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 Phoebus-and down fell the knight.

Next uprose our bard, like a prophet in drink;Craigdarrock, 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!'

FRAGMENT,

Inscribed to the Right Hon. C. I. Fox.

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite; How virtue and vice blend their black and their

white;

How genius, the' illustrious father of fiction, Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction

I sing: If these mortals, the critics, should bustle, I care not, not I, let the critics go whistle.

But now for a Patron, whose name and whose

glory

At once may illustrate and honour my story.

lucky hits;

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits; Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere [strong, With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong; With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right; A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses, For using thy name offers fifty excuses.

Good L-d,what is man! for as simple he looks, Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks: With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil,

All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. On his one ruling passion sir Pope hugely labours, That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours:

Mankind are his show-box-a friend, would you know him?

Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will show him.

What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd

him;

For, spite of his fine theoretic positions,

Mankind is a science defies definitions.

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, And think human nature they truly describe; Have you found this, or t' other, there's more in the wind,

As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find.
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan,
In the make of the wonderful creature, call'd Man,

No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, Nor even two different shades of the same, Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, Possessing the one shall imply you've the other.

TO DR. BLACKLOCK.

Ellisland, 21st Oct. 1789.

Wow, but

your

letter made me vauntie!

And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie?
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie

Wad bring ye to:

Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye,
And then ye'll do.

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south!
And never drink be near his drouth!
He tald mysel by word o' mouth,

He'd tak my letter;

I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth,

And bade nae better.

But aiblins honest Master Heron
Had at the time some dainty fair one,

To ware his theologic care on,

And holy study;

And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on,

E'en tried the body '.

Mr. Heron, author of the History of Scotland, and of various other works.

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier,
I'm turn'd a gauger-Peace be here!
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear

Ye'll now disdain me,

And then my fifty pounds a year

Will little gain me.

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies,
Wha by Castalia's wimplin streamies,
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,
Ye ken, ye ken,

That strang necessity supreme is

’Mang sons o men.

I hae a wife and twa wee laddies,
They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies;
Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is,
I needna vaunt,

But I'll sned besoms-thraw saugh woodies,
Before they want.

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care!
I'm weary sick o't late and air!

Not but I hae a richer share

Than mony ithers;

But why should ae man better fare,

And a' men brithers?

Come, Firm Resolve, tak thou the van,
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man!

And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan
A lady fair;

Wha does the utmost that he can,

Will whyles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme,
(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time),
To mak a happy fire-side clime

To weans and wife,

That's the true pathos and sublime
Of human life.

My compliments to sister Beckie;
And eke the same to honest Lucky,
I wat she is a dainty chuckie

As e'er tread clay!

And gratefully, my guid auld cockie,

I'm yours for aye.

ROBERT BURNS.

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, ELLISLAND, ON NEW-
YEAR'S-DAY EVENING.

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city
That queens it o'er our taste the more's the pity;
Tho', by the bye, abroad why will you roam?
Good sense and taste are natives here at home:
But not for panegyric I appear,

I come to wish you all a good new-year!
Old Father Time deputes me here before
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story:

The

ye,

sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say, "You're one year older this important day," If wiser too--he hinted some suggestion, But'twould be rude, you know,to ask the question;