On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk,
They're making observations;
While some are cozie i' the neuk,

An' formin' assignations

To meet some day.

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts,
Till a' the hills are rairin',

An' echoes back return the shouts:

Black Russell is na' sparin':

His piercing words, like Highlan' swords, Divide the joints and marrow;

His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell,

Our vera sauls does harrow1

Wi' fright that day.

A vast, unbottom❜d boundless pit,
Fill'd fou o' lowin' brunstane,
Wha's ragin' flame, an' scorchin' heat,
Wad melt the hardest whun-stane!
The half asleep start up wi' fear,
An' think they hear it roarin',
When presently it does appear,
'Twas but some neibor snorin'
Asleep that day.

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell

How monie stories past,

An' how they crowded to the yill,

When they were a' dismist:

How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups,
Amang the furms an' benches:

An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps,
Was dealt about in lunches,
An' dawds that day.

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife,

An' sits down by the fire,

Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife;
The lasses they are shyer.
The auld guidmen, about the grace,
Frae side to side they bother,
Till some ane by his bonnet lays,
An' gi'es them't like a tether,
Fu' lang that day.

Waesucks! for him that gets nae lass,
Or lasses that hae naething;
Sma' need has he to say a grace,
Or melvie his braw claithing!

U wives, be mindfu' ance yoursel
How bonnie lads ye wanted,

1 Shakspeare's Hamlet.

૨ Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the

An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel,
Let lasses be affronted
On sic a day!

Now Clinkumbell, wi' ratlin tow,
Begins to jow an' croon;
Some swagger hame, the best they dow,
Some wait the afternoon.

At slaps the billies halt a blink,
Till lasses strip their shoon:

Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink,
They're a' in famous tune
For crack that day.

How monie hearts this day converts

O' sinners and o' lasses!

Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane, As saft as ony flesh is.

There's some are fou o' love divine;

There's some are fou o' brandy; An' monie jobs that day begin May end in houghmagandie Some ither day.

XXI.

THE ORDINATION.

"For sense they little owe to frugal heav'n-
To please the mob they hide the little giv'n."

[This sarcastic sally was written on the admission of Mr. Mackinlay, as one of the ministers to the Laigh, or parochial Kirk of Kilmarnock, on the 6th of April, 1786 That reverend person was an Auld Light professor, and his ordination incensed all the New Lights, hence the bitter levity of the poem. These dissensions have long since past away: Mackinlay, a pious and kind-hearted sincere man, lived down all the personalities of the satire, and though unwelcome at first, he soon learned to regard them only as a proof of the powers of the poet.]

KILMARNOCK wabsters fidge an' claw,

An' pour your creeshie nations;
An' ye wha leather rax an' draw,
Of a' denominations,

Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a',
An' there tak up your stations;
Then aff to Begbie's in a raw,
An' pour divine libations
For joy this day.

Curst Common-Sense, that imp o' hell,

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ;2

admission of the late reverend and worthy Mr. Lindsay

to the Laigh Kirk.

Come, screw the pegs, wi' tunefu' cheep,
And o'er the thairms be tryin';

Oh, rare! to see our elbucks wheep,
An' a' like lamb-tails flyin'
Fu' fast this day!

Lang Patronage, wi' rod o' airn,
Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin',
As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn,
Has proven to its ruin:

Our patron, honest man! Glencairn,
He saw mischief was brewin';

And like a godly elect bairn
He's wal'd us out a true ane,
And sound this day.

Now, Robinson, harangue nae mair,
But steek your gab for ever:
Or try the wicked town of Ayr,

For there they'll think you clever;
Or, nae reflection on your lear,
Ye may commence a shaver;
Or to the Netherton repair,

And turn a carpet-weaver
Aff-hand this day.

Mutrie and you were just a match,
We never had sic twa drones:
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch,
Just like a winkin' baudrons :
And ay' he catch'd the tither wretch,
To fry them in his caudrons;
But now his honour maun detach,
Wi' a' his brimstane squadrons,
Fast, fast this day.

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes

She's swingein' through the city; Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays! I vow it's unco pretty:

There, Learning, with his Greekish face,
Grunts out some Latin ditty;
And Common Sense is gaun, she says,
To mak to Jamie Beattie
Her plaint this day.

But there's Morality himsel',
Embracing all opinions;
Hear, how he gies the tither yell,
Between his twa companions;
See, how she peels the skin an' fell,
As ane were peelin' onions!

Now there they're packed aff to hell,
And banished our dominions,

Henceforth this day.

O, happy day! rejoice, rejoice!
Come bouse about the porter!
Morality's demure decoys

Shall here nae mair find quarter:
Mackinlay, Russell, are the boys,
That Heresy can torture:
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse,
And cowe her measure shorter
By th' head some day.

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in,

And here's for a conclusion,
To every New Light' mother's son,

From this time forth Confusion:

If mair they deave us wi' their din,
Or Patronage intrusion,

We'll light a spunk, and ev'ry ski
We'll rin them aff in fusion

Like oil, some day.

