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.1 blessing ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX.2 Now Robin lies in his last lair, He'll gabble rhyme nor sing nae mair, Nae mair shall fear him; Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, E'er mair come near him. To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him, troubled Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lush't 'em, 1 It has been said, but upon no good authority that I am aware of, that there was some foundation in fact for this tale of a gossip a wayfaring woman, who chanced to be present at the poet's birth, having actually announced some such prophecies respecting the infant placed in her arms. Some similar circumstances attended the birth of Mirabeau. 2 Ruisseaux, Fr. for rivulets, a translation of his own name. Though he was bred to kintra wark, country And counted was baith wight and stark, sturdy Yet that was never Robin's mark To mak a man; But tell him, he was learned and clark, Ye roosed him than! praised THE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE. IN Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles, The pride of the place and its neighbour hood a', Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, In Lon'on or Paris, they'd gotten it a'. Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine, Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw, There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton ; But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'. WHEN FIRST I CAME TO STEWART KYLE. TUNE-I had a Horse, I had nae mair. WHEN first I came to Stewart Kyle, My mind it was na steady, Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade, A mistress still I had aye. But when I came roun' by Mauchline toun, Not dreadin' anybody, My heart was caught before I thought, And by a Mauchline lady. August. THOUGH FICKLE FORTUNE HAS THOUGH fickle fortune has deceived me, I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able, September 1 "The above was an extempore, under the pressure of a heavy train of misfortunes, which indeed threatened to undo me altogether." - B. OH RAGING FORTUNE'S WITHERING BLAST. ОH raging fortune's withering blast My stem was fair, my bud was green, But luckless fortune's northern storms EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. "It was, I think, in summer, 1784, when in the interval of harder labor, he and I were weeding in the garden (kail-yard), that he repeated to me the principal part of this epistle. I believe the first idea of Robert's becoming an author was started on this occasion. I was much pleased with the epistle, and said to him I was of opinion it would bear being printed."-G. BURNS. This poem appears to have been completed, as it now stands, in January 1785, for a copy in the poet's handwriting exists in possession of Miss Grace Aiken, Ayr, bearing that date, and with the following more ample title An Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet, Lover, Ploughman, and Fiddler. WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw. And hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pass the time, In hamely westlin' jingle. While frosty winds blaw in the drift, Ben to the chimla lug, I grudge a wee the great folk's gift, I tent less, and want less Their roomy fireside; But hanker and canker . To see their cursed pride. It's hardly in a body's power To see how things are shared ; in-ear little comfortably How best o' chiels are whiles in want, mind While coofs on countless thousands rant, fools And ken na how to wair't; know - spend But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head; trouble Though we hae little gear, wealth |