THE LOYAL NATIVE VERSES.*

Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song,

Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell, pervade every throng,

With, Craken the attorney, and Mundell the quack, Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack.

BURNS-Extempore.

YE true 'Loyal Natives,' attend to my song,
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long;
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt;
But where is your shield from the darts of con-
tempt?

*At this period of our Poet's life, when political animosity was made the ground of private quarrel, the following foolish verses were sent as an attack on Burns and his friends for their politi cal opinions. They were written by some member of a club styling themselves the Loyal Natives of Dumfries, or rather by the united genius of that club, which was more distinguished for drunken loyalty, than either for respectability or poetical talent. The verses were handed over the table to Burns at a convivial meeting, and he instantly endorsed the subjoined reply. Reliques, p. 168.

TO J. LAPRAIK.

Sept. 13th, 1785.

GUID speed an' furder to you, Johny,
Guid health, hale han's, an' weather bony;
Now when ye're nickan down fu' cany

The staff o' bread,

May ye ne'er want a stoup o' brany

To clear your head.

May Boreas never thresh your rigs,
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs,
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs an' haggs

Like drivin' wrack;

But may the tapmast grain that wags

Come to the sack.

I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it,
But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it,
Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it

Wi' muckle wark,

An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it,

Like ony clerk.

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor,
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter,
Abusin' mè for harsh ill nature

But let the kirk-folk ring their bells,
Let's sing about our noble sels;
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills

To help, or roose us,

But browster wives* and whiskie stills,

They are the muses.

Your friendship, Sir, I winna quat it,
An' if ye mak' objections at it,

'Then han' in nieve some day we'll knot it,

An' witness take,

An' when wi' Usquebae we've wat it

It winna break.

But if the beast and branks be spar'd
Till kye be gaun without the herd,

An' a' the vittel in the yard,

An' theckit right,

Ae winter night.

I mean your ingle-side to guard

Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitæ

Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty,

Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty,

An' be as canty

As ye were nine years less than thretty,

Sweet ane an' twenty!

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast,
An' now the sinn keeks in the west,
Then I maun rin amang the rest

An' quat my chanter;

Sae I subscribe mysel in haste,

Your's, Rab the Ranter.

* Browster wives-Alehouse wives.

TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH,

ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER, WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED.

Sept. 17th, 1785.

WHILE at the stook the shearers cow'r

To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r,

Or in gulravage rinnin scow'r

To pass the time,

To you I dedicate the hour

In idle rhyme.

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet

On gown, an' ban', an' douse black bonnet,
Is grown right eerie now she's done it,

Lest they should blame her

An' rouse their holy thunder on it

And anathem her.

I own 'twas rash, an' rather hardy,
That I, a simple, countra bardie,
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy,

Wha, if they ken me,

Can easy, wi' a single wordie,

Louse h-ll upon me.

But I gae mad at their grimaces,

Their sighan, cantan, grace-prood faces,
Their three-mile prayers, an' hauf-mile graces,

Their raxan conscience,

Whas greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces

Waur nor their nonsense.

There's Gaun, miska't waur than a beast,
Wha has mair honour in his breast

Than mony scores as guid's the priest

Wha sae abus't him,

An' may a bard no crack his jest

What way they've use't him.

See him,† the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word an' deed,

An' shall his fame an' honour bleed

By worthless skellums,

An' not a muse erect her head

To cowe the blellums?

O Pope, had I thy satire's darts
To gie the rascals their deserts,
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts,
An' tell aloud

Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts

To cheat the crowd.

God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be,
Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be,
But twenty times, I rather would be,
An atheist clean,

Than under gospel colours hid be,

Just for a screen.

An honest man may like a glass,
An honest man may like a lass,

Gavin Hamilton, Esq.

+ The poet has introduced the two first lines of this stanza into the dedication of his works to Mr. Hamilton.