The Hero of these artless strains, A lowly bard was he, Who sung his rhymes in Coila’s plains, With meikle mirth an’glee; Kind Nature’s care had given his share Large, of the flaming current; And, all devout, he never sought To stem the sacred torrent. He felt the powerful, high behest Thrill, vital, thro’ and thro’; And sought a correspondent breast, To give obedience due: Propitious Powers screen’d the young flow’rs, From mildews of abortion; And low! the bard—a great reward— Has got a double portion! Auld cantie Coil may count the day, As annual it returns, The third of Libra’s equal sway, That gave another Burns, With future rhymes, an’ other times, To emulate his sire: To sing auld Coil in nobler style With more poetic fire. Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful song, Look down with gracious eyes; And bless auld Coila, large and long, With multiplying joys; Lang may she stand to prop the land, The flow’r of ancient nations; And Burnses spring, her fame to sing, To endless generations! Song—Willie Chalmers Mr. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetic epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as follows:— Wi’ braw new branks in mickle pride, And eke a braw new brechan, My Pegasus I’m got astride, And up Parnassus pechin; Whiles owre a bush wi’ donwward crush, The doited beastie stammers; Then up he gets, and off he sets, For sake o’ Willie Chalmers. I doubt na, lass, that weel ken’d name May cost a pair o’ blushes; I am nae stranger to your fame, Nor his warm urged wishes. Your bonie face sae mild and sweet, His honest heart enamours, And faith ye’ll no be lost a whit, Tho’ wair’d on Willie Chalmers. Auld Truth hersel’ might swear yer’e fair, And Honour safely back her; And Modesty assume your air, And ne’er a ane mistak her: And sic twa love-inspiring een Might fire even holy palmers; Nae wonder then they’ve fatal been To honest Willie Chalmers. I doubt na fortune may you shore Some mim-mou’d pouther’d priestie, Fu’ lifted up wi’ Hebrew lore, And band upon his breastie: But oh! what signifies to you His lexicons and grammars; The feeling heart’s the royal blue, And that’s wi’ Willie Chalmers. Some gapin’, glowrin’ countra laird May warsle for your favour; May claw his lug, and straik his beard, And hoast up some palaver: My bonie maid, before ye wed Sic clumsy-witted hammers, Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp Awa wi’ Willie Chalmers.