Tho', when some kind, connubial dear, Your but-and-ben adorns,

The like has been that you may wear A noble head of horns.

And in your lug, most reverend James, To hear you roar and rowte,

Few men o' sense will doubt your claims To rank amang the nowte.

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Below a grassy hillock,

Wi' justice they may mark your head"Here lies a famous Bullock!"

XXII.

THE CALF.

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN,

On his text, MALACHI, iv. 2.-"And ye shall go forth, and grow up as CALVES of the stall."

[The laugh which this little poem raised against Steven was a loud one. Burns composed it during the sermon to which it relates and repeated it to Gavin Hamilton, with whom he happened on that day to dine. The Calf-for the name it seems stuck-came to London, where the younger brother of Burns heard him preach in Covent Garden Chapel, in 1790.]

RIGHT, Sir! your text I'll prove it true,
Though Heretics may laugh;
For instance; there's yoursel' just now,
God knows, an unco Calf!

And should some patron be so kind, As bless you wi' a kirk,

I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find, Ye're still as great a Stirk.

But, if the lover's raptur'd hour
Shall ever be your lot,
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly power,
You e'er should be a stot!

1 New Light" is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended.

XXIII.

TO JAMES SMITH.

"Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! Sweet'ner of life and solder of society!

I owe thee much!-""

BLAIR.

[The James Smith, to whom this epistle is addressed, was at that time a small shopkeeper in Mauchline, and the comrade or rather follower of the poet in all his merry expeditions with " Yill-caup commentators." He was present in Posie Nansie's when the Jolly Beggars first dawned on the fancy of Burns: the comrades of the poet's heart were not generally very successful in life: Smith left Mauchline, and established a calico-printing manufactory at Avon near Linlithgow, where his friend. found him in all appearance prosperous in 1788: but this was not to last; he failed in his speculations and went to the West Indies, and died early. His wit was ready, and his manners lively and unaffected.]

DEAR SMITH, the sleest, paukie thief,
That e'er attempted stealth or rief,
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef

Owre human hearts;

For ne'er a bosom yet was prief

Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an' moon,
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon,
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon

Just gaun to see you;

And ev'ry ither pair that's done,

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you.

That auld capricious carlin, Nature,
To mak amends for scrimpit stature,
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature
On her first plan;

And in her freaks, on every feature
She's wrote, the Man.

Alas! what bitter toil an' straining—
But truce with peevish, poor complaining!
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning?

E'en let her gang! Beneath what light she has remaining, Let's sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door, And kneel, "Ye Pow'rs," and warm implore, "Tho' I should wander terra e'er,

In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more,

Ay rowth o' rhymes.

"Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards;
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,
And maids of honour!
And yill an' whisky gie to cairds,

Until they sconner.

"A title, Dempster merits it;

A garter gie to Willie Pitt;

Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit,
In cent. per cent.

But give me real, sterling wit,

And I'm content.

"While ye are pleas'd to keep me hale, I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail,

Wi' cheerfu' face, As lang's the muses dinna fail

To say the grace."

An anxious e'e I never throws
Behint my lug, or by my nose;
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows

As weel's I may;
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose,
I rhyme away.

O ye douce folk, that live by rule,
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool,
Compar'd wi' you-O fool! fool! fool!

How much unlike! Your hearts are just a standing pool, Your lives a dyke!

Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces,
In your unletter'd nameless faces!
In arioso trills and graces

Ye never stray,

But gravissimo, solemn basses

Ye hum away.

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise;
Nae ferly tho' ye do despise

The hairum-scarum, ram-stam boys,

The rattling squad:

I see you upward cast your eyes—

Ye ken the road

Whilst I-but I shall haud me thereWi' you I'll scarce gang ony whereThen, Jamie, I shall say nae mair,

But quat my sang,

Content wi' you to mak a pair,

Whare'er I gang.

XXIV.

THE VISION.

DUAN FIRST.1

[The Vision and the Briggs of Ayr, are said by Jeffrey to be "the only pieces by Burns which can be classed under the head of pure fiction:" but Tam o' Shanter and twenty other of his compositions have an equa. right to be classed with works of fiction. The edition of this poem published at Kilmarnock, differs in some particulars from the edition which followed in Edinburgh. The maiden whose foot was so handsome as to match that of Coila, was a Bess at first, but old affection triumphed, and Jean, for whom the honour was from the first designed, regained her place. The robe of Coila, too, was expanded, so far indeed that she got more cloth than she could well carry.]

THE sun had clos'd the winter day,
The curlers quat their roaring play,
An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way
To kail-yards green,
While faithless snaws ilk step betray
Whare she has been.

The thresher's weary flingin'-tree
The lee-lang day had tired me;
And when the day had clos'd his e'e
Far i' the west,

Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie,
I gaed to rest.

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek,
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek,
The auld clay biggin';

An' heard the restless rattons squeak
About the riggin'.

1 Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a digressive poem. See his "Cath-Loda," vol. ii. of Macpherson's translation.