My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a';" That thou hast nurst: They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, Yet here to crazy age we're brought, An' think na, my auld, trusty servan', A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane We've worn to crazy years thegither; Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, TO A LOUSE. ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie! Tho', faith, I fear ye dine but sparely Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, Sae fine a lady! Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, The vera tapmost, towering height My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose I'd gie ye sic a hearty dose o't, Wad dress your droddum! I wad na been surprised to spy But Miss's fine Lunardi, — fie! O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, O, wad some power the giftie gie us What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, A BARD'S EPITAPH. Is there a whim-inspirèd fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, And owre this grassy heap sing dool, Is there a bard of rustic song Gae somewhere else and seck your dinner Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, On some poor body. That weekly this area throng? Swith! in some beggar's haffet squattle: But, with a frater-feeling strong, There ye may creep an' sprawl an' sprattle In shoals and nations; Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle Here heave a sigh. Is there a man whose judgment clear 8 Lunardi made two ascents in his bal loon from the Green of Glasgow in 1785. bonnets was named from the aeronaut 7 My plough-team now are all thy It appears that a certain fashion of ladies' thildren. ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. When upward-springing, blithe, to greet WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, The purpling East. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield Adorns the histie stibble-field, There, in thy scanty mantle clad, In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Unfolds her tender mantle green, While maniac Winter rages o'er So long, sweet Poet of the year, LEFT BY THE AUTHOR IN THE ROOM He's gane! he's gane! he's frae us torn! WHERE HE SLEPT AT THE HOUSE OF A REVEREND FRIEND. O THOU dread Power, who reign'st above! The hoary sire, - the mortal stroke, And show what good men are. Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, The beauteous, seraph sister-band, When, soon or late, they reach that coast, 9 Edwin is the hero's name in Beattie's Minstrel. The ae best fellow e'er was born! Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, Ye hills! near neebors o' the starns, Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! Or foaming strang, wi hasty stens, Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; The first o' flowers. down the dance; the rest of the sisters, the brother, the poet, and the other guests mixed in it. It was a delightful family scene for our poet, then lately introduced to the world. His mind was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas were 1 The first time Robert heard the spin-left in the room where he slept. — GILnet played upon was at the house of Dr. BERT BURNS. Lawrie, then minister of Loudoun. Dr. Lawrie had several daughters: one of them played; the father and mother led 4 That is, eagles; so called, from their flying without that motion of the wings common to most other birds. 1 At dawn, when every grassy blade Droops with a diamond at its head; And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, My Matthew mourn! At even, when beans their fragrance shed, For thro' your orbs he's ta'en his flight, I' the rustling gale; Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood! Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Mourn, clamouring craiks, at close o' day, Tell thae far worlds wha lies in clay, Ye houlets frae your ivy bower, Wail through the dreary midnight hour O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! And frae my een the drapping rains Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year! Thy gay, green, flowery tresses shear Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, Wide o'er the naked world declare Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of light! Mourn, empress of the silent night! Ne'er to return. O Henderson! the man, the brother! Like thee, where shall I find another Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great, ON SENSIBILITY. Blooming in the sunny ray: Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 5 Captain Henderson was a retired soldier, of agreeable manners and upright character, who mingled in the best society of Edinburgh. In a letter to Dr. Moore, February, 1791, Burns speaks as follows: "The Elegy on Captain Henderson is a tribute to the memory of a man I loved much. Poets have in this the same advantage as Roman Catholics: they can be of service to their friends after they have passed the bourne where all other kindness ceases to be of any avail. Whether, after all, either the one or the other be of any real service to the dead, is, I fear, very problematical; but I am sure they are highly gratifying to the liv ing." 7 Burns one day received a letter from Mrs. Dunlop, of which some of the sentiments charmed him so much, that he forthwith wrote these verses on sensibil LINCLUDEN ABBEY. AN EVENING VIEW OF THE RUINS. YE holy walls, that, still sublime, Resist the crumbling touch of time; How strongly still your form displays The piety of ancient days! As thro' your ruins hoar and grey,— Ruins yet beauteous in decay,The silvery moonbeams trembling fly; The forms of ages long gone by Crowd thick on Fancy's wondering eye, And wake the soul to musings high. Even now, as lost in thought profound, I view the solemn scene around, And, pensive, gaze with wistful eyes, The past returns, the present flies; Again the dome, in pristine pride, Lifts high its roof and arches wide, That, knit with curious tracery, Each gothic ornament display. The high-arch'd windows, painted fair, Show many a saint and martyr there. As on their slender forms I gaze, Methinks they brighten to a blaze! With noiseless step and taper bright, What are yon forms that meet my sight? Slowly they move, while every eye Is heavenward raised in ecstasy. "Tis the fair, spotless, vestal train, That seek in prayer the midnight fane. And, hark! what more than mortal sound Of music breathes the pile around? 'Tis the soft-chanted choral song, Whose tones the echoing aisles prolong; Till, thence return'd, they softly stray O'er Cluden's wave, with fond delay; Now on the rising gale swell high, And now in fainting murmurs die: The boatmen on Nith's gentle stream, That glistens in the pale moonbeam, Suspend their dashing oars, to hear The holy anthem, loud and clear; Each worldly thought awhile forbear, And mutter forth a half-form'd prayer. But, as I gaze, the vision fails, The bird of eve flits sullen by, TO THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE HOUSE. GUIDWIFE: I MIND it weel, in early date, Even then a wish, (I mind its power,) Shall strongly heave my breast,- I turn'd the weeding-beuk aside, My envy e'er could raise, I knew nae higher praise. 8 Lincluden Abbey, the beautiful ru Like frost-work touch'd by southern gales; ins of which prompted these beautiful The altar sinks, the tapers fade, ity, and sent them to his "dear and much honoured friend." lines, was founded in the time of King Malcolm the Fourth, on the banks of the river Cluden, not far from Dumfries. 9 This was Mrs. Scott of Wauchope, a lady of much taste and talent; a painter and a poetess. Her sketches with the pencil are said to have been very beautiful; and her skill in verse is approved by published specimens. 1 But, again, in the sense of without. See page 578, note 1. |