Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er; Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous à core, And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn.

Six bottles a piece had well wore out the night, When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did.

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage; A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine! He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; But who can with fate and quart bumpers contend? Though fate said a hero should perish in light; So uprose bright Phœbus-and down fell the knight.

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink:"Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink! "But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, "Come one bottle more-and have at the sublime!

"Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce,

"Shall heroes and patriots ever produce;

"So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; "The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!"

SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

A BROTHER POET."

AULD NIBOR,

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor,
For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter;
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter,
Ye speak sae fair;

For my poor, silly, rhymin clatter,

Some less maun sair.

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;
Lang may your elbuck jink an' diddle,

Tae cheer

you thro' the weary widdle

O' war❜ly cares,

Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle

Your auld grey hairs.

But, DAVIE, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ;
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;

An' gif it's sae, ye sud-be licket

Until ye fyke;

Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit,

Be hain't wha like.

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink,

Rivin the words tae gar them clink;

* This is prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, published at Kilmarnock, 1789, and has not before appeared in our Author's printed poems.

E.

Whiles daez't wi' love, whiles, daez't wi' drink,
Wi' jads or masons;

An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think
Braw sober lessons.

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, Commen' me to the Bardie clan

Except it be some idle plan

O' rhymin clink,

The devil-hact, that I sud ban,

They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin, Nae cares tae gie us joy or grievin:

But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

An' while ought's there,

Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin,
An' fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure, My chief, amaist my only pleasure, At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie!

Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure,
She's seldom lazy.

Haud tae the Muse, my dainty Davie; The warl' may play you monie a shavie ; But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, Tho' e'er sae poor,

Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie

Frae door tae door.

THE

GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE,

ΤΟ

ROBERT BURN S.

February, 1787.

My canty, witty, rhyming ploughman,

I hafflins doubt, it is na true man,

That

ye between the stilts were bred,

Wi' ploughmen school'd, wi' ploughmen fed.
I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge
Either frae grammar-school, or college.
Guid troth, your saul and body baith
War' better fed, I'd gie my aith,

Than theirs, who sup sour-milk and parritch,
An' bummil thro' the single caritch.
Whaever heard the ploughman speak,
Could tell gif Homer was a Greek?
He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel,
As get a single line of Virgil.

An' then sae slee ye crack your jokes
O' Willie P-t and Charlie F-x.
Our great men a' sae weel descrive,

An' how to gar the nation thrive,

Ane maist wad swear ye dwalt amang them.
An' as ye saw them, sae ye sang them.

But be ye ploughman, be ye peer,
Ye are a funny blade, I swear;
An' though the cauld I ill can bide,
Yet twenty miles, an' mair, I'd ride,
O'er moss, an' muir, an' never grumble,
Tho' my auld yad shou'd gae a stumble,
To crack a winter-night wi' thee,
An' hear thy sangs an' sonnets slee.
A guid saut herring, an' a cake
Wi' sic a chiel a feast wad make.
I'd rather scour your rumming yill,
Or eat o' cheese and bread my
fill,
Than wi' dull lairds on turtle dine,
An' ferlie at their wit and wine.
O, gif I kend but whare ye baide,
I'd send to you a marled plaid;
'Twad haud your shoulders warm and braw,
An' douse at kirk, or market shaw.
For south, as weel as north, my lad,
A' honest Scotsmen lo'e the maud.
Right wae that we're sae far frae ither;
Yet proud I am to ca' ye brither.

2

Your most obedt. E. S.

THE ANSWER.

GUIDWIFE,

I MIND it weel in early date,

When I was beardless, young and blate,