Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink,

Wi' jads or masons;

An' whyles, but ay owre late, I think

Braw sober lessons.

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,
Commen' me to the Bardie clan ;
Except it be some idle plan

O' rhymin' clink,

They ever think.

The devil-haet, that I sud ban,

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin',
Nae cares tae gie us joy or grievin':

But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

An' while ought's there,

Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin',

An' fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,

At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie!

Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure,

She's seldom lazy.

Haud tae the Muse, my dainty Davie:
The warl' may play you monie a shavie;
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye,

Tho' e'er sae puir,

Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie

Frae door tae dopr.

THE LASS O BALLOCHMYLE.

"Twas even-the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang;
The Zephyr wanton'd round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In every glen the mavis sang,

All nature listening seemed the while, Except where green-wood echoes rang, Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

With careless step I onward stray'd,
My heart rejoiced in nature's joy,
When musing in a lonely glade,

A maiden fair I chanced to spy;
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like nature's vernal smile,
Perfection whisper'd passing by,
Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!

Fair is the morn in flowery May,
And sweet is night in Autumn mild;
When roving thro' the garden gay,
Or wandering in the lonely wild :
But woman, nature's darling child!

There all her charms she does compile ;

Ev'n there her other works are foil'd
By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

O, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,

Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed
That ever rose in Scotland's plain!
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain
With joy, with rapture, I would toil;
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slipp❜ry steep,
Where fame and honours lofty shine:
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,.
Or downward seek the Indian mine;
Give me the cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks or till the soil,

And every day have joys divine,
With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

THOU lingering star, with less'ning ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,,

Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallow'd grove,

Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love!
Eternity will not efface,

Those records dear of transports past;

Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning, green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west,
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my mem❜ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the' impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

LINES ON AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER.

THIS wot ye all whom it concerns,

I Rhymer Robin, alias Burns,

October twenty-third,

A ne'er to be forgotten day,
Sae far I spreckled up the brae,
I dinner'd wi' a Lord.

I've been at drucken writers' feasts,
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests,
Wi' rev'rence be it spoken;

I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, When mighty Squireships of the quorum, Their hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi' a Lord-stand out my shin,
A Lord-a Peer-an Earl's son,
Up higher yet my bonnet;

And sic a Lord-lang Scotch ells twa,
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a',
As I look o'er my sonnet.

But oh for Hogarth's magic pow'r!
To show Sir Bardy's willyart glowr,

And how he star'd and stammer'd,
When goavan, as if led wi' branks,
An' stumpan' on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlour hammer'd.

I sidling shelter'd in a nook,
An' at his Lordship steal't a look,
Like some portentous omen;
Except good-sense and social glee,
An' (what surpris'd me) modesty,
I marked nought uncommon.

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great,
The gentle pride, the lordly state,
The arrogant assuming;

The feint a pride, nae pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state that I could see,

Mair than an honest ploughman.