How do you this blae eastlin wind,
That's like to blaw a body blind?
For me, my faculties are frozen,
My dearest member nearly dozen'd.
I've sent you here, by Johnie Simson,
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling,
An' Reid, to common sense appealing.
Philosophers have fought and wrangled,
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled,
Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd,
And in the depth of science mir'd,
To common sense they now appeal,
What wives and wabsters see and feel.

But, hark ye, friend! I charge you strictly,
Peruse them, an' return them quickly:
For now I'm grown sae cursed douce

I

pray and ponder butt the house;

My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin,
Perusing Bunyan, Brown an' Boston,
Till by an' by, if I haud on,
I'll grunt a real gospel groan:
Already I begin to try it,

To cast my e'en up like a pyet,
When by the gun she tumbles o'er
Flutt'ring an' gasping in her gore:
Sae shortly you shall see me bright,
A burning an' a shining light.

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, The ace an' wale of honest men: When bending down wi' auld grey hairs Beneath the load of years and cares, May He who made him still support him, An' views beyond the grave comfort him; His worthy fam'ly far and near, God bless them a' wi' grace and gear!

My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie, The manly tar, my mason-billie,

And Auchenbay, I wish him joy,
If he's a parent, lass or boy,

May he be dad, and Meg the mither,
Just five-and-forty years thegither!
And no forgetting wabster Charlie,
I'm tauld he offers very fairly.

An' Lord, remember singing Sannock,
Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an' a bannock!
And next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy,
Since she is fitted to her fancy,

An' her kind stars hae airted till her

A guid chiel wi' a pickle siller.

My kindest, best respects, I sen' it,
To cousin Kate, an' sister Janet:

Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious,

For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashious;
To grant a heart is fairly civil,

But to grant a maidenhead's the devil.
An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel,

May guardian angels tak a spell,

An' steer you seven miles south o' hell:
But first, before you see heaven's glory,
May ye get mony a merry story,
Mony a laugh, and mony a drink,
And aye eneugh o' needfu' clink.

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you: For my sake, this I beg it o' you,

Assist poor Simson a' ye can,

Ye'll fin' him just an honest man;
Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter,
Your's, saint or sinner,

ROB THE Ranter.

A NEW PSALM FOR THE CHAPEL OF

KILMARNOCK

On the Thanksgiving-Day for His Majesty's Recovery.

O SING a new song to the Lord,
Make, all and every one,

A joyful noise, even for the king
His restoration.

The sons of Belial in the land
Did set their heads together;
Come, let us sweep them off, said they,
Like an o'erflowing river.

They set their heads together, I say,
They set their heads together;
On right, on left, on every hand,
We saw none to deliver.

Thou madest strong two chosen ones
To quell the Wicked's pride;
That Young Man, great in Issachar,
The burden-bearing tribe.

And him, among the Princes, chief

In our Jerusalem,

The judge that's mighty in thy law,
The man that fears thy name.

Yet they, even they, with all their strength,
Began to faint and fail:

Even as two howling, ravenous wolves

To dogs do turn their tail.

Th' ungodly o'er the just prevail'd,
For so thou hadst appointed;
That thou might'st greater glory give
Unto thine own anointed.

And now thou hast restored our State,

Pity our Kirk also;

For she by tribulations

Is now brought very low.

Consume that high-place, Patronage,

From off thy holy hill;

And in thy fury burn the book—
Even of that man M'Gill.1

Now hear our prayer, accept our song,
And fight thy chosen's battle:
We seek but little, Lord, from thee,
Thou kens we get as little.

SKETCH IN VERSE

Inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox.

How Wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and unite,
How Virtue and Vice blend their black and their white,
How Genius, th' illustrious father of fiction,
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction,

I sing: If these mortals, the critics, should bustle,

I care not, not I-let the critics go whistle.

But now for a Patron whose name and whose glory, At once may illustrate and honour my story.

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits;

Yet whose parts and acquirements seem just lucky hits;
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong,
No man with the half of 'em e'er could go wrong;
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright,

No man with the half of 'em e'er could go right;

A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses,

For using thy name, offers fifty excuses.

1 Dr. William M'Gill of Ayr, whose "Practical Essay on the Death of Jesus Chirst" led to a charge of heresy against him. Burns took up his cause in "The Kirk of Scotland's Alarm (p. 393).-Lang.

HC VI

W

Good L-d, what is Man! for as simple he looks,

Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks;
With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil,
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil.

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours, That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours:

Mankind are his show-box-a friend, would you know him?
Pull the string, Ruling passion the picture will show him,
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system,

One trifling particular, Truth, should have miss'd him;
For, spite of his fine theoretic positions,

Mankind is a science defies definitions.

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, And think human nature they truly describe;

Have you found this, or t'other? There's more in the wind; As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find.

But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan,

In the make of that wonderful creature called Man,
No two virtues, whatever relation they claim.
Nor even two different shades of the same,
Though like as was ever twin brother to brother,
Possessing the one shall imply you've the other.

But truce with abstraction, and truce with a Muse Whose rhymes you'll perhaps, Sir, ne'er deign to peruse: Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels, Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels? My much-honour'd Patron, believe your poor poet, Your courage, much more than your prudence, you show it: In vain with Squire Billy for laurels you struggle; He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle: Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em,

He'd up the back stairs, and by G- he would steal 'em, Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er can achieve 'em; It is not, out-do him-the task is, out-thieve him!