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The poor, wee thing was little hurt
I straikit it a wee for sport,
Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me fort

But dell-ma'-care!
Somebody tells the poacher-court

The hale affair.

Some auld-us'd hands had taen a note That sic a hen had got a shot; I was suspected for the plot ;

I scorn'a to lie,
So gat the whissle o' my groat,

An' pay't the fee.
But, by my gun, o' guns the wale
An' by my pouther an' my hail
An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

I vow an' swear!
The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale.

For this, niest year.
As soon's the clockin-time is by,
An'the wee pouts begun to cry,
1-d, I'se hae sportin by and by,

For my gowd guinea
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye

For't in Virginia. Trowih, they had muckle for to blame ! 'Twas neither broken wing uor limb, But twa-three draps about the wame

Scarce thro' the feathers ; An' baith a yellow George to claim,

An'thole their blethers!

It pits mo ay as mad's a háre;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair!

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But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient;
Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,

Your most obedient.

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TO.

DR. BLACKLOCK.

Ellisland, Oct. 21, 1789

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie!
And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie?
I kenn'd'it still your wee bitjauntie

Wad bring ye too:
Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye,

And then ye'll do.

The ill-thief blaw the Heron * south !
And never drink be near his drouth !
He tald mysel by word o' mouth,

He'd tak my letter;
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth

And bade nae better.

But aiblins honest Master Heron
Had at the time some dainty fair one,
To ware his theologic care on,

And holy study;
And tir'd o sauls to waste his lear on,

E'en tried the body.
*Mr. Heron, author of a History of Scotland, a.
of various other works.

But what'd'ye think, my trusty fier, I'm turn'd a guager-peace be here! Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear

Ye'll now disdain me,
And then my fifty pounds a-year

Will little gain me.
Ye glaiket, gleesome, daintie damies,
Wha by Castalia's wimplin streamies,
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies,

Ye ken, ye ken,
That strang necessity supreme is

'Mang sons o' men. I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies; Ye Ken yoursels my heart right proud is,

I need na vaunt, But I'll sned besoms--thraw saugh woodies,

Before they want,

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care
I'm weary sick o't late and air !
Not but I hae a richer share

Than mony ithers ;
But why should ae man better fare,

And a'men brithers?

Come, Firm Resolvę, take thou the van,
Thou stálk o' carl-hemp in man!
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan

A lady fair ;
Wha does the utmost that he can,

Will whyles do mair.

But to conclude my silly rhyme, (I'm scant o'verse, and scani o' time.)

To make a happy fire-side clime

To weans and wife, That's the true pathos and sublime

Of human life.

My compliments to sister Beckie; And eke the same to honest Lucky, I wat she is a dainty chuckie,

As e'er tread clay! An' gratefully, my guid auld cockie,

I'in yours for ay.

ROBERT BURNS.

TO

COLONEL DE PEYSTER.

DUMFRIES, 1796.

My honor'd Colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the Poet's weal ;
Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel

The steep Parnassus,
Surrounded thus by bolus pill,

And potion glasses. O what a canty warld were it, Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it; And fortune favor worth and merit,

As they deserve : (And aye a rowth, roast-becf and claret ;

Sine wha wasi starve?

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, And in paste gems and frippery deck her: Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker

I've found her still, Ay wavering like the willow wicker,

'Tween good and ill. Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, Watches, like baudrans by a rattan, Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on

Wi' felon ire; Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on,

He's aff like fire.

Ah! Nick! ah Nick! it is na fair,
First showing as the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonie lasses rare,

To put us daft;
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare,

O'hell's damn'd wast.

Poor man the flie, aft bizzes by,
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy,

And hellish pleasure;
Already in thy fancy's eye,

Thy sicker treasure.
Soon heels o'er gowdie! in he gangs,
And like a sheep-head on a tangs,
They girning laugh enjoys his pangs

And murdering wrestle,
A's dangling in the wind, he hangs

A gibbet's tassel.
But lest you think I am uncivil,
To plague you with this draunting drivel,

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