It's no in makin muckle mair;
It's no in books, it's no in lear,
To make us truly blest;
If happiness hae not her seat.
And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest :

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could make us happy lang;
The heart ay's the part ay

Think

That makes us right or wrang.

ye, that sic as you and I,

Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry, Wi' never-ceasing toil;

Think

ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their way,
As hardly worth their while?
Alas! how aft, in haughty mood

God's creatures they oppress
!
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid,

They riot in excess !

Baith careless and fearless
Of either heaven or hell!
Esteeming and deeming

It's a' an idle tale!

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce;
Nor make our scanty pleasures less,
By pining at our state;

And, even should misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some,
An's thankfu' for them yet.
They gie the wit of age to youth;

They let us ken oursel';

They make us see the naked truth,

The real guid and ill.

Tho' losses, and crosses,

Be lessons right severe,
There's wit there, ye'll get there,

Ye'll find nae other where.

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts!

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, And flatt'ry I detest,)

This life has joys for you and. I;

And joys that riches ne'er could buy:

And joys the very best.

There's a' the pleasures o' the heart,

The lover an' the frien';

Ye hae your Meg your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!

It warms me, it charms me,
To mention but her name:

It heats me, it beets me,

And sets me a' on flame!

O, all ye pow'rs who rule above!
O, Thou, whose very self art love!
Thou know'st my words sincere!
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart,
Or my more dear immortal part,
Is not more fondly dear!
When heart-corroding care and grief

Deprive my soul of rest,

Her dear idea brings relief

And solace to my breast.
Thou Being, All-seeing,
O hear my fervent pray'r!
Still take her, and make her
Thy most peculiar care!

All hail, ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love, the friendly tear,

The sympathetic glow!

Long since, this world's thorny ways
Had number'd out my weary days,

Had it not been for you!

Fate still has blest me with a friend,

In every care and ill;

And oft a more endearing band,

A tie more tender still.

It lightens, it brightens
The tenebrific scene,

To meet with, and greet with

My Davie or my Jean!

O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin, rank and file,

Amaist before I ken!

The ready measure rins as fine,

As Phoebus and the famous Nine
Were glowrin owre my pen.
My spaviet Pegasus will limp,
'Till ance he's fairly het;

And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,

An' rin an unco fit:

But least then, the beast then

Should rue this hasty ride,

I'll light now, and dight now
His sweaty, wizen'd hide.

SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

A BROTHER POET.

[David Sillar, to whom these epistles are addressed, was at that time master of a country school, and was welcome to Burns both as a scholar and a writer of verse. This epistle he prefixed to his poems printed at Kilmarnock in the year 1789: he loved to speak of his early comrade, and supplied Walker with some very valuable anecdotes: he died one of the magistrates of Irvine, on the 2d of May, 1830, at the age of seventy.]

AULD NIBOR,

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor,

For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter;

Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye

flatter,

Ye speak sae fair.

For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter

Some less maun sair.

e;

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer

you thro' the

weary widdle

O' war❜ly cares,

Till bairn's bairns kindly cuddle

Your auld, gray hairs.

But DAVIE, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit;
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket

Until ye fyke;

Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket,

Be hain't wha like.

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink,

Rivin' the words to gar them clink;

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink,

Wi' jads or masons;

An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think

Braw sober lessons.

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,

Commen' me to the Bardie clan ;

Except it be some idle plan

O' rhymin' clink,

The devil-haet, that I sud ban,

They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin',

Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin';

But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

An' while ought's there,

Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin',

An' fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,
At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie !

Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure,
She's seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie :
The warl' may play you monie a shavie;
But for the Muse she'll never leave ye,

Tho' e'er so puir,

Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie

Frae door to door.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

"O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs,

That led th' embattled Seraphim to war."-MILTON.

[The beautiful and relenting spirit in which this fine poem finishes moved the heart of one of the coldest of our critics. "It was, I think," says Gilbert Burns, "in the winter of 1784, as we were going with carts for coals to the family fire, and I could yet point out the particular spot, that Robert first repeated to me the Address to the Deil.' The idea of the address was suggested to him by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts we have of that august personage."]

O THOU! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,

Closed under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
E'en to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;
Far kend an' noted is thy name;
An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far;

An', faith thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion,
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin;
Whyles, on the strong-winged tempest flyin,
Tirlin the kirks;

Whiles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend Graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray,
Nod to the moon,