LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE.

The following verses, in the handwriting of Burns, were copied from a bank-note, in the possession of Mr. James F. Gracie, of Dumfries. The note is of the Bank of Scotland, and is dated on the 1st of March, 1780.

WAE worth thy power, thou cursed leaf!
Fell source o' a' my woe and grief!
For lack o' thee I've lost my lass!
For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass.
I see the children of affliction
Unaided, thro' thy curs'd restriction.
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile,
Amid his hapless victim's spoil,
And for thy potence vainly wish'd,
To crush the villain in the dust.

For lack o' thee I leave this much-lov'd shore,
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.

BURNS-EXTEMPORE.

YE true 'Loyal Natives," attend to my song,
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long;
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt:
But where is your shield from the darts of contempt!

REMORSE."

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,
Beyond comparison, the worst are those

That to our folly, or our guilt, we owe.

The political fever ran high in 1794, and a member of a club at Dumfries, called the Loyal Natives, in a violent paroxysm, produced some verses, to which Burns gave the extempore reply.

2 I entirely agree with that judicious philosopher, Mr. Smith, in his excellent "Theory of Moral Sentiments," that remorse is the most painful sentiment that can embitter the human bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may bear up tolerably well under those calamities in the procurement of which we ourselves have had no hand; but when our own follies or crimes have made us miserable and wretched, to bear up with manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper penitential sense of our misconduct, is a glorious effort of self-command.-R. B.

IN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE.

In every other circumstance, the mind
Has this to say-"It was no deed of mine;"
But when to all the evil of misfortune
This sting is added-" Blame thy foolish self!"
Or worser far, the pangs of keen Remorse;
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt-
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others;
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us;
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!
O burning hell! in all thy store of torments,
There's not a keener lash!

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,

Can reason down its agonizing throbs;
And, after proper purpose of amendment,
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace!
O, happy! happy! enviable man!

O glorious magnanimity of soul!

SIR,

TO

243

YOURS this moment I unseal,
And faith I'm gay and hearty!

To tell the truth an' shame the Deil,
I am as fu' as Bartie:1

But foorsday, Sir, my promise leal
Expect me o' your party,

2

If on a beastie I can speel,"

Or hurl in a cartie.

R. B.

"IN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE."

In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer,
Point out a cens'ring world, and bid me fear;
Above that world on wings of love I rise,

I know its worst-and do that worst despise.
"Wrong'd, injur'd, shunn'd, unpitied, unredrest,
The mock'd quotation of the scorner's jest,"
Let Prudence' direst bodements on me fall,
Clarinda, rich reward! o'erpays them all!

A proverb for a drinker.

a Climb.

"THOUGH FICKLE FORTUNE."
THOUGH fickle Fortune has deceiv'd me,

She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill;
Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me,
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still.-

I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able,
But if success I must never find,

Then come, Misfortune, I bid thee welcome,
I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind.

"I BURN, I BURN.""

"I BURN, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd corn,
By driving winds the crackling flames are borne,"
Now maddening, wild, I curse that fatal night;
Now bless the hour which charm'd my guilty sight
In vain the laws their feeble force oppose:
Chain'd at his feet they groan, Love's vanquish'd foes;
In vain Religion meets my sinking eye;

I dare not combat-but I turn and fly;

Conscience in vain upbraids th' unhallowed fire;
Love grasps his scorpions-stifled they expire!
Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne,
Your dear idea reigns and reigns alone:
Each thought intoxicated homage yields,
And riots wanton in forbidden fields!

By all on high adoring mortals know!
By all the conscious villain fears below!
By your dear self!-the last great oath I swear;
Nor life nor soul were ever half so dear!

The above was an extempore, under the pressure of a heavy train of misfortunes, which, indeed, threatened to undo me altogether. It was just at the close of that dreadful period before mentioned (March, 1784); and though the weather has brightened up a little with me since, yet there has always been a tempest brewing round me in the grim sky of futurity, which I pretty plainly see will some time or other, perhaps ere long, overwhelm me, and drive me into some doleful dell, to pine in solitary, squalid wretchedness. However, as I hope my poor country Muse, who, all rustic, awkward, and unpolished as she is, has more charms for me than any other of the pleasures of life beside--as I hope she will not then desert me, I may end, then learn to be, if not happy, at least easy, and south a sang to soothe my misery.-R. B. 2 To Clarinda.

TAM, THE CHAPMAN.'

As Tam, the Chapman, on a day
Wi' Death forgather'd by the way,

Weel pleas'd, he greets a wight sae famous,
And Death was nae less pleased wi' Thomas,
Wha cheerfully lays down the pack,
And there blaws up a hearty crack;
His social, friendly, honest heart,
Sae tickled Death they could na part:
Sae after viewing knives and garters,

Death takes him hame to gie him quarters.

TO DR. MAXWELL, ON MISS JESSY STAIG'S
RECOVERY.

MAXWELL, if merit here you crave,
That merit I deny :

You save fair Jessy from the grave!
An Angel could not die.

ON A SICK CHILD.

Now health forsakes that angel face,
Nae mair my Dearie smiles;
Pale sickness withers ilka grace,
And a' my hopes beguiles.

The cruel Powers reject the prayer
I hourly mak for thee;

Ye Heavens, how great is my despair,
How can I see him die!

TO THE OWL.

BY JOHN M'CREDDIE.2

SAD Bird of Night, what sorrow calls thee forth,
To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour?
Is it some blast that gathers in the north,

Threat'ning to nip the verdure of thy bow'r?

1 Mr. Kennedy, who is styled "Chapman," in allusion to his con nexion with a mercantile house, as agent.

Mr. M'Creddie is supposed to be a mythical personage, the ver ses having been found in the hand-writing of Burns.

Is it, sad Owl, that Autumn strips the shade,
And leaves thee here, unshelter'd and forlorn?
Or fear that Winter will thy nest invade?

Or friendly Melancholy bids thee mourn?
Shut out, lone Bird, from all the feather'd train,
To tell thy sorrows to th' unheeding gloom;
No friend to pity when thou dost complain,
Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home.
Sing on, sad mourner! I will bless thy strain,
And pleased in sorrow listen to thy song:
Sing on, sad mourner! to the night complain,
While the lone echo wafts thy notes along.

Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek
Sad piteous tears in native sorrows fall?
Less kind the heart, when Sorrow bids it break?
Less happy he who lists to pity's call?

Ah no, sad Owl! nor is thy voice less sweet,

That Sadness tunes it, and that Grief is there; That Spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou canst repeat; And Sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair.

Nor that the treble songsters of the day,

Are quite estranged, sad Bird of night! from thee;
Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray,
When darkness calls thee from thy reverie.

From some old tower, thy melancholy dome,
While the grey walls and desert solitudes
Return each note, responsive, to the gloom
Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods;

There hooting, I will list more pleased to thee,
Than ever lover to the nightingale;
Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with misery,
Lending his ear to some condoling tale.

992

"WAS E'ER PUIR POET."

"WAS e'er puir Poet sae befitted,

The maister drunk-the horse committed:
Puir harmless beast! tak thee nae care,

Thou'lt be a horse, when he's nae mair (mayor)."

1 Burns once visited Carlisle; and while he was in the condition which his verses describe, the Mayor put his horse, which had trespassed on a corporation meadow, into the "pound."