The poor wee thing was little hurt ; Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't; But, deil-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'd to lie ; So gat the whissle o' my groat, An' pay 't the fee. But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 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, For my gowd guinea: Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye For 't, in Virginia, Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! 'Twas neither broken wing nor 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 me ay as mad's a hare; But pennyworths again is fair, When time's expedient: Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, Your most obedient. John Rankine, to whom this Epistle is addressed, lived at Adam-Hill, in Ayrshire, and merited the praise of rough and ready-witted," which Burns bestowed. The "dream which was making a noise in the country side," may be related as an instance of his caustic humour. Lord Kit is said, was in the practice of calling all his familiar acquaintances "brutes," and sometimes "damned brutes."-" Well, ye brute, how are ye to-day, brute?" was his usual mode of salutation. Once, in company, his lordship having indulged in this rudeness more than his wont, turned to Rankine and exclaimed, "Brute, are ye dumb? have ye no queer, sly story to tell us?"—" I have nae story," said Rankine, "but last night I had an odd dream."-"Out with it, by all means," said the other."Aweel, ye see," said Rankine, "I dreamed I was dead, and that for keeping other than good company on earth I was damned. When I knocked at hell-door, wha should open it but the deil; he was in a rough humour, and said Wha may ye be, and what's your name?'—' My name,' quoth I, ́is John Rankine, and my dwelling-place was Adam-Hill.'—'Gae wa' wi',' quoth Satan, 'ye canna be here; ye're ane of Lord K- -'s damned brutes-hell's fou o' them already!"" This sharp rebuke, it is said, polished for the future his lordship's speech. The figurative conclusion of the Epistle will admit of some verses from the Poet's " Address to an illegitimate Child," by way of illustration. "Thou's welcome, wean; mishanter fa' me, If aught of thee or of thy mammy My sweet wee lady; Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me "An' if thou be what I wad ha'e thee, If thou be spar'd; Thro' a' thy childish years I'll e'e thee, "Gude grant that thou may ay inherit 'Twill please me mair to hear an' see it, Than stocket mailens." "The The "sweet wee lady" of these verses was sonsie, smirking dear-bought Bess" of another of the Poet's epistles. Bess grew up and became " a wife and eke a mother." Her death is thus announced in the Scots Magazine :-" December 8, 1817. Died, Elizabeth Burns, wife of Mr. John Bishop, overseer at Polkemmet, daughter of the celebrated Robert Burns, and the subject of some of his most beautiful lines." She is said to have resembled the Poet more than any other of his children. ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink, Come, mourn wi' me! Our billie's gien us a' a jink, An' owre the sea. Wha dearly like a random-splore, Nae mair he'll join the merry roar In social key; For now he's taen anither shore, An' owre the sea! The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him That's owre the sea! O fortune, they hae room to grumble! But he was gleg as onie wumble, That's owre the sea! Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, He was her laureat monie a year, That's owre the sea! He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west A jillet brak his heart at last, Ill may she be ! So, took a birth afore the mast, An' owre the sea. To tremble under fortune's cummock, So row't his hurdies in a hammock, An' owre the sea. |