INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET.

[Written on a dinner-goblet by the hand of Burns. Syme, exasperated at having his set of crystal defaced, threw the goblet under the grate: it was taken up by his clerk, and it is still preserved as a curiosity.]

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!

XLII.

THE INVITATION.

[Burns had a happy knack in acknowledging civilities. These lines were written with a pencil on the paper in which Mrs. Hyslop, of Lochrutton, enclosed an invitation to dinner.]

The King's most humble servant I, Can scarcely spare a minute; But I am yours at dinner-time, Or else the devil's in it.

XLIII.

THE CREED OF POVERTY.

[When the commissioners of Excise told Burns that he was to act, and not to think; he took out his pencil and wrote "The Creed of Poverty."]

In politics if thou would'st mix, And mean thy fortunes be; Bear this in mind--be deaf and blind; Let great folks hear and see.

XLIV.

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S POCKET-BOOK.

[That Burns loved liberty and sympathized with those who were warring in its cause, these lines, and hundreds more, sufficiently testify.]

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live To see the miscreants feel the pains they give, Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air, Till slave and despot be but things which were.

XLV.

THE PARSON'S LOOKS.

[Some sarcastic person said, in Burns's hearing, that there was falsehood in the Reverend Dr. Burnside's looks: the poet mused for a moment, and replied in lines which have less of truth than point.]

That there is falsehood in his looks I must and will deny; They say their master is a knave-- And sure they do not lie.

XLVI.

THE TOAD-EATER.

[This reproof was administered extempore to one of the guests at the table of Maxwell, of Terraughty, whose whole talk was of Dukes with whom he had dined, and of earls with whom he had supped.]

What of earls with whom you have supt, And of dukes that you dined with yestreen?

Lord! a louse, Sir, is still but a louse, Though it crawl on the curl of a queen.

XLVII.

ON ROBERT RIDDEL.

[I copied these lines from a pane of gla.s.s in the Friars-Ca.r.s.e Hermitage, on which they had been traced with the diamond of Burns.]

To Riddel, much-lamented man, This ivied cot was dear; Reader, dost value matchless worth?

This ivied cot revere.