Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail,

Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native shore; Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale,

The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more.

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave; No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her, For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave.

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast,
I haste with the storm to a far distant shore;
Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest,
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.

DELIA.'

AN ODE.

FAIR the face of orient day,
Fair the tints of op'ning rose;
But fairer still my Delia dawns,
More lovely far her beauty blows.

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
But, Delia, more delightful still
Steal thine accents on mine ear.

The flower-enamour'd busy bee
The rosy banquet loves to sip;
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip;

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove!
O let me steal one liquid kiss!

For, oh! my soul is parch'd with love!

Said to have been written at the inn of Brownhill, in the parish of

Closeburn, "a favourite resting-place of Burns."

ON THE DEATH OF J. hunter blAIR. 213

ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR

THE lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare,

Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave;
Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air,
And hollow whistl'd in the rocky cave.

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell,

Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train;'
Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd, well,'
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.'

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks,
The clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry sky,
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.

The paly moon rose in the livid east,

And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form,
In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast,
And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm.

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,

"Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd: Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war,
Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd,
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar,
And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.

"My patriot son fills an untimely grave!"

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried; "Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride;

"A weeping country joins a widow's tear,

The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; The drooping Arts surround their patron's bier, And grateful Science heaves the heartfelt sigh.—

Sir James Blair died July 1, 1787; he was a partner in Forbes' Bank, at Edinburgh.

The King's Park, at Holyrood House.-R. B.
St. Anthony's Chapel.-R. B.

* St. Anthony's Well.--R. B.

"I saw my sons resume their ancient fire;
I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow;
But, ah! how hope is born but to expire!
Relentless fate has laid their guardian low.—
"My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung,
While empty greatness saves a worthless name?
No; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue,
And future ages hear his growing fame.

"And I will join a mother's tender cares,

Thro' future times to make his virtues last,
That distant years may boast of other Blairs,"—

She said, and vanished with the sweeping blast

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF
THE FIRST EDITION, WHICH I PRESENTED TO
AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED.

ONCE fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear,
Sweet early object of my youthful vows,
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere;
Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows.

And when you read the simple, artless rhymes,
One friendly sigh for him,--he asks no more,
Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes,
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar.

THE POET'S WELCOME TO HIS ILLEGITIMATE

CHILD.'

THOU's Welcome, wean! mischanter' fa' me,

If ought of thee, or of thy mammy,

Shall ever danton me, or awe me,

My sweet wee lady,

Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me

Tit-ta, or daddy.

Wee image of my bonnie Betty,

I, fatherly, will kiss and dauts thee,

1 The mother was Elizabeth Paton, of Largieside, and her daughter

died in 1817, the wife of the overseer at Polkemmet.

2 Accident.

3 Fondle.

LETTER TO JOHN GOUDie.

As dear an' near my heart I set thee
Wi' as gude will,

As a' the priests had seen me get thee
That's out o' h-ll.

What tho' they ça' me fornicator,
An' tease my name in kintra clatter:
The mair they talk I'm kent the better,

E'en let them clash;

An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.

Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint,
My funny toil is now a' tint,
Sin' thou came to the warld asklent,'

Which fools may scoff at;

In my last plack thy part's be in't—
The better half o't.

An' if thou be what I wad hae thee,
An' tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
A lovin' father I'll be to thee,

If thou be spar'd;

Thro' a' thy childish years I'll e'e thee,
An' think't weel war'd.

Gude grant that thou may aye inherit
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,
An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit,
Without his failins,

"Twill please me mair to hear and see't,
Than stockit mailins.'

215

LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, KILMARNOCK, ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS.

O GOUDIE! terror o' the Whigs,

Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs,

Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,

Girnin' looks back,

Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues

Wad seize you quick.

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition,
Waes me! she's in a sad condition;

1 Asquint.

2 Farms.

• Grinning.

Fy, bring Black-Jock, her state physician,
To see her water;

Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion
She'll ne'er get better.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
But now she's got an unco ripple;'
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel,
Nigh unto death;

2

See how she fetches at the thrapple,
An' gasps for breath.

Enthusiasm's past redemption,
Gaen in a galloping consumption,
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption,
Will ever mend her;

Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption,
Death soon will end her.

'Tis you and Taylor3 are the chief,
Wha are to blame for this mischief;
But gin the Lord's ain focks gat leave,
A toom' tar-barrel

An' twa red peats wad send relief,

An' end the quarrel.

LETTER TO JAMES TAIT, GLENCONNER.'

AULD Comrade dear, and brither sinner,
How's a' the folk about Glenconner;

How do you this blae eastlin win',
That's like to blaw a body blin'?
For me, my faculties are frozen,
My dearest member nearly dozen'.
I've sent you here by Johnnie Simson,
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on;
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling,
An' Reid, to common sense appealing,
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled,
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled,
Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd,
An' in the depth of Science mir'd,

: Death-pain. 2 Throat.

4 Empty.

Dr. Taylor, of Norwich.

According to Burns, "the most intelligent farmer in the country."