Then patronize them wi’ your favor, And your petitioner shall ever— I had amaist said, ever pray, But that’s a word I need na say; For prayin, I hae little skill o’t, I’m baith dead-sweer, an’ wretched ill o’t; But I’se repeat each poor man’s pray’r, That kens or hears about you, sir— “May ne’er Misfortune’s gowling bark, Howl thro’ the dwelling o’ the clerk! May ne’er his genrous, honest heart, For that same gen’rous spirit smart! May Kennedy’s far-honour’d name Lang beet his hymeneal flame, Till Hamiltons, at least a dizzen, Are frae their nuptial labours risen: Five bonie lasses round their table, And sev’n braw fellows, stout an’ able, To serve their king an’ country weel, By word, or pen, or pointed steel! May health and peace, with mutual rays, Shine on the ev’ning 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, With complimentary effusion; But, whilst your wishes and endeavours Are 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 giv’n— If, in the vale of humble life, The victim sad of fortune’s strife, I, thro’ the tender-gushing tear, Should recognise my master dear; If friendless, low, we meet together, Then, sir, your hand—my Friend and Brother! Versified Note To Dr. Mackenzie, Mauchline Friday first’s the day appointed By the Right Worshipful anointed, To hold our grand procession; To get a blad o’ Johnie’s morals, And taste a swatch o’ Manson’s barrels I’ the way of our profession. The Master and the Brotherhood Would a’ be glad to see you; For me I would be mair than proud To share the mercies wi’ you. If Death, then, wi’ skaith, then, Some mortal heart is hechtin, Inform him, and storm him, That Saturday you’ll fecht him. Robert Burns. Mossgiel, An. M. 5790. The Farewell To the Brethren of St. James’ Lodge, Tarbolton. Tune—“Guidnight, and joy be wi’ you a’.” Adieu! a heart-warm fond adieu; Dear brothers of the mystic tie! Ye favoured, enlighten’d few, Companions of my social joy; Tho’ I to foreign lands must hie, Pursuing Fortune’s slidd’ry ba’; With melting heart, and brimful eye, I’ll mind you still, tho’ far awa.