Burns in one of his poems attributes to Fergusson 'glorious pairts.' He was certainly a youth of remarkable powers, although 'pairts' rather than high genius seems to express his calibre, he can hardly be said to sing, and he never soars. His best poems, such as 'The Farmer's Ingle,' are just lively daguerreotypes of the life he saw around him--there is nothing ideal or lofty in any of them. His 'ingle-bleeze' burns low compared to that which in 'The Cottar's Saturday Night' springs up aloft to heaven, like the tongue of an altar-fire. He stuffs his poems, too, with Scotch to a degree which renders them too rich for even, a Scotch- man's taste, and as repulsive as a haggis to that of an Englishman. On the whole, Fergusson's best claim to fame arises from the influence he exerted on the far higher genius of Burns, who seems, strangely enough, to have preferred him to Allan Ramsay. THE FARMER'S INGLE. Et multo imprimis hilarans couvivia Baccho, Ante locum, si frigus erit.--VIRG. 1 Whan gloamin gray out owre the welkin keeks;[1] Whan Batio ca's his owsen[2] to the byre; Whan Thrasher John, sair dung,[3] his barn-door steeks,[4] An' lusty lasses at the dightin'[5] tire; What bangs fu' leal[6] the e'enin's coming cauld, An' gars[7] snaw-tappit Winter freeze in vain; Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe an' bauld, Nor fley'd[8] wi' a' the poortith o' the plain; Begin, my Muse! and chant in hamely strain. 2 Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill, Wi' divots theekit[9] frae the weet an' drift, Sods, peats, and heathery turfs the chimley[10] fill, An' gar their thickening smeek[11] salute the lift. The gudeman, new come hame, is blithe to find, Whan he out owre the hallan[12] flings his een, That ilka turn is handled to his mind; That a' his housie looks sae cosh[13] an' clean; For cleanly house lo'es he, though e'er sae mean. 3 Weel kens the gudewife, that the pleughs require A heartsome meltith,[14] an' refreshin' synd[15] O' nappy liquor, owre a bleezin' fire: Sair wark an' poortith downa[16] weel be joined. Wi' butter'd bannocks now the girdle[17] reeks; I' the far nook the bowie[18] briskly reams; The readied kail[19]stands by the chimley cheeks, An' haud the riggin' het wi' welcome streams, Whilk than the daintiest kitchen[20]nicer seems. 4 Frae this, lat gentler gabs[21] a lesson lear: Wad they to labouring lend an eident[22]hand, They'd rax fell strang upo' the simplest fare, Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand. Fu' hale an' healthy wad they pass the day; At night, in calmest slumbers dose fu' sound; Nor doctor need their weary life to spae,[23] Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound, Till death slip sleely on, an' gie the hindmost wound.