But now the cot is bare and cauld,
Its branchy shelter 's lost and gane,
And scarce a stinted birk is left

To shiver in the blast its lane."

"Alas!" said I, "what ruefu' chance
Has twined ye o' your stately trees?
Has laid your rocky bosom bare?

Has stripp'd the cleeding o' your braes?
Was it the bitter eastern blast,

That scatters blight in early spring?
Or was 't the wil'fire scorch'd their boughs,
Or canker-worm wi' secret sting?"
"Nae eastlin blast," the sprite replied;
"It blew na here sae fierce and fell,
And on my dry and halesome banks
Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell:
Man! cruel man!" the Genius sigh'd-
As through the cliffs he sank him down-
"The worm that gnaw'd my bonnie trees,
That reptile wears a ducal crown."

THE BOOK-WORMS.

Written in a splendidly bound, but worm-eaten copy of Shakspeare, the property of a nobleman.

THROUGH and through the inspired leaves,

Ye maggots, make your windings;
But, oh! respect his lordship's taste,
And spare his golden bindings.

LINES ON STIRLING.

Written on a pane of glass, on visiting this ancient seat of Royalty, in 1787.
HERE Stuarts once in glory reign'd,

And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd;
But now unroof'd their palace stands,
Their sceptre 's sway'd by other hands;
The injured Stuart line is gone,
A race outlandish fills their throne.

THE REPROOF.

The lines on Stirling were considered imprudent by one of the Poet's friends, when he immediately wrote the "Reproof" underneath.

RASH mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy name

Shall no longer appear in the records of fame;

Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible, Says the more 'tis a truth, sir, the more 'tis a libel?

THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON.

As cauld a wind as ever blew,
A caulder kirk, and in 't but few;
As cauld a minister's e'er spak,
Ye'se a' be het ere I come back.!

THE LEAGUE AND COVENANT.

This was spoken in reply to one who sneered at the sufferings of Scotland for conscience' sake.

The Solemn League and Covenant

Cost Scotland blood-cost Scotland tears:

But it seal'd freedom's sacred cause

If thou 'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers.

INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET.

THERE's death in the cup-sae beware!
Nay, more there is danger in touching;
But wha can avoid the fell snare?

The man and his wine's sae bewitching!

THE TOAD-EATER.

Spoken in reply to one who was talking largely of his noble friends.

WHAT of earls with whom you have supt,

And of dukes that you dined with yestreen?

Lord! a louse, sir, is still but a louse,

Though it crawl on the curls of a queen.

When on a visit to St. Mary's Isle, the Earl of Selkirk requested Burns to
say grace at dinner; he complied in these words.
SOME hae meat, and canna eat,

And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thanket.

IMPROMPTU ON WILLIE STEWART. These verses were written on a tumbler which was in the possession of the late Sir Walter Scott.

YOU'RE Welcome, Willie Stewart,
You're welcome, Willie Stewart;
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May,
That's half sae welcome's thou art.

Come, bumpers high, express your joy,

The bowl we maun renew it;

The tappit-hen gae bring her ben,

To welcome Willie Stewart.

May foes be strang, and friends be slack,
Ilk action may he rue it;

May woman on him turn her back,
That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart.

WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS,
On the occasion of a national thanksgiving for a naval victory.

YE hypocrites! are these your pranks?-
To murder men, and gie God thanks!
For shame! gie o'er, proceed no further-
God won't accept your thanks for murther!

A GRACE BEFORE MEAT.

O THOU, in whom we live and move,
Who mad'st the sea and shore;
Thy goodness constantly we prove,
And grateful would adore.

And if it please thee, Power above,
Still grant us, with such store,
The friend we trust, the fair we love,
And we desire no more.

EPITAPH ON MR. W. CRUICKSHANKS.

HONEST Will's to heaven gane,
And mony shall lament him;
His faults they a' in Latin lay,
In English nane e'er kent them.

EPITAPH ON W

STOP thief! dame Nature cried to Death,
As Willie drew his latest breath;
You have my choicest model taen,
How shall I make a fool again?

ON THE SAME.

REST gently, turf, upon his breast,
His chicken heart's so tender;-
But rear huge castles on his head,
His skull will prop them under.

THE END.