ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB*

TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY.

ONG life, my Lord, an' health be yours,
Unskaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors;
Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar,
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,

May twin auld Scotland o' a life
She likes-as lambkins like a knife.
Faith, you and Applecross were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight,
I doubt na'! they wad bid nae better
Than let them ance out owre the water;
Then up amang thae lakes and seas
They'll mak' what rules and laws they please;
Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin,
May set their Highland bluid a ranklin';
Some Washington again may head them,

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* These verses were communicated to the Scots Magazine for February, 1818, and the person who transmitted them enclosed the original in Burns' own hand. The MS. once belonged to his friend Rankine, and was addressed :"To the Right Honourable the Earl of Breadalbyne, President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23rd of May last, at the Shakspeare, Covent-Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five hundred Highlanders, who, as the society were informed by Mr. Mackenzie, of Applecross, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters, whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. M'Donald, of Glengarry, to the wilds of Canada in search of that fantastic thing-LIBERTY."

Or some Montgomery fearless lead them,
Till God knows what may be effected
When by such heads and hearts directed—
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to Patrician rights aspire!

Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile,
An' whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance,
To cowe the rebel generation,

An' save the honour o' the nation?
They an' be dd! what right hae they
To meat or sleep, or light o' day?
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them!

But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna' say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a' tender mercies,
An' tirl the hallions to the birses;

Yet while they're only poind't and herriet,
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit;
But smash them! crash them a' to spails!
An' rot the dyvors i' the jails!
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;
Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober!
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd!
An' if the wives an' dirty brats
E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts
Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas',

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Frightin' awa your deucks an' geese,
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An gar the tatter'd gypsies pack
Wi' a' their bastarts on their back!
Go on, my lord! I lang to meet you,
An' in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han' assign'd your seat
"Tween Herod's hip an' Polycrate,-
Or if you on your station tarrow
Between Almagro and Pizarro,
A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't;
-Your humble servant,

An' till ye come-

June 1, Anno Mundi 5790.

BEELZEBUB.

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60

TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY.

THE following lines conclude a letter from Burns to Mr. John Kennedy, dated Mossgiel, 3rd March, 1786.

OW Kennedy, if foot or horse

E'er bring you in by Mauchline Corss,
Lord man, there's lasses there wad force
A hermit's fancy,

And down the gate in faith they're worse

And mair unchancy.

But as I'm sayin' please step to Dow's
And taste sic gear as Johnnie brews,
Till some bit callan bring me news
That you are there,

And if we dinna had a bouze

Ise ne'er drink mair.

It's no I like to sit an' swallow,
Then like a swine to puke an' wallow,
But gie me just a true good fallow

Wi' right ingine,

And spunkie ance to make us mellow,
And then we'll shine.

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 no friendship I will troke

Nor cheap nor dear.

But if, as I'm informed weel,

Ye hate as ill's the vera De'il,

The flinty hearts that canna feel

Come Sir, here's tae you;

Hae there's my haun' I wiss you weel,

And gude be wi' you.

ON

THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ.*

OF ARNISTON, LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF

THE COURT OF SESSION.

ONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks

Shun the fierce storms among the shel-
tering rocks;

Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains;
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan;
The hollow caves return a sullen moan.

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves,
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly;
Where to the whistling blast and water's roar,
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.

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These verses have been printed from a copy in Burns' own hand. Mr. Allan Cunningham quotes a letter from the Poet to Advocate Hay, in which he says: "The enclosed poem was written in consequence of your suggestion last time I had the pleasure of seeing you. It cost me an hour or two of next morning's sleep, but did not please me, so it laid by, an ill-digested effort, till the other day I gave it a critic brush. These kinds of subjects are much hackneyed, and besides, the wailings of the rhyming tribe over the ashes of the great are cursedly suspicious, and out of all character