In thae auld times, they thought the moon,
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon,

Wore by degrees, till her last roon

Gaed past their viewin;

An' shortly after she was done

They gat a new ane.

This passed for certain, undisputed;
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it,
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it,
An' ca'd it wrang;

An' muckle din there was about it,
Baith loud an' lang.

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk,
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk
An' out o' sight,

An' backlins-comin to the leuk

She grew mair brig

Auld Ayr ran by before me,
And bicker'd to the seas;

A cushat crooded o'er me,

That echoed through the braes.

THO' CRUEL FATE SHOULD BID US PART

Tune "The Northern Lass."

THO' cruel fate should bid us part,

Far as the pole and line,

Her dear idea round my heart,

Should tenderly entwine.

Tho' mountains rise, and deserts howl,
And oceans roar between;
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,
I still would love my Jean.

SONG-RANTIN', ROVIN' ROBIN'

Tune "Daintie Davie."

THERE was a lad was born in Kyle,
But whatna day o' whatna style,
I doubt it's hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi' Robin.

Chor.-Robin was a rovin' boy,

Rantin', rovin', rantin', rovin',
Robin was a rovin' boy,

Rantin', rovin', Robin!

Our monarch's hindmost year

but ane

Was five-and-twenty days begun,2
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar' win'

Blew hansel in on Robin.

1 Not published by Burns.

Robin was, &c.

2 January 25, 1759, the date of my bardship's vital existence.-R. B.

The gossip keekit in his loof,

Quo' scho, "Wha lives will see the proof,
This waly boy will be nae coof:

I think we'll ca' him Robin."

Robin was, &c.

"He'll hae misfortunes great an' sma',

But aye a heart aboon them a',
He'll be a credit till us a'-

We'll a' be proud o' Robin."

Robin was, &c.

"But sure as three times three mak nine,
I see by ilka score and line,

This chap will dearly like our kin',

So leeze me on thee! Robin."

Robin was, &c.

"Guid faith," quo' scho, "I doubt you gar

The bonie lasses lie aspar;

But twenty fauts ye may hae waur

So blessins on thee! Robin."

Robin was, &c.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX'

Now Robin lies in his last lair,

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair;

Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare,

Nae mair shall fear him;

Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care,

E'er mair come near him.

To tell the truth, they seldom fash'd him,
Except the moment that they crush'd him;
For sune as chance or fate had hush'd 'em
Tho' e'er sae short,

Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lash'd 'em,
And thought it sport.

1 Ruisseaux is French for rivulets or "burns," a translation of his name.

Tho' he was bred to kintra-wark,

And counted was baith wight and stark,
Yet that was never Robin's mark

To mak a man;

But tell him, he was learn'd and clark,
Ye roos'd him then!

EPISTLE TO JOHN GOLDIE, IN KILMARNOCK

AUTHOR OF THE GOSPEL RECOVERED.-August, 1785

O GOWDIE, terror o' the whigs,
Dread o' blackcoats and rev'rend wigs!
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,

Girns an' looks back,

Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues

May seize you quick.

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition!
Wae's me, she's in a sad condition:
Fye: bring Black Jock,' her state physician,
To see her water;

Alas, there's ground for great suspicion
She'll ne'er get better.

Enthusiasm's past redemption,

Gane in a gallopin' consumption:
Not a' her quacks, wi' a' their gumption,
Can ever mend her;

Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
She'll soon surrender.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
For every hole to get a stapple;

But now she fetches at the thrapple,
An' fights for breath;

Haste, gie her name up in the chapel,2
Near unto death.

It's

you an' Taylor are the chief

To blame for a' this black mischief;

1 The Rev. J. Russell, Kilmarnock.-R. B. 2 Mr. Russell's Kirk.-R. B.

3 Dr. Taylor of Norwich.-R. B.