As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their nose; Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'! gray Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Think! ye may buy the joys o'er dear— 1 It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any further than the middle of the next running stream. It may be proper like wise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger there may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back. ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY. [This Poem made its first appearance, as I was assured by my friend the late Thomas Pringle, in the Scots Magazine, for February, 1818, and was printed from the original in the handwriting of Burns. It was headed thus, "To the Right Honourable the Earl of Breadalbine, President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23d of May last, at the Shakspeare. Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of four hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr. M, of A-s, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lairds and masters, whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald, of Glengarry, to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thingLIBERTY." The Poem was communicated by Burns to his friend Rankine of Adam Hill, in Ayrshire.] LONG life, my Lord, an' health be yours, I doubt na! they wad bid nae better Then let them ance out owre the water; Then up amang the lakes and seas They'll mak' what rules and laws they please; Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville, To cowe the rebel generation, An' save the honour o' the nation? They an' be d―d! what right hae they Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom, Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, The young dogs, swinge them to the labour; A seat I'm sure ye're weel deservin't; An' till ye come-Your humble servant, BEELZEBUB June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790. TO JOHN TAYLOR. [Burns, it appears, was, in one of his excursions in revenue matters, likely to be detained at Wanlock head: the roads were slippery with ice, his mare kept her feet with difficulty, and all the blacksmiths of the village were pre-engaged. To Mr. Taylor, a person of in fluence in the place, the poet, in despair, addressed this little Poem, begging his interference: Taylor spoke to a smith; the smith flew to his tools, sharpened or frosted the shoes, and it is said lived for thirty years to boast that he had never been well paid but ance, and that was by a poet, who paid him in money, paid him in drink, and paid him in verse."] WITH Pegasus upon a day, Apollo weary flying, Through frosty hills the journey lay, On foot the way was plying. Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus Obliging Vulcan fell to work, Threw by his coat and bonnet, Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, My Pegasus is poorly shod I'll pay you like my master. Ramages, 3 o'clock, (no date.) ROBERT BURNS. LAMENT OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. [The poet communicated this "Lament” to his friend, Dr. Moore, in February, 1791, but it was composed about the close of the preceding year, at the request of Lady Winifred Maxwell Constable, of Terreagles, the last in direct descent of the noble and ancient house of Maxwell, of Nithsdale. Burns expressed himself more than commonly pleased with this composition; nor was he unrewarded, for Lady Winifred gave him a valuable snuff-box, with the portrait of the unfortunate Mary on the lid. The bed still keeps its place in Terreagles, on which the queen slept as she was on her way to take refuge with her cruel and treacherous cousin, Elizabeth; and a letter from her no less unfortunate grandson, Charles the First, calling the Maxwells to arm in his cause, is preserved in the family archives.] And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, But nought can glad the weary wight Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, Aloft on dewy wing; The merle, in his noontide bow'r, Now blooms the lily by the bank, May rove their sweets amang; I was the Queen o' bonnie France, And never-ending care. But as for thee, thou false woman! My sister and my fae, Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword That thro' thy soul shall gae! The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee; Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e. |