed the window, were out of sight, the following answer was recorded on a pane of glass.]

ASK why God made the gem so small,

And why so huge the granite?
Because God meant mankind should set
The higher value on it.

SPOKEN, ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE.

[Burns took no pleasure in the name of gauger: the situation was unworthy of him, and he seldom hesitated to say so.]

SEARCHING auld wives' barrels,

Och-hon! the day!

That clarty barm should stain my laurels;

But-what'll ye say !

These movin' things ca'd wives and weans

Wad move the very hearts o' stanes!

LINES ON MRS. KEMBLE.

[The poet wrote these lines in Mrs. Riddel's box in the Dumfries Theatre, in the wintes of 1794: he was much moved by Mrs. Kemble's noble and pathetic acting."]

KEMBLE, thou cur'st my unbelief

Of Moses and his rod;

At Yarico's sweet notes of grief

The rock with tears had flow'd.

TO MR. SYME.

[John Syme, of Ryedale, a rhymer, a wit, and a gentleman of education and intelligence, was, while Burns resided in Dumfries, his chief companion: he was bred to the law.]

No more of your guests, be they titled or not,
And cook'ry the first in the nation;
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit,
Is proof to all other temptation.

TO MR. SYME.

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER.

[The tavern where these lines were written was kept by a wandering mortal of the name of Smith; who, having visited in some capacity or other the Holy Land, put on his sign, "John Smith, from Jerusalem." He was commonly known by the name of Jerusalem John.]

O, HAD the malt thy strength of mind,

Or hops the flavour of thy wit,
"Twere drink for first of human kind,

A gift that e'en for Syme were fit.

Jerusalem Tavern, Dumfries.

A GRACE.

[This Grace was spoken at the table of Ryedale, where to the best cookery was added th

richest wine, as well as the rarest wit: Hyslop was a distiller.]

LORD, we thank and thee adore,

For temp'ral gifts we little merit;
At present we will ask no more,
Let William Hyslop give the spirit.

INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET.

[Written on a dinner-goblet by the hand of Burns. Syme, exasperated at having his set of crystal defaced, threw the goblet under the grate: it was taken up by his clerk, and it is still preserved as a curiosity.]

THERE'S death in the cup-sae beware!

Nay, more there is danger in touching;
But wha can avoid the fell snare?

The man and his wine's sae bewitching!

THE INVITATION.

[Burns had a happy knack in acknowledging civilities: these lines were written with a pencil on the paper in which Mrs. Hyslop, of Lochrutton, enclosed an invitation to dinner.]

THE King's most humble servant I,

Can scarcely spare a minute;
But I am yours at dinner-time,
Or else the devil's in it.

THE CREED OF POVERTY.

[When the commissioners of Excise told Burns that he was to act, and not to think; he took out his pencil and wrote "The Creed of Poverty."]

IN politics if thou would'st mix,

And mean thy fortunes be;

Bear this in mind-be deaf and blind;

Let great folks hear and see.

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S POCKET-BOOK.

[That Burns loved liberty and sympathized with those who were warring in its cause these lines, and hundreds more, sufficiently testify.]

GRANT me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give,
Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air,
Till slave and despot be but things which were.

THE PARSON'S LOOKS.

[Some sarcastic person said, in Burns's hearing, that there was falsehood in the Reverend Dr. Burnside's looks: the poet mused for a moment, and replied in lines which have less of truth than point.]

THAT there is falsehood in his looks

I must and will deny;

They say their master is a knave—

And sure they do not lie.

THE TOAD-EATER.

[This reproof was administered extempore to one of the guests at the table of Maxwell, of Terraughty, whose whole talk was of dukes with whom he had dined, and of earls with whom he had supped.]

WHAT of earls with whom you have supt,
And of dukes that you dined with yestreen?
Lord a louse, Sir, is still but a louse,
Though it crawl on the curl of a queen.

ON ROBERT RIDDEL.

[I copied these lines from a pane of glass in the Friars-Carse Hermitage, on which they had been traced with the diamond of Burns.]

To Riddel, much-lamented man,

This ivied cot was dear;

Reader, dost value matchless worth?
This ivied cot revere.

THE TOAST.

(Burns being called on for a song, by his brother volunteers, on a festive occasion, gave the following Toast.]

INSTEAD of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast—

Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost!—
That we lost, did I say? nay, by Heav'n, that we found;
For their fame it shall last while the world goes round.