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WHEN 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 by the Lord o' death and life,

I'll ne'er gae by your door!

ΤΟ

Your billet, sir, I grant receipt ;
Wi’ you I'll canter ony gate,
Though 'twere a trip to yon blue warl,
Whare birkies march on burning marl :
Then sir, God willing, I'll attend ye,
And to his goodness I commend ye.

R. BURNS.

ON MR. M'MURDO.

BLEST be M‘Murdo to his latest day,
No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray ;
No wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care,
Nor even sorrow add one silver hair !
Oh, may no son the father's honour stain,
Nor ever daughter give the mother pain.

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Fair maid, you need not take the hint,

Nor idle texts pursue :
'Twas guilty sinners that he meant-

Not angels such as you !

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IMPROMPTU.

How daur

ye ca’ me howlet-faced,
Ye ugly, glowering spectre?
My face was but the keekin' glass,

An' there ye saw your picture.

TO

FRIDAY first's the day appointed
By the Right Worshipful anointed,

To hold our grand procession ;
To get a blad o' Johnie's morals,
And taste a swatch o' Manson's barrels

l' the way of our profession.

The Master and the Brotherhood

Would a' be glad to see you ;
For me I would be mair than proud
To share the mercies wi' you.
If Death, then, wi' skaith, then,

Some mortal heart is hechtin',
Inform him, and storm him,
That Saturday you'll fecht him.

ROBERT BURNS. Mossgiel, An. M. 5790.

TO A PAINTER.
DEAR I'll gie ye some advice

You'll tak it no uncivil :
You shouldna paint at angels mair,

But try and paint the devil.
To paint an angel's kittle wark,

Wi' auld Nick there's less danger ;
You'll easy draw a weel-kent face,

But no sae weel a stranger.

LINES WRITTEN ON A TUMBLER.

YOU'RE welcome, Willie Stewart;

You're welcome, Willie Stewart ;
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May,

That's half sae welcome's thou art.

Come, bumpers high, express your joy,

The bowl we maun renew it ;
The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben,

To welcome Willie Stewart.

May foes be strang, and friends be slack,

Ilk action may he rue it;
May woman on him turn her back,

That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart !

ON MR. W'. CRUIKSHANK,

OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH.
HONEST Will to heaven is gane,

And mony shall lament him ;
His faults they a' in Latin lay,

In English nane e'er kent them.

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'Twas even—the dewy fields were green,

On every blade the pearls hang;
The Zephyrs wanton'd round the bean,

And bore its fragrant sweets alang :
In every glen the Mavis sang,

All nature listening seem'd the while :
Except where green-wood echoes rang,

Amang the braes o’ Ballochmyle.

With careless step I onward stray'd,

My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy,
When musing in a lonely glade,

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ;
Her look was like the morning's eye,

Her air like nature's vernal smile,
Perfection whisper'd passing by,

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!

Fair is the morn in flowery May,

And sweet is night in Autumn mild,
When roving thro' the garden gay,

Or wandering in a lonely wild :

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