Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlan tow,
Begins to jow an' croon;

Some swagger hame, the best they dow,
Some wait the afternoon.

At slaps the billies halt a blink,

Till lasses strip their shoon :

Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,

They're a' in famous tune

For crack that day.

How monie hearts this day converts,

O' sinners and o' Lasses!

Their hearts o' stane, gin night are gane,
As saft as ony flesh is.

There's some are fou o' love divine;

There's some are fou o' brandy;

An' monie jobs that day begin,

May end in Houghmagandie

Some ither day.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

O Prince, O chief of many throned pow'rs,
That led th' embattl'd Seraphim to war-
MILTON.

[Gilbert Burns gives the winter of 1784-85 as the date of this universally admired production. Referring to the last verse, Carlyle remarks,-"Burns even pities the very deil, without knowing, I am sure, that my uncle Toby had been beforehand there with him! He is the father of curses and lies,' said Dr. Slop, and is cursed and damned already.' 'I am sorry for it,' said my uncle Toby. A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility."]

O Thou, whatever title suit thee!
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,

Clos'd under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor, damned bodies bee;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
Ev'n to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; Far kend an' noted is thy name;

An' tho' yon lowan heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far;

An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roaran lion, a' holes an' corners tryin;

For prey,

Whyles, on the strong-wing'd Tempest flyin,

Tirlan the kirks;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my rev'rend Graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld, ruin'd castles, gray,

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,

Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my Graunie summon, To say her pray'rs, douse, honest woman! Aft 'yont the dyke she's heard you bumman, Wi' eerie drone;

Or, rustling, thro' the boortries coman,
Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi' sklentan light,

Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright,

Ayont the lough;

Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,

Wi' waving sugh.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick, quaick, Amang the springs,

Awa ye squatter'd like a drake,

On whistling wings.

Let Warlocks grim, an' wither'd Hags,
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked speed;

And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
Owre howcket dead.

Thence, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ; For Oh! the yellow treasure's taen

By witching skill;

An' dawtet, twal-pint Hawkie's gane

As yell's the Bill.

Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse, On Young-Guidmen, fond, keen an' croose; When the best wark-lume i' the house,

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,

An' float the jinglan icy boord,

Then, Water-kelpies haunt the foord,

By your direction,

An' nighted Trav❜llers are allur'd

To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is: The bleezan, curst, mischievous monkies Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise.

When MASONS' mystic word an' grip,
In storms an' tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat, your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!

The youngest Brother ye wad whip

Aff straught to H—ll.

Lang syne, in EDEN'S bonie yard,
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,
An' all the Soul of Love they shar'd,
The raptur'd hour,

Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird,
In shady bow'r.*

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog! Ye cam to Paradise incog,

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue,

(Black be your fa'!)

An' gied the infant warld a shog,

'Maist ruin'd a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz
Wi' reeket duds, an' reestet gizz,

Ye did present your smoutie phiz,

'Mang better folk,

An' sklented on the man of Uzz,

Your spitefu' joke?

An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl

Was warst ava?

* In early MS. copies this verse reads thus:

"Lang syne in Eden's happy scene,
When strappin Adam's days were green,
And Eve was like my bonie Jean,

But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,

Sin' that day* MICHAEL did you pierce,
Down to this time,

Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse,

In Prose or Rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkan,
A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin,

Some luckless hour will send him linkan,

To your black pit ;

But faith! he'll turn a corner jinkan,

An' cheat you yet.

But fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!
Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken-

Still hae a stake—

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

Ev'n for your sake!

THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE,

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE.

[The poet includes this in the list of his early efforts, before the age of 23. Gilbert tells us, that it had its origin in a real incident at Lochlea, his brother's pet-yowe having narrowly escaped strangling by the timely arrival of her master, who was attracted to the scene by Hughoc's comical consternation. The Elegy seems to be the work of a later period. Carlyle classes "Poor Mailie" along with the "Address to a Mouse" and "The Farmer's Auld Mare as fine examples of the tender sportfulness of the poet, and he thinks the first is his happiest effort of that kind. "In these pieces," he adds, "there is a humour as fine as that of Sterne, and yet altogether different, original, peculiar,-in one word, the humour of Burns."]

As MAILIE, an' her lambs thegither,
Was ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch:

Vide Milton, Book 6th.-(R. B. 1786.)