ON MR W. CRUIKSHAN K,

OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH,

Honest Will to heaven is gane,
And monie shall lament him;
His faults they a' in Latin lay,
In English nane e'er kent them.

ON MR W. NICOL.

Ye maggots, feed on Nicol's brain,
For few sic feasts ye 've gotten;
You've got a prize o' Willie's heart,
For deil a bit o't's rotten.

ON MR W. MICHIE,

SCHOOLMASTER, CLEISH, FIFESHIRE.

Here lie Willie Michie's banes;
O Satan, when ye tak him,
Gie him the schoolin' o' your weans,
For clever deils he'll mak 'em!

ON MISS BURNS.

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railings,
Lovely Burns has charms, confess:
True it is, she had one failing-

Had a woman ever less?

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH.

A cauld day December blew,
A cauld kirk, and in 't but few;
A caulder minister ne'er spak,
It will be lang ere I come back.

ON A FRIEND.

An honest man here lies at rest

As e'er God with His image blest !
The friend of man, the friend of truth;
The friend of age, and guide of youth;

Few hearts like his, with virtue warmed,
Few heads with knowledge so informed:
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ;
If there is none, he made the best of this.

HOWLET FACE.

'One of the lords of Justiciary, when holding circuit at Dumfries, dined one day with Mr Miller at Dalswinton. According to the custom of the times, the after-dinner libations were somewhat copious; and, on entering the drawing-room, his lordship's visual organs were so much affected, that he asked Mr Miller, pointing to one of his daughters, who were reckoned remarkably handsome women, "Wha's yon howlet-faced thing in the corner ?"

'Next day, Burns, who then resided at Ellisland, happened to be a guest at Dalswinton, and, in the course of conversation, his lordship's very ungallant and unjust remark was mentioned to him. He immediately took from his pocket an old letter, on the back of which he wrote in pencil the following lines, and handed them to Miss Miller:

How daur ye ca' me howlet-faced,
Ye ugly, glowering spectre?
My face was but the keekin' glass
An' there ye saw your picture.'

Correspondent.

THE SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVENANT.

[Spoken in reply to a gentleman who sneered at the sufferings of Scotland for conscience' sake, and called the Solemn League and Covenant ridiculous and fanatical.]

The Solemn League and Covenant

Cost Scotland blood-cost Scotland tears;

But it sealed Freedom's sacred cause

If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers.

ON A CERTAIN PARSON'S LOOKS.

That there is falsehood in his looks
I must and will deny;

They say their master is a knave—
And sure they do not lie.

WILLIE STEWART.

'Sir Walter Scott possesses a tumbler, on which are the following verses, written by Burns on the arrival of a friend, Mr W. Stewart, factor to a gentleman of Nithsdale. The landlady being very wroth at what she considered the disfigurement of her glass, a gentleman present appeased her by paying down a shilling, and carried off the relic.'-Lockhart.

You're welcome, Willie Stewart;

You're welcome, Willie Stewart;

There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May,
That's half sae welcome 's thou art.

Come, bumpers high, express your joy,
The bowl we maun renew it;
The tappit-hen,' gae bring her ben,
To welcome Willie Stewart.

May foes be strang, and friends be slack,
Ilk action may he rue it;

May woman on him turn her back,

That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart !

ANDREW TURNER.

Being called impertinently one evening from a party of friends at the King's Arms, Dumfries, to see a vain coxcomb in the form of an English commercial traveller, who, having a bottle of wine on his table, thought he might patronise the Ayrshire Ploughman, Burns entered into conversation with the creature, and soon saw what sort of person he had to deal with. About to leave the room, Burns was urged to give a taste of his powers of impromptu versifying before he went, when, having asked the

A cant phrase denoting a tin measure, containing a quart, so called from the knob on the lid, supposed to resemble a crested hen.'-JAMIESON.

stranger's name and age, he instantly penned and handed to him the stanza which follows-after which, he abruptly departed.

In seventeen hundred forty-nine,
Satan took stuff to make a swine,
And cuist it in a corner;
But wilily he changed his plan,
And shaped it something like a man,
And ca'd it Andrew Turner!

VERSES TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.

WITH A PRESENT OF BOOKS.

Oh, could I give thee India's wealth,
As I this trifle send,

Because thy joy in both would be

To share them with a friend!

But golden sands did never grace

The Heliconean stream;

Then take what gold could never buy—

An honest Bard's esteem.

[Mr M'Murdo resided at Drumlanrig, as chamberlain to the Duke of Queensberry. He and his wife and daughters are alluded to in the election piece, entitled Second Epistle to Mr Graham of Fintry. They were kind and hospitable friends of Burns, who celebrated several of the young ladies in his songs.]

ON MR M'MURDO.

INSCRIBED ON A PANE OF GLASS IN HIS HOUSE.

Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day!
No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray;
No wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care,
Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair!
Oh, may no son the father's honour stain,
Nor ever daughter give the mother pain!

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE GLOBE TAVERN, DUMFRIES.

The graybeard, old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures,

Give me with gay Folly to live;

I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures,
But Folly has raptures to give.

EXCISEMEN UNIVERSAL.

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW.1

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering
'Gainst poor excisemen? give the cause a hearing.
What are your landlords' rent-rolls? teasing ledgers:
What premiers-what? even monarchs' mighty gaugers:
Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise men?
What are they, pray, but spiritual excisemen?

ON A GROTTO IN FRIARS' CARSE GROUNDS.

To Riddel, much-lamented man,
This ivied cot was dear;

Reader, dost value matchless worth?
This ivied cot revere.

ON A NOTED COX COMB.

Light lay the earth on Billy's breast,
His chicken heart's so tender;

But build a castle on his head,
His skull will prop it under.

ON COMMISSARY GOLDIE'S BRAINS.

Lord, to account who dares thee call,

Or e'er dispute thy pleasure?
Else why within so thick a wall
Enclose so poor a treasure?

EPITAPH ON MR GABRIEL RICHARDSON, BREWER,

DUMFRIES.

Here brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct,

And empty all his barrels ;

He's blest if as he brewed he drink,

In upright honest morals.

1 In the King's Arms Inn, Dumfries, in consequence of overhearing a gentleman speak despitefully of the officers of Excise.