Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk, Wha rate the wearer by the cloak, An' sklent on poverty their joke, Wi' bitter sneer, Wi' you nae friendship I will troke, Nor cheap nor dear.

But if, as I'm informed weel, Ye hate as ill's the very deil The flinty heart that canna feel-- Come, sir, here's to you!

Hae, there's my haun', I wiss you weel, An' gude be wi' you.

Robt. Burness.

Mossgiel, 3rd March, 1786.

To Mr. M'Adam, Of Craigen-Gillan

In answer to an obliging Letter he sent in the commencement of my poetic career.

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, I trow it made me proud; "See wha taks notice o' the bard!"

I lap and cried fu' loud.

Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, The senseless, gawky million; I'll c.o.c.k my nose abune them a', I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan!

'Twas n.o.ble, sir; 'twas like yourself', To grant your high protection: A great man's smile ye ken fu' well Is aye a blest infection.

Tho', by his banes wha in a tub Match'd Macedonian Sandy!

On my ain legs thro' dirt and dub, I independent stand aye,--

And when those legs to gude, warm kail, Wi' welcome canna bear me, A lee d.y.k.e-side, a sybow-tail, An' barley-scone shall cheer me.

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath O' mony flow'ry simmers!

An' bless your bonie la.s.ses baith, I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers!

An' G.o.d bless young Dunaskin's laird, The blossom of our gentry!

An' may he wear and auld man's beard, A credit to his country.

To A Louse, On Seeing One On A Lady's Bonnet, At Church

Ha! whaur ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie?

Your impudence protects you sairly; I canna say but ye strunt rarely, Owre gauze and lace; Tho', faith! I fear ye dine but sparely On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin, blast.i.t wonner, Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, How daur ye set your fit upon her-- Sae fine a lady?

Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner On some poor body.

Swith! in some beggar's haffet squattle; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle, Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, In shoals and nations; Whaur horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle Your thick plantations.

Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, Below the fatt'rels, snug and tight; Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right, Till ye've got on it-- The verra tapmost, tow'rin height O' Miss' bonnet.

My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out, As plump an' grey as ony groset: O for some rank, mercurial rozet, Or fell, red smeddum, I'd gie you sic a hearty dose o't, Wad dress your droddum.

I wad na been surpris'd to spy You on an auld wife's flainen toy; Or aiblins some bit dubbie boy, On's wyliecoat; But Miss' fine Lunardi! fye!

How daur ye do't?

O Jeany, dinna toss your head, An' set your beauties a' abread!

Ye little ken what cursed speed The blastie's makin: Thae winks an' finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takin.

O wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us!

It wad frae mony a blunder free us, An' foolish notion: What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, An' ev'n devotion!

Inscribed On A Work Of Hannah More's

Presented to the Author by a Lady.

Thou flatt'ring mark of friendship kind, Still may thy pages call to mind The dear, the beauteous donor; Tho' sweetly female ev'ry part, Yet such a head, and more the heart Does both the s.e.xes honour: She show'd her taste refin'd and just, When she selected thee; Yet deviating, own I must, For sae approving me: But kind still I'll mind still The giver in the gift; I'll bless her, an' wiss her A Friend aboon the lift.

Song, Composed In Spring

Tune--"Jockey's Grey Breeks."

Again rejoicing Nature sees Her robe a.s.sume its vernal hues: Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep'd in morning dews.

Chorus.--And maun I still on Menie doat, And bear the scorn that's in her e'e?

For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk, An' it winna let a body be.

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, In vain to me the vi'lets spring; In vain to me in glen or shaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

And maun I still, &c.

The merry ploughboy cheers his team, Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks; But life to me's a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks.

And maun I still, &c.

The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims, And ev'ry thing is blest but I.

And maun I still, &c.

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, And o'er the moorlands whistles shill: Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, I meet him on the dewy hill.

And maun I still, &c.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, And mounts and sings on flittering wings, A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

And maun I still, &c.

Come winter, with thine angry howl, And raging, bend the naked tree; Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, When nature all is sad like me!

And maun I still, &c.