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But late she flourish’d, rooted fast,

Fair in the summer morn:
Now, feebly bends she in the blast,

Unshelter'd and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,

Unscath'd by ruffian hand !
And from thee many a parent stem

Arise to deck our land.

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL,

STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR

LOCH-NESS.

MONG the heathy hills and ragged CA. woods

The roaring Fyers pours his mossy

floods; Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, Where, thro'a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. As high in air the bursting torrents flow, As deep recoiling surges foam below, Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends, And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends. Dim-seen, thro' rising mists and ceaseless show'rs, The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs. 10 Still, thro' the gap the struggling river toils, And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils,—

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SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

A BROTHER POET.*

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* This Epistle was prefixed to the edition of Sillar's Poems published at Kilmarnock in 1789. Burns' “First Epistle” to David Sillar produced the answer which will be found in the Appendix, and which he here calls Davie's

“auld-farrent, frien’ly letter.” The text is taken from the copy printed with other of Burns' pieces at Glasgow, in 1801, from the Poet's own manuscript.

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Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,
Commend me to the Bardie clan;
Except it be some idle plan

O'rhymin clink,
The devil-haet, that I sud ban,

They ever think.
Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin',
Nae care tae gie us joy or grievin’;
But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

An' while ought's there,
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin',

An' fash nae mair.
Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,
At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie !
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure,

She's seldom lazy. Haud tae the Muse, my dainty Davie: The warl may play you monie a shavie ; But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye,

Tho' e'er sae puir, Na, even tho limpin' wi’ the spavie

Frae door tae door.

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THE INVENTORY,

IN ANSWER TO THE USUAL MANDATE SENT BY A

SURVEYOR OF THE TAXES, REQUIRING A RETURN OF THE NUMBER OF HORSES,

SERVANTS, CARRIAGES, ETC. KEPT. This characteristic production was not included in any edition of Burns' works prepared by himself. It was printed in the Liverpool edition, and again in the Glasgow Collection in 1801, with many additions, and it is here given from a copy in the Poet's own writing. R ASEIR, as your mandate did request,

I send you here a faithfu’ list, O O'gudes an’ gear, an'a' my graith, Em To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith.

Imprimis then, for carriage cattle, I have four brutes o' gallant mettle, As ever drew afore a pettle; My han' afore's * a gude auld has-been, An' wight an’ wilfu’a’ his days been ; My han’ahin's † a weel gaun fillie, That aft has borne me hame frae Killie, An' your auld burrough mony a time, In days when riding was nae crimeBut ance whan in my wooing pride I like a blockhead boost to ride, The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, (Lord, pardon a'my sins an' that to !) * The fore-horse on the left-hand in the plough. R. B. + The hindmost on the left-hand in the plough. R. B. Kilmarnock. R. B.

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I play'd my fillie sic a shavie,
She's a' bedevild wi' the spavie.
My furr-ahin's * a wordy beast,
As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd, -
The fourth's, a Highland Donald hastie,
A damn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie.
Foreby a Cowt, o'Cowt's the wale,
As ever ran afore a tail ;
If he be spar'd to be a beast,
He'll draw me fifteen pun’ at least.-

Wheel carriages I ha’e but few,
Three carts, an' twa are feckly new ;
Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token,
Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken ;
I made a poker o’the spin'le,
An' my auld mother brunt the trin'le.
For men, I've three mischievous boys,
Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise ;
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t’other,
Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother.
I rule them as I ought, discreetly,
An’aften labour them completely.
An'ay on Sundays duly nightly,
I on the questions targe them tightly;
Till faith, wee Davock’s turn'd sae gleg,
Tho' scarcely langer than your leg,
He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling,
As fast as onie in the dwalling.–

I've nane in female servan' station, (Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation !) I ha'e nae wife; and that my bliss is, * The hindmost horse on the right-hand in the plough.

R. B.

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