Those mighty periods of years Which seem to us so vast, Appear no more before Thy sight Than yesterday that's past. Thou giv'st the word: Thy creature man, Again Thou say'st: "Ye sons of men, Return ye into nought!" Thou layest them with all their cares As with a flood Thou tak'st them off, They flourish like the morning flower, But long ere night, cut down, it lies EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE. Rankine was a prince of boon-companions, and mingled a good deal in the society of the neighboring gentry, but was too free a liver to be on good terms with the stricter order of the clergy. Burns and he had taken to each other, no doubt in consequence of their community of feeling and thinking on many points. Rankine had amused the fancy of Burns by a trick which he played off upon a guest of rigid professions, which ending in making the holy man thoroughly drunk. Он rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, The wale o' cocks for fun and drinkin'! Will send you, Korah-like, a sinkin', Ye hae sae mony cracks and cants, And fill them fou; And then their failings, flaws, and wants, Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it! That holy robe, oh dinna tear it! Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, But your curst wit, when it comes near it, choice Tears Think, wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing: harming It's just the blue-gown badge and claithing' 1 Alluding to a blue uniform and badge worn by a select number of privileged beggars in Scotland, usually called King's Bedesmen. Edie Ochiltree, in the Antiquary, is an example of the corps. O' saunts; tak that, ye lea'e them naithing Frae ony unregenerate heathen I've sent you here some rhyming ware, Yon sang, ye'll sen't wi' canny care, thoughtful And no neglect. Though, faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! And danced my fill; I'd better gaen and sair't the king 'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, I gaed a roving wi' the gun, And brought a paitrick to the grun', And as the twilight was begun, Thought nane wad ken. The poor wee thing was little hurt; I straikit it a wee for sport, 1 A song he had promised the author. - B. can served partridge stroked Ne'er thinking they wad fash me for't; Somebody tells the poacher-court The hale affair. Some auld used hands had taen a note I was suspected for the plot; So gat the whistle o' my groat, ... As soon's the clocking-time is by, For my gowd guinea, Though I should hunt the buckskin kye It puts me aye as mad's a hare; When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected sir, Your most obedient. trouble breeding poulta IN GREEN GROW THE RASHES. TUNE- Green grow the Rashes. THERE'S nought but care on every hand, CHORUS. Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e'er I spend The warly race may riches chase, worldly And riches still may fly them, O; Gie me a canny hour at e'en, My arms about my dearie, O; And warly cares, and warly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, O. happy topsy-turvy For you sae douce ye sneer at this, He dearly loved the lasses, O. grave |