ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE

"Tis not the surging billow's roar,
'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore ;
Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonie banks of Ayr.

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched Fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves!

Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those:
The bursting tears my heart declare-
Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr!

Address to the Toothache.1

My curse upon your venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang,
An' thro' my luga gies sic a twang,

Wi' gnawing vengeance,
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!

When fevers burn, or agues freeze us,
Rheumatics gnaw, or colics squeeze us,
Our neibor's sympathy can ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;

But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases-
They mock our groan.

Adown my beard the slavers trickle,
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,

1 Dated by Mr Scott Douglas in 1786-87, as it is found written on the fly-leaf of a copy of the Kilmarnock

a ear.

edition. Currie's text differs in one or two small points.

2 "kick" is Cunningham's reading.

While round the fire the giglets keckle,*
To see me loup,b

An', raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were in their doup!

е

In a' the numerous human dools, d
Ill hairsts, daft bargains, cutty stools,'
Or worthy frien's rak'd i' the mools,
Sad sight to see!

g_

The tricks o' knaves, or fashh o' fools,
Thou bear'st the gree1!

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,
Where a' the tones o' misery yell,
An' ranked plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu' raw,

Thou, TOOTHACHE, surely bear'st the bell,
Amang them a'!

O thou grim, mischief-making chiel,
That gars the notes o' discord squeel,
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel
In gore, a shoe-thick,

Gie a' the faes o' SCOTLAND's weal

A towmond's1 toothache!

Lines on Meeting with Lord Daer.'

THIS Wot ye all whom it concerns,
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,

October twenty-third,

A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day,

Sae far I sprackl'dm up the brae,

I dinner'd wi' a Lord.

ON MEETING LORD DAER

I've been at drucken writers' feasts,
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests-
Wi' rev'rence be it spoken!-

I've even join'd the honour'd jorum,
When mighty Squireships of the quorum,
Their hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi' a Lord!-stand out my shin,
A Lord-a Peer—an Earl's son !

Up higher yet, my bonnet!
An' sic a Lord!-lang Scotch ells twa,a
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a',
As I look o'er my sonnet.

But O for Hogarth's magic pow'r!
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r,b
An' how he star'd and stammer'd,
When, goavin, as if led wi' branks,d
An' stumpin on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlour hammer'd.

с

I sidling shelter'd in a nook,

An' at his Lordship steal't a look,

Like some portentous omen;
Except good sense and social glee,
An' (what surpris'd me) modesty,

I marked nought uncommon.

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great,
The gentle pride, the lordly state,
The arrogant assuming;
The fient a pride, nae pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,
Mair than an honest ploughman.

Then from his Lordship I shall learn,
Henceforth to meet with unconcern
One rank as weel's another;

• over six feet.

b wild stare.

• gazing stupidly.

d wooden bridle.

Nae honest, worthy man need care
To meet with noble youthful Daer,

For he but meets a brother.

Masonic Song.1

Tune-" Shawn-boy," or "Over the water to Charlie."

YE sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,
To follow the noble vocation;

Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another
To sit in that honourèd station.

I've little to say, but only to pray,

A

As praying's the ton of your fashion;

prayer from the Muse you well may excuse
Tis seldom her favourite passion.

Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide,
Who marked each element's border;

Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,

Whose sovereign statute is order :

Within this dear mansion, may wayward Contention

Or withered Envy ne'er enter;

May secrecy round be the mystical bound,

And brotherly Love be the centre !

Tam Samson's Elegy.2

"An honest man's the noblest work of God."-POPE.

When this worthy old sportsman went out, last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, the last of his fields,' and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph.-R. B., 1787.

HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?
Or great Mackinlays thrawn his heel?

1 Perhaps of Oct. 26, 1787.

⚫ twisted.

2 Semple of Beltree, in his elegy on Habbie Simpson, again supplies the model.

The piece first appeared in the edition of 1787.

8 A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide 'The Ordination,' stanza ii.-R. B.

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY

Or Robertson1 again grown weel,

To preach an' read?

"Na, waur than a'!" cries ilka chiel,a
"Tam Samson's dead!"

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane,b
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane,
An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean,d
In mourning weed;

To Death she's dearly pay'd the kane®-
Tam Samson's dead!

The Brethren, o' the mystic 'level'
May hing their head in woefu' bevel,
While by their nose the tears will revel,
Like ony bead;

Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel1;
Tam Samson's dead!

But now he lags on Death's 'hog-score-
Tam Samson's dead!.

Now safe the stately sawmont sail,

And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail,