TO GAELUS,ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS POEMS.

Whan cottars guid hae said their pray'rs,
An' wee tots sleep awa' their cares,
I musin', whyles think how it fares
Wi' friens a few;
But ane 'buin a', my wish aft shares--
I hint at you:

Wha (gifted wi the saul o' Burns,
Whom monie a son o' wisdom mourns)
Now soaring, saint--like, sunk by turns,
Ay proud to gie
Man maxims rare, that folly spurns,
Appall'd to see.

Yes, ''wordy, wise, auld--farran'd'' Gaelus,
Prince o' our poetizin fallows,
The serious truths ye bauldly tell us,
E'en gar us tremble;
Wha scorns yer warks, deserves a gallows;
I'll no' dissemble!

Stern Winter's bleerin' frightfu form
Now maks us creep our ingles warm;
When readin' your true--pictur'd ''Storm,''
I think o' thae,
Wretched, expos'd to ilka harm,
Wha houseless stray.

But neist your soothin' ''Broken Heart''
Can dry the tear grief bids to start;
Sic honied truths few Bards impart,
In these rank times;
They try owre aft, wi' strainin' art,
To gild curs'd crimes.

Your ''Brook's'' a type o' human kind,
Warm frae a Bard's religious mind;
Sic similies are weel design'd,
The warl to cheer;
And warn the wicked, weak, or blind,
What course to steer.

The Peasant trudgin' hame at een,
Wi' heart untainted, thoughts serene,
Aft minds me o' yoursel, and Jean,
An weeans fair;
Sic lines gie pamper'd chiels the spleen,
But deil may care!

Hail, nature's priest! unlike the lave,
Wha light as air, or idly grave,
Seek to bepraise some coward slave,
In spite o' truth;
Or wi' lewd rhymes, try to deprave
Believing youth.

Hale be thy pipe, Dunover's Bard!
The day's at haun ye'll meet reward,
For puir are ye; and times are hard,
And claithin' dear;
But thousans mae will ye regard,
Ere this neist year.

Yes Erin lang will bless yer name;
Ay fain to raise her sons to fame;
Ye'll put the guilty aft to shame,
As sure as fate:
Rise, An'rew! fair--earn'd honours claim,
An' be na blate!

For me, while I can think or luik,
Whare'er I hurkle in a nuik,
I'll pore wi' pleasure owre yer buik,
An' bless the time,
When Rab's advice ye fearfu' tuik,
To print ilk rhyme.

Ye've whyles glanc'd owre his plaintive sang,
Studied auld Cumbria's glens amang,
Whar monie a burnie rowes alang,
An' mountain rill;
Ah! dear--lov'd scenes! whare'er I gang,
Ye haunt me still.

Whare Thames majestic seeks the sea,
I've stray'd; and by the streamless Cree,
Whan grass--plot, cottage, shrub, or tree,
Were seldom seen;
Eden, my thoughts ay turn'd to thee,
Mid' meadows green.

I've liv'd, by warldlings aft dispis'd;
By lovers o' the Muse whyles priz'd;
But ne'er, no! ne'er could be advis'd,
Tho' weak my lays,
To wink at folly's whims disguis'd,
Or vice to praise.

Whyles, lad, I trust we'll meet thegether,
In spite o' fortune, or rough weather;
An' ablins comfort ane anither,
In frienship blest:
We suin slip aff, we ken no' whither,
Let's hope the best!

Life's like the journey o' a day,
And pleasure leads us aft astray;
Let friendship chace dull care away,
As on we drive:
I'm An'rew's frien, I proudly say,
Lang may he thrive!

Nae thought ye've wrote, ye e'er need blot,
Nor carpin' bodies heed a jot;
Content in hard--earn'd, hame--spun coat,
Man needs nae mair;
An' virtuous folk, howe'er forgot,
Are ay Heav'n's care!