"We're owre like those who think it fit To let them see down to the pit "But farewell, Rab, I maun awa': Lad, ye wad never mend ava, No wonder that Burns said his success had produced a shoal of ill-spawned monsters in Scottish verse; the tailor was, however, one of the worst. I have heard it surmised that Burns wrote the monitory letter himself for the sake of the answer. To be able to write down to the level of the verses I have quoted-and they are the best is a compliment to his genius, but not a just one. LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE. WAE worth thy power, thou cursed leaf, To crush the villain in the dust. For lack o' thee, I leave this much lov'd shore, R. B. The Bank-ncte, on the back of which these characteristic lines were endorsed, came into the hands of James Gracie, banker in Dumfries: he knew the handwriting of the Poet, and preserved it as a curiosity. There is no day of the month or year, but it is dated from Kyle, and was probably written during the year 1786: these lines point to that period : "For lack o' thee I've lost my lass, For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass. For lack o' thee, I leave this much lov'd shore, Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more." A DREA M. "Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason; But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason." [On reading, in the public papers, the "Laureat's Ode," with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and in his dreaming fancy made the following " Address.”] GUID-MORNIN' to your Majesty! May Heaven augment your blisses, A humble poet wishes! My bardship here, at your levee, Is sure an uncouth sight to see, I see ye're complimented thrang, "God save the king!"'s a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said ay; The poets, too, a venal gang, Wi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, But ay unerring steady, On sic a day. For me! before a monarch's face, Ev'n there I winna flatter; For neither pension, post, nor place, So, nae reflection on your grace, There's monie waur been o' the race, And aiblins ane been better Than you this day. 'Tis very true, my sov'reign king, Your royal nest, beneath your wing, Far be't frae me that I aspire Ye've trusted ministration To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, Wad better fill'd their station Than courts yon day. And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, Her broken shins to plaister; Your sair taxation does her fleece, Till she has scarce a tester; For me, thank God, my life's a lease, Nae bargain wearing faster, Or, faith! I fear, that, wi' the geese, I shortly boost to pasture I' the craft some day. I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, An' boats this day. Adieu, my Liege! may freedom geck And gie her for dissection! In loyal, true affection, To pay your Queen, with due respect, My fealty an' subjection This great birth-day. |