Has laid your rocky bosom bare

Has stripped the cleeding o' your braes? Was it the bitter eastern blast,

That scatters blight in early spring? Or was't the wil'fire scorched their boughs, Or canker-worm wi' secret sting?'

'Nae eastlin blast,' the sprite replied; 'It blew na here sae fierce and fell, And on my dry and halesome banks Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell : Man! cruel man!' the genius sighed— As through the cliffs he sank him down— 'The worm that gnawed my bonie trees, That reptile wears a ducal crown.'

EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN.

HAIL, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie !
Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly
To every fiddling, rhyming billie,

We never heed,

But take it like the unback'd filly,

Proud o' her speed.

When idly goavan whyles we saunter,
Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter
Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter,
Some black bog-hole,
Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter
We're forced to thole.

Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle!
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O' this wild warl',

Until you on a crummock driddle

A gray-hair'd carl.

Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune, And screw your temper-pins aboon

A fifth or mair,

The melancholious, lazie croon,

O' cankrie care.

May still your life from day to day
Nae 'lente largo' in the play,

But 'allegretto forte' gay

Harmonious flow

A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey

Encore! Bravo!

A blessing on the cheery gang
Wha dearly like a jig or sang,
An' never think o' right an' wrang
By square an' rule,

But as the clegs o' feeling stang

Are wise or fool.

My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,
Wha count on poortith as disgrace-

Their tuneless hearts!

May fire-side discords jar a base

To a' their parts!

But come, your hand, my careless brither,
I' th' ither warl' if there's anither,
An' that there is I've little swither

About the matter;

We cheek for chow shall jog thegither,
I'se ne'er bid better.

We've faults and failings-granted clearly,
We're frail backsliding mortals merely,
Eve's bonie squad priests wyte them sheerly
For our grand fa' ;

But still, but still, I like them dearly—

God bless them a'!

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers,
The witching cursed delicious blinkers

2.

Hae put me hyte,

And gart me weet my waukrife winkers,

Wi' girnan spite.

But by yon moon !—and that's high swearin'—

An'

every star within my hearin'!

An' by her een wha was a dear ane!

I'll ne'er forget;

I hope to gie the jads a clearin'

In fair play yet.

My loss I mourn, but not repent it,
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it,
Ance to the Indies I were wonted,

Some cantraip hour,
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted,
Then, vive l'amour!

C

Faites mes baissemains respectueuse,
To sentimental sister Susie,

An' honest Lucky; no to roose you,

Ye may be proud,

That sic a couple fate allows ye

To grace your blood.

Nae mair at present can I measure,

An' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae treasure;
But when in Ayr, some half hour's leisure,
Be't light, be't dark,

Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure

To call at Park.

Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786.

ROBERT BURNS.

EPITAPH ON THE POET'S DAUGHTER.

HERE lies a rose, a budding rose,

Blasted before its bloom;

Whose innocence did sweets disclose
Beyond that flower's perfume.
To those who for her loss are grieved,
This consolation's given-

She's from a world of woe relieved,
And blooms a rose in Heaven.

EPITAPH ON GABRIEL RICHARDSON.

HERE Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct,

And empty all his barrels :

He's blest-if, as he brew'd, he drink
In upright honest morals.

ON STIRLING.

HERE Stuarts once in glory reign'd,
And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd;
But now unroof'd their palace stands,
Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands ;
The injured Stuart line is gone,

A race outlandish fills their throne.
An idiot race to honour lost,

Who know them best, despise them most.

LINES

ON BEING TOLD THAT THE ABOVE VERSES
WOULD AFFECT HIS PROSPECTS.

RASH mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name
Shall no longer appear in the records of fame;
Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like

the Bible,

Says the more 'tis a truth, sir, the more 'tis a libel?

THE REPLY.

LIKE Esop's lion, Burns says, sore I feel
All others scorn-but damn that ass's heel.