Daddy Auld (229), Daddy Auld, There's a tod in the fauld,

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted

rest.

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait

The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn; I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.

The Kirk's Alarm.

A SATIRE. (220)

ORTHODOX, Orthodox,

Wha believe in John Knox,

Let me sound an alarm to your conscience;

There's a heretic blast

Has been blawn in the wast,

That what is no sense must be nonsense.

Dr. Mac (221), Dr. Mac,

You should stretch on a rack,
To strike evil doers wi' terror ;
To join faith and sense
Upon ony pretence,

Is heretic, damnable error.

Town of Ayr (222), town of Ayr,
It was mad, I declare,

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing;
Provost John (223) is still deaf
To the church's relief,

And orator Bob (224) is its ruin.

D'rymple mild (225), D'rymple mild,
Tho' your heart's like a child,
And your life like the new-driven snaw,
Yet that winna save ye,
Auld Satan must have ye,
For preaching that three's ane and twa.

Rumble John (226), Rumble John,
Mount the steps wi' a groan,
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd;
Then lug out your ladle,
Deal brimstone like adle,
And roar every note of the damn'd.

Simper James (227), Simper James,
Leave the fair Killie dames,
There's a holier chase in your view;
I'll lay on your head,

That the pack ye'll soon lead,
For puppies like you, there's but few.
Singet Sawney (228), Singet Sawney,
Are ye huirding the penny,
Unconscious what evil await;

Wi, a jump, yell, and howl,
Alarm every soul,

For the foul thief is just at your gate.

Though ye do na skaith,
Ye'll be in at the death,
And if ye canna bite, ye may bark.

Davie Bluster (231), Davie Bluster,
If for a saint ye do muster,
The corps is no nice of recruits;

Yet to worth let's be just.
Royal blood ye might boast,
If the ass was the king of the brutes.
Jamy Goose (232), Jamy Goose,
Ye ha'e made but toom roose,
In hunting the wicked lieutenant;
But the Doctor's your mark,
For the L-d's haly ark;

He has cooper'd and cawt a wrong pin in't.

Poet Willie (233), Poet Willie,

Gie the Doctor a volley,

Wi' your Liberty's Chain and your wit;
O'er Pegasus' side

Ye ne'er laid a stride,

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he *

Andro Gouk (234), Andro Gouk,
Ye may slander the book,

And the book not the waur, let me tell ye;
Ye are rich, and look big,
But lay by hat and wig,
And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value,

Barr Steenie (235), Barr Steenie,
What mean ye, what mean ye?
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter,
Ye may hae some pretence
To havins and sense,
Wi' people wha ken ye know better.

Irvine side (236), Irvine side,
Wi' your turkey-cock pride,
Of manhood but sma' is your share;
Ye've the figure, 'tis true,
Even your faes will allow,
And your friends they dare grant you nae
mair.

Muirland Jock (237), Muirland Jock,
When the Lord makes a rock

To crush Common Sense for her sins,
If ill manners were wit,
There's no mortal so fit

To confound the poor Doctor at ance.

Holy Will (238), Holy Will,
There was wit i' your skull,

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor;
The timmer is scant,

When ye're ta'en for a saunt,
Wha should swing in a rape for an hour,

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, Seize your spir'tual guns, Ammunition you never can need;

Your hearts are the stuff, Will be powther enough, And your skulls are storehouses o' lead.

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, Wi' your priest-skelping turns, Why desert ye your auld native shire? Your muse is a gipsie:

E'en though she were tipsie, She could ca' us nae waur than we are.

To Dr. Blarklork,

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER.

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! (239)
And never drink be near his drouth!

He tauld mysel by word o' mouth,

He'd tak my letter;

I lippen'd to the chield in trouth,
And bade (240) 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.

But what d'ye think, my trusty fier,
I'm turned a gauger-Peace be here!
Parnassian queans, 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
’Alang sous 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 need na 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, take 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 make a happy fire-side clime

To weans and wife,

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

My compliments to sister Beckie; Aud 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.

Delia. (241)

FAIR the face of orient day,
Fair the tints of op'ning rose;
But fairer still my Delia dawns,

More lovely far her beauty shows.
Sweet the lark's wild warbled lay,

Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; But, Delia, more delightful still, Steal thine accents on mine car. The flower-enamoured busy bee, The rosy banquet loves to sip; Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip. But, Delia, on thy balmy lips.

Let me, no vagrant insect, rove; Oh, let me steal one liquid kiss, For, oh my soul is parched with love.

Sketch-Jew-rar's Day.

TO MRS DUNLOP.. (242)

THIS day, Time winds th' exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonth's length again:
I see the old, bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpair'd machine,
To wheel the equal, full routine.

The absent lover, minor heir,
In vain assail him with their prayer;
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's (243) with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fare Rachel's (244) care to-day,
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares a minute borrow-
-That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-
And join with me a-moralizing:
This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver?
"Another year is gone for ever.'
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
"The passing moment's all we rest on!"
Rest on-for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may-a few years must-
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes-all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of Nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skics,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
Ilang matters of eternal weight:
That future life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as misery's woeful night,
Since, then, my honour'd, first of friends,
On this poor being all depends.
Let us th' important now employ,
And live as those who never die.

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd,
Witness that filial circle round,
(A sight, life's sorrows to repulse,
A sight, pale envy to convulse,)
Others now claim your chief regard;
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

Prologue,

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, ON

NEW-YEAR'S-DAY EVENING. [1790]

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 ye, Not for to preach, but tell his simple story: The 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;

And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, He bade me on you press this one word"think!"

Ye sprightly youths quite flushed with hope and spirit,

Who think to storm the world by dint of merit,

To you the dotard has a deal to say,

In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way; He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle,

That the first blow is ever half the battle; That tho' some by the skirt may try to

snatch him,

Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him, That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, You may do miracles by perseverving.

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care! To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow,

And humbly begs you'll mind the important Now!

To crown your happiness he asks your leave, And offers bliss to give and to receive.

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, With grateful pride we own your many

favours;

And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.

Prologue,

FOR MR. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT NIGHT,

DUMFRIES.

WHAT needs this din about the town o' Lon'on,

How this new play and that new sang is comin' ?

Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted? Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when imported?

Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame? For comedy abroad he needna toil,

A fool and knave are plants of every soil; Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece To gather matter for a serious piece;