And if ye tax her or her mither,

By the Lord ye'se get them a' thegither!
And now, remember, Mr. Aiken,
Nae kind of licence out I'm taking:
Frae this time forth, I do declare,
I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair;
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle,
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle;
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit!
And a' my gates on foot I'll shank it.
The Kirk an' you may tak' you that,
It puts but little in your pat;
Sae dinna scrieve me in your buke,
Nor for my ten white shillings luke.

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it,
The day and date is under noted;
Then know all ye whom it concerns,
Subscripsi huic

Mossgiel, Feb. 22, 1789

ROBERT BURNS.

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACH.

WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR AT A TIME WHEN HE WAS GRIEV-
OUSLY TORMENTED BY THAT DISORDER.

My curse upon thy venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang;
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance;

Tearing my nerves wi' bitter

pang,

Like racking engines!

When fevers burn, or ague freezes,
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes;
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us,
Wi' pitying moan;

But thee-thou hell o' a' diseases,
Aye mocks our groan!

Adown my beard the slavers trickle!
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle,
As round the fire the giglets keckle
To see me loup;

While raving mad, I wish a heckle
Were in their doup.

O' a' the num❜rous human dools,
Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools,
Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools,
Sad sight to see!

The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools,
Thou bear'st the gree.

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell,
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell,
And ranked plagues their numbers tell,
In dreadfu' raw,

Thou, Toothach, surely bear'st the bell
Amang them a'!

O thou grim mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes of discord squeel, Till daft mankind aft dance a reel

In gore a shoe-thick;

Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal

VOL. I.

A towmond's Toothach!

X

THE WHISTLE.
A Ballad.

As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curious, I shall here give it.-In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony whistle, which at the commencement of the orgies he laid on the table, and whoever was last able to blow it, every body else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany and challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that name;,who, after three days and there nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table,

And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill.

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards lost the Whistle to Walter Riddel of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's.-On Friday, the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse the Whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton; Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the Whistle, and in whose family it had continued; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried off the hard-won honours of the field.

I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,
I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North,
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king,
And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.

Old Loda', still rueing the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall-
This Whistle's your challenge, in Scotland get

o'er,

And drink them to hell, sir, or ne'er see me more!'
Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell;
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill.
Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war,
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea,
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd,
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd;
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again have renew❜d.
Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of
flaw;

Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins;
And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines.
Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil,
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;

Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, And once more, in claret, try which was the man. 'By the gods of the ancients!' Glenriddel replies, Before I surrender so glorious a prize,

I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More', And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er.'

1 See Ossian's Caric-thura.

2 See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides.

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe- or his friend,

Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field, And knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd yield.

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair,
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care;
But for wine and for welcome not more known to
fame,
[dame.
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely

A bard was selected to witness the fray,
And tell future ages the feats of the day;
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen,
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been.
The dinner being over, the claret they ply,
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy;
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,
And the bands grew the tighter the more they

were wet.

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er;
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core,
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn,
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn.

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did.
Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage;
A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine!
He left the foul business to folks less divine.