CXLI.

VERSES

TO JOHN RANKINE.

[With the "rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine," of Adamhill, in Ayrshire, Burns kept up a will o'-wispish sort of a correspondence in rhyme, till the day of his death: these communications, of which this is one, were sometimes graceless, but always witty. It is supposed, that those lines were suggested by Falstaff's account of his ragged recruits:--

"I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat!"]

Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl, Was driving to the tither warl' A mixtie-maxtie motley squad, And mony a guilt-bespotted lad; Black gowns of each denomination, And thieves of every rank and station, From him that wears the star and garter, To him that wintles in a halter: Asham'd himsel' to see the wretches, He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, "By G--d, I'll not be seen behint them, Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present them, Without, at least, ae honest man, To grace this d--d infernal clan." By Adamhill a glance he threw, "L--d G--d!" quoth he, "I have it now, There's just the man I want, i' faith!" And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath.

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