English

Fy let us a' to K[irkcudbright],
For there will be bickerin there;
For M — — 's light horse are to muster,
And O, how the heroes will swear!
And there will be M — — commander,
And G — — the battle to win;
Like brothers they'll stand by each other,
Sae knit in alliance and kin.

And there will be black-nebbit Johnie,
The tongue o' the trump to them a';
An he get na H-ll for his haddin,
The Deil gets nae justice ava.
And there will be K — — 's birkie,
A boy no sae black at the bane;

Wham will we send to London town,
To Parliament, and a' that,
Wha maist in a' the country round,
For worth and sense may fa' that. —
For a' that, and a' that,
Thro' Galloway and a' that,
Whilk is the Laird, or belted Knight,
That best deserves to fa' that?

[Tune, For a' that, and a' that]

At the election of Magistrates for Dumfries, 1794, John McMurdo, Esqr., was chosen Provost and a Mr. Swan one of the Baillies; and at the Entertainment usually given on the occasion Burns, seeing the Provost's Supporters on the Bench, took his pencil and wrote the following.

Baillie Swan, Baillie Swan,
Let you do what you can,
God ha' mercy on honest Dumfries:
But e'er the year's done,
Good Lord! Provost John
Will find that his Swans are but Geese.

III

Dear Cimon Gray,
The other day,
When you sent me some rhyme,
I could not then just ascertain
Its worth, for want of time.

But now today, good Mr. Gray,
I've read it o'er and o'er,
Tried all my skill, but find I'm still
Just where I was before.

We auld wives' minions gie our opinions,
Solicited or no;
Then of its fau'ts my honest thoughts

II

Dulness, with redoubted sway,
Has seized the wits of Symon Gray.

Symon Gray,
You're dull to-day.

Mr Er — — ne —

Collected, Harry stood awee,
Then open'd out his arm, man;
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e,
And ey'd the gathering storm, man:
Like wind-driv'n 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.

He clench'd his pamphlets 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;
And what his common sense came short,
He eked out wi' law, man.

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the Poor.

I

My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected friend,
No mercenary Bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,