The Hero of these artless strains,
A lowly bard was he,

Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains,
With meikle mirth an' glee;

Kind Nature's care had given his share
Large, of the flaming current;
And, all devout, he never sought
To stem the sacred torrent.

He felt the powerful, high behest
Thrill, vital, thro' and thro';
And sought a correspondent breast,
To give obedience due :

Propitious Powers screen'd the young flow'rs,

From mildews of abortion;

And lo! the bard-a great reward

Has got a double portion!

Auld cantie Coil may count the day,

As annual it returns,

The third of Libra's equal sway,

That gave another Burns,

With future rhymes, an' other times,

To emulate his sire:

To sing auld Coil in nobler style,
With more poetic fire.

Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song,
Look down with gracious eyes;
And bless auld Coila, large and long,

With multiplying joys;

Lang may she stand to prop the land,
The flow'r of ancient nations;
And Burnses spring, her fame to sing,
To endless generations!

merry.

WILLIE CHALMERS

Song-Willie Chalmers.1

Mr Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as follows:

Wr braw new branks in mickle pride,
And eke a braw new brechan,b

My Pegasus I'm got astride,

And up Parnassus pechin;

Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush,
The doitedd beastie stammers;

Then up he gets, and off he sets,
For sake o' Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na, lass, that weel ken'd name
May cost a pair o' blushes;

I am nae stranger to your fame,
Nor his warm urgèd wishes.
Your bonie face sae mild and sweet,
His honest heart enamours,
And faith ye'll no be lost a whit,
Tho' wair'de on Willie Chalmers.

Auld truth hersel' might swear ye're fair,
And Honour safely back her;
And Modesty assume your air,
And ne'er a ane mistak her:
And sic twa love-inspiring een
Might fire even holy palmers;
Nae wonder then they've fatal been
To honest Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na fortune may you shore'
Some mim-mou'ds pouther'd priestie,
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore,

And band upon his breastie :

1 Given to Lockhart by Lady Harriet Don, “ a divine lady.'

But oh! what signifies to you
His lexicons and grammars;
The feeling heart's the royal blue,
And that's wi' Willie Chalmers.

Some gapin, glowrin countra laird
May warsle for your favour;
May claw his lug, and straik his beard,
And hoast up some palaver:
My bonie maid, before ye wed
Sic clumsy-witted hammers,

Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelpd
Awa wi' Willie Chalmers.

Forgive the Bard! my fond regard
For ane that shares my bosom,
Inspires my Muse to gie 'm his dues.
For deil a hair I roosee him.
May powers aboon unite you soon,
And fructify your amours,-
And every year come in mair dear
To you and Willie Chalmers.

Reply to a Trimming Epistle received
from a Tailor.1

WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie bitch
To thresh my back at sic a pitch?
Losh, man! hae mercy wi' your natch,
Your bodkin's bauld;

I didna suffer half sae much

Frae Daddie Auld.

REPLY TO A TAILOR'S EPISTLE

What tho' at times, when I grow crouse,a

I gie their wames a random pouse,
Is that enough for you to souse

Your servant sae?

Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse,
An' jag-the-flea!

King David, o' poetic brief,

Wrocht 'mang the lasses sic mischief
As filled his after-life wi' grief,
An' bluidy rants,

An' yet he's rank'd among the chief
O' lang-syne saunts.

And maybe, Tam, for a' my cants,
My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants,
I'll gie auld cloven's Clootie's haunts
An uncob slip yet,

An' snugly sit amang the saunts,
At Davie's hip yet!

But, fegs! the session says I maun
Gae fa' upo' anither plan

Than garrin lasses coup the cran,d
Clean heels ower body,

e

An' sairly thole their mother's ban
Afore the howdy.'

This leads me on to tell for sport,
How I did wi' the Session sort;
Auld Clinkum, at the inner port,

Cried three times, "Robin!

Come hither lad, and answer for't,

Ye're blam'd for jobbin!"

An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, Fell foul o' me.

A fornicator-loun he call'd me,

An' said my faut frae bliss expell'd me; I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me, "But, what the matter? (Quo' I) I fear unless ye geld me,

I'll ne'er be better!"

"Geld you! (quo' he) an' what for no? If that your right hand, leg, or toe Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe, You should remember

To cut it aff-an' what for no

Your dearest member?"