Lord Advocate

     He clenched his pamphlet in his fist,
     He quoted and he hinted,
     Till, in a declamation-mist,
     His argument he tint it: 
     He gaped for’t, he graped for’t,
     He fand it was awa, man;
     But what his common sense came short,
     He eked out wi’ law, man.

     Mr. Erskine

     Collected, Harry stood awee,
     Then open’d out his arm, man;

     [Footnote 1:  William Dunbar, W. S., of the Crochallan Fencibles,
      a convivial club.]

     His Lordship sat wi’ ruefu’ e’e,
     And ey’d the gathering storm, man: 
     Like wind-driven hail it did assail’
     Or torrents owre a lin, man: 
     The Bench sae wise, lift up their eyes,
     Half-wauken’d wi’ the din, man.

Inscription For The Headstone Of Fergusson The Poet^1

     No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay,
     “No storied urn nor animated bust;”
     This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way,
     To pour her sorrows o’er the Poet’s dust.

     Additional Stanzas

     She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate;
     Tho’ all the powers of song thy fancy fired,
     Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in state,
     And, thankless, starv’d what they so much admired.

     This tribute, with a tear, now gives
     A brother Bard—­he can no more bestow: 
     But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives,
     A nobler monument than Art can shew.

     Inscribed Under Fergusson’s Portrait

     Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleased,
     And yet can starve the author of the pleasure. 
     O thou, my elder brother in misfortune,
     By far my elder brother in the Muses,
     With tears I pity thy unhappy fate! 
     Why is the Bard unpitied by the world,
     Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?

     [Footnote 1:  The stone was erected at Burns’ expenses in
     February—­March, 1789.]

Epistle To Mrs. Scott

     Gudewife of Wauchope—­House, Roxburghshire.

     Gudewife,

     I Mind it weel in early date,
     When I was bardless, young, and blate,
     An’ first could thresh the barn,
     Or haud a yokin’ at the pleugh;
     An, tho’ forfoughten sair eneugh,
     Yet unco proud to learn: 
     When first amang the yellow corn
     A man I reckon’d was,
     An’ wi’ the lave ilk merry morn
     Could rank my rig and lass,
     Still shearing, and clearing
     The tither stooked raw,
     Wi’ claivers, an’ haivers,
     Wearing the day awa.

     E’en then, a wish, (I mind its pow’r),
     A wish that to my latest hour
     Shall strongly heave my breast,
     That I for poor auld Scotland’s sake