THE TOAST.

FILL me with the rosy wine,
Call a toast, a toast divine;
Give the Poet's darling flame,
Lovely Jessy be the name;
Then thou mayest freely boast,
Thou hast given a peerless toast.

THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON.

As cauld a wind as ever blew,
A caulder kirk, and in't but few;
A caulder preacher never spak ;
Ye'se a' be het ere I come back.

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF

OF ONE OF MISS HANNAH MORE'S WORKS, WHICH A LADY ·· HAD GIVEN HIM.

THOU flattering mark of friendship kind,
Still may thy pages call to mind

The dear, the beauteous donor :
Though sweetly female every part,
Yet such a head, and more ——

-the heart

Does both the sexes honour.

She show'd her taste refined and just
When she selected thee,

Yet deviating own I must,

For so approving me.

But kind still I'll mind still

The giver in the gift;

I'll bless her and wiss her

A Friend aboon the lift.

IO

ON THE DEATH OF A LAP-DOG,

NAMED ECHO.

IN wood and wild, ye warbling throng,
Your heavy loss deplore;

Now half-extinct your powers of song,
Sweet Echo is no more.

Ye jarring, screeching things around,
Scream your discordant joys;
Now half your din of tuneless sound
With Echo silent lies.

LINES WRITTEN AT LOUDON MANSE.

THE night was still, and o'er the hill
The moon shone on the castle wa';
The mavis sang, while dew-drops hang
Around her, on the castle wa'.

Sae merrily they danced the ring,
Frae eenin' till the cock did craw;
And aye the o'erword o' the spring
Was Irvine's bairns are bonnie a'.

THE SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVENANT.

THE Solemn League and Covenant

Now brings a smile, now brings a tear;

But sacred Freedom, too, was theirs:

If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneer.

INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET.

WRITTEN IN THE HOUSE OF MR. SYME.

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 BOOK-WORMS.

THROUGH and through the inspired leaves,
Ye maggots, make your windings;
But, oh respect his lordship's taste,
And spare his golden bindings.

ON ROBERT RIDDELL.

To Riddel, much-lamented man,
This ivied cot was dear;

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

FRAGMENT.

Now health forsakes that angel face,
Nae mair my Dearie smiles;
Pale sickness withers ilka grace,
And a' my hopes beguiles.
The cruel powers reject the prayer
I hourly mak' for thee;

Ye heavens, how great is my despair,
How can I see him dee!

[THE LOYAL NATIVES' VERSES.

YE sons of sedition, give ear to my song,

Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell pervade every throng, With Cracken the attorney, and Mundell the quack, Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack.]

These verses were handed over the table to Burns at a convivial meeting, and he endorsed the subjoined reply:

BURNS-EXTEMPORE.

YE true 'Loyal Natives,' attend to my song,
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long;
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt;
But where is your shield from the darts of contempt?

REMORSE.

Or all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,
Beyond comparison the worst are those

That to our folly or our guilt we owe.
In every other circumstance, the mind

Has this to say 'It was no deed of mine;'
But when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added--' Blame thy foolish self!'
Or worser far, the pangs of keen Remorse,
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt—
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others,
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us,
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!
O burning hell! in all thy store of torments,
There's not a keener lash!

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,

Can reason down its agonizing throbs;
And, after proper purpose of amendment,

Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?
O, happy, happy, enviable man!

O glorious magnanimity of soul!

20

THE TOAD-EATER.

WHAT of earls with whom you have supt,
And of dukes that you dined with yestreen?
Lord! an insect 's an insect at most,
Though it crawl on the curls of a Queen.

EXTEMPORE.

ON PASSING A LADY'S CARRIAGE.

IF you rattle along like your mistress's tongue,
Your speed will out-rival the dart:

But, a fly for your load, you'll break down on the road,
If your stuff be as rotten 's her heart.

WHEN

EPIGRAM.

deceased, to the devil went down,

'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown; 'Thy fool's head,' quoth Satan, 'that crown shall wear never, I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever.'

LINES INSCRIBED ON A PLATTER.

My blessings on ye, honest wife,

I ne'er was here before :

Ye've wealth o' gear for spoon and knife-
Heart could not wish for more.

Heaven keep you clear of sturt and strife,
Till far ayont four score,

And while I toddle on thro' life,

I'll ne'er gae by your door!