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ADDRESS TO AN ILLEGITIMATE CHILD.

THOU'S welcome, wean! mishanter fa' me,
If ought of thee, or of thy mammy,
Shall ever danton me, or awe me,

My sweet wee lady,

Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me
Tit-ta or daddy.

Wee image of my bonny Betty,
I fatherly will kiss and daut thee,
As dear an' near my heart I set thee
Wi' as gude will,

As a' the priests had seen me get thee
That's out o' h-ll.

What tho' they ca' me fornicator,
An' tease my name in kintra clatter:
The mair they talk I'm kent the better,
E'en let them clash;

An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.

Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint,
My funny toil is now a' tint,

Sin' thou came to the warld asklent,

Which fools may scoff at;
In my last plack thy part's be in't—
The better haff o't.

An' if thou be what I wad hae thee,
An' tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
A lovin' father I'll be to thee,

If thou be spar'd;

Thro' a' thy childish years I'll ee thee,

An' think't weel war'd.

VERSES...EPIGRAM.

Gude grant that thou may aye inherit
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,
An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit,
Without his failins,

"Twill please me mair to hear an' see't,
Than stockit mailins.

VERSES

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON.

WE camena here to view your warks

In hopes to be mair wise,

But only, lest we gang to hell,
It may be nae surprise.

But when we tirl'd at your door,

Your porter doughtna hear us ;

Sae may, shou'd we to hell's yetts come,
Your billy Satan sair us!

39

EPIGRAM.

[Burns, accompanied by a friend, having gone to Inverary, at a time when some company were there on a visit to his Grace the Duke of Argyll, finding himself and his companion entirely neglected by the Inn-keeper, whose whole attention seemed to be occupied with the visitors of his Grace, expressed his disapprobation of the incivility with which they were treated, in the following lines.]

WHOE'ER he be that sojourns here,
I pity much his case,
Unless he come to wait upon

The Lord their God his Grace.

There's naething here but Highland pride,
And Highland scab and hunger;
If Providence has sent me here,
'Twas surely in an anger.

LINES

WRITTEN BY BURNS, WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO JOHN
RANKEN, AYRSHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMME-
DIATELY AFTER THE POET'S DEATH.

HE who of Ranken sang, lies stiff and dead;
And a green grassy hillock hides his head;
Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed!

VERSES

Addressed to the above J. Ranken,

ON HIS WRITING TO THE POET, THAT A GIRL IN THAT PART

OF THE COUNTRY WAS WITH CHILD TO HIM.

I AM a keeper of the law

In some sma' points, altho' not a';
Some people tell me gin I fa',

Ae way or ither,

The breaking of ae point, tho' sma',

Breaks a' thegither.

I hae been in for't ance or twice,
And winna say owre far for thrice,
Yet never met with that surprise

That broke my rest,

But now a rumour's like to rise,

A whaup's i' the nest.

At a Meeting of the Dumfries-shire Volunteers, held to commemorate the Anniversary of RODNEY'S VICTORY, April 12, 1782, Burns was called upon for a Song, instead of which he delivered the following Lines extempore.

INSTEAD of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast,― Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost: [found, That we lost, did I say? nay, by heav'n, that we For their fame it shall last while the world goes

round.

The next in succession, I'll give you the King,
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing!
And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution,
As built on the base of the great Revolution;
And longer with Politics, not to be cramm'd,
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd;
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal,
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial!

LINES

ON BEING ASKED, WHY GOD HAD MADE MISS DAVIES SO LITTLE AND MRS.

***

SO LARGE.

WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS IN THE INN AT MOFFATT.

Ask why God made the gem so small,
An' why so huge the granite?

Because God meant mankind should set
The higher value on it.

ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AYR.

OH! had each Scot of ancient times,
Been, Jeany Scott, as thou art,
The bravest heart on English ground
Had yielded like a coward.

ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE,

SENT THE AUTHOR BY A TAILOR.

WHAT ails ye now, ye lousie b—h,
To thresh my back at sic a pitch?
Losh, man! hae mercy wi' your natch,
Your bodkin's bauld,

I didna suffer haff sae much

Frae Daddie Auld.

What tho' at times when I grow crouse,
I gie their wames a random pouse,
Is that enough for you to souse

Your servant sae?

Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse,

An' jag-the-flae.

King David o' poetic brief,

Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief,

As fill'd his after life wi' grief

An' bloody rants,

An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief

O'lang-syne saunts.

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