Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,

The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An gar the tattered gypsies pack
Wi' a' their bastarts on their back!
Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,
An' in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han' assigned your seat
'Tween Herod's hip an Polycrate,—
Or if you on your station tarrow,
Between Almagro and Pizarro,

A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't ;
An' till ye come-
-Your humble servant,

June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790.

BEELZEBUB.

In the Scots Magazine for February, 1818, "The Address of Beelzebub" made its appearance-printed, I have since been assured from the manuscript of Burns, and headed thus :-"To the Right Honourable the Earl of Breadalbyne, President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23d of May last, at the Shakspeare, Covent-Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five hundred Highlanders, who, as the society were informed by Mr. Mof A- -s, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and masters, whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands

of Mr. M'Donald of Glengarry to the wilds of Canada in search of that fantastic thing-LIBERTY."

The person who made the communication signs himself R. W. and writes from Ayr: some of his observations are sensible and to the point.-" You will find several indifferent enough lines in it, and one or two rather rough expressions, but nothing I think that can offend any true old-fashioned unsophisticated Scotsman, or even the more fastidious southron who has not lost all remembrance of Fielding, or who has learned to estimate the irresistible naïveté of the Author of Waverley. It has never been printed before, and I consider it a duty to preserve from oblivion every production which the public has a claim to inherit as the legacy of departed genius, unless its publication be offensive to right feeling or derogatory to the talents and character of the author. You will recognize in it something of the compound vigour of Burns's genius: the rustic but keen severity of his sarcasm, and the manly detestation of oppression real or supposed, which so strongly characterized him. For your entire satisfaction, I enclose the original in his own hand-writing: it was given to me by a friend who got it many years ago from the well-known, readywitted Rankine,' the Poet's early and intimate acquaintance."

ΤΟ

JOHN TAYLOR.

WITH Pegasus upon a day,

Apollo weary flying,

Through frosty hills the journey lay,
On foot the way was plying.

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus
Was but a sorry walker ;
To Vulcan then Apollo goes,
To get a frosty calker.

Obliging Vulcan fell to work,
Threw by his coat and bonnet,
And did Sol's business in a crack;
Sol paid him with a sonnet.

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead,
Pity my sad disaster;

My Pegasus is poorly shod

I'll pay you like my master.

Ramages, 3 o'clock, (no date.)

ROBERT BURNS.

To John Brown, Esq., Ayr, the admirers of Burns are indebted for this very singular petition and the following explanation. The Poet, it seems, during one of his journeys over his ten parishes as an exciseman, had arrived at Wanlockhead on a winter day, when the roads were slippery with ice, and Jenny Geddes (or Peg Nicholson) kept her feet with difficulty. The blacksmith of the place was busied with other pressing matters in the forge, and could not spare time for “frosting" the shoes of the Poet's mare, and it is likely he would have proceeded on his dangerous journey had he not bethought himself of propitiating the son of Vulcan with verse. He called for pen and ink, wrote these verses to John Taylor, a person of influence in Wanlockhead; and when he had done, a gentleman of the name of Sloan, who accompanied him, endorsed it in prose in these words:"J. Sloan's best compliments to Mr. Taylor, and it would be doing him and the Ayrshire Bard a particular favour, if he would oblige them instanter with his agreeable company. The road has been so slippery that the riders and the brutes were equally in danger of getting some of their bones broken. For the Poet, his life and limbs are of some consequence to the world; but for poor Sloan, it matters very little what may become of him. The whole of this business is to ask the favour of getting the horses' shoes sharpened.” On the receipt of this, Taylor spoke to the smith; the smith flew to his tools, sharpened the horses' shoes, and, it is recorded, lived thirty years to say he had never been "weel paid but ance, and that was by a poet, who paid him in money, paid him in drink, and paid him in verse.

LAMENT

OF

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS,

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING

I.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white

Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,

And glads the azure skies;

But nought can glad the weary wight

That fast in durance lies.

II.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,

Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bow'r,

Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis wild wi' mony a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest:
In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.