Page:The poetical works of Robert Burns.djvu/129

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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
77
May Kennedy's far-honoured nameLang beet his hymeneal flame,Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen,Are frae their nuptial labours risen:Live bonie lasses round their table,And seven braw fellows, stout an' able,To serve their King and Country weel,By word, or pen, or pointed steel!May health and peace, with mutual rays,Shine on the evening o' his days;Till his wee, curlie John's ier-oe,When ebbing life nae mair shall flow,The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!'
 I will not wind a lang conclusion,Wi' complimentary effusion:But whilst your wishes and endeavoursAre blest with Fortune's smiles and favours,I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent,Your much indebted, humble servant.
 But if (which Pow'rs above prevent)That iron-hearted carl, Want,Attended in his grim advances,By sad mistakes, and black mischances,While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him,Make you as poor a dog as I am,Your humble servant then no more;For who would humbly serve the poor?But, by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n!While recollection's pow'r is given,If, in the vale of humble life,The victim sad of fortune's strife,I, thro' the tender gushing tear,Should recognize my Master dear,If friendless, low, we meet together,Then, sir, your hand-my Friend and Brother!

TO A LOUSE, ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET, AT CHURCH.

Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crawlin ferlie!Your impudence protects you sairly:I canna say but ye strunt rarely,Owre gauze and lace;Tho' faith, I fear ye dine but sparelyOn sic a place.
Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner,Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner,How dare ye set your fit upon her,Sae fine a lady!Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinnerOn some poor body.
Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle;There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattleWi' ither kindred, jumping cattle,In shoals and nations;Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettleYour thick plantations.
Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight,Below the fatt'rels, snug an' tight;Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be rightTill ye've got on it,The vera tapmost, tow'ring heightO' Miss's bonnet.
My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose out,As plump and gray as onie grozet;O for some rank, mercurial rozet,Or fell, red smeddum,I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't,Wad dress your droddum!
I wad na been surpris'd to spyYou on an auld wife's flannen toy;Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,On's wyliecoat;But Miss's fine Lunardi! fie,How daur ye do't?
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