*

I'd better gane and sair'd the king

At Bunker's Hill.

'Twas ae night lately in my fun,
I gaed a roving wi' the gun,

And brought a paitrick to the grun,
A bonnie hen,

And as the twilight was begun,

Thought nane wad ken.

The poor wee thing was little hurt ;
I straikit it a wee for sport,

Ne'er thinkin' they wad fash me for't;

But deil-ma-care!

Somebody tells the poacher-court

The hale affair.

Some auld us'd hands had ta'en a note,

That sic a hen had got a shot;

I was suspected for the plot;

I scorn'd to lie:

So gat the whissle o' my groat,

And pay't the fee.*

Regarding this poem, and the circumstances to which it alludes, we cannot do better than subjoin the following excellent remarks from the pen of Mr Lockhart.

"The poet had not, as he confesses, come unscathed out of the society of those persons of 'liberal opinions' with whom he consorted in Irvine (during his flax-dressing experiment); and he expressly attributes to their lessons, the scrape into which he fell soon after he put his hand to plough again.' He was compelled, according to the then all but universal custom of rural parishes in Scotland, to do penance in church, before the congregation, in consequence of the birth of an illegitimate child; and whatever may be thought of the propriety of such exhibitions, there can be no difference of opinion as to the culpable levity with which he describes the nature of his offence, and the still more reprehensible bitterness with which, in his epistle to Rankine, he inveighs against the clergyman, who in rebuking him only performed what was then a regular part of the clerical duty, and

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale,
And by my pouther and my hail,

And by my hen, and by her tail,

I vow and swear!

The

game shall

pay

o'er moor and dale, For this, niest year.

As soon's the clockin-time is by,
And the wee pouts begun to cry,
Feth, I'se hae sportin by and by,
For my gowd guinea;

a part of it that could never have been at all agreeable to the worthy man whom he satirizes under the appellation of Daddie Auld. The Poet's welcome to an Illegitimate Child was composed on the same occasion,-a piece in which some very manly feelings are expressed, along with others which it can give no one pleasure to contemplate. There is a song in honour of the same occasion, or a similar one, about the same period, The rantin dog the Daddie o't, which exhibits the poet as glorying, and only glorying in his shame.

"When I consider his tender affection for the surviving members of his own family, and the reverence with which he ever regarded the memory of the father whom he had so recently buried, I cannot believe that Burns has thought fit to record in verse all the feelings which this exposure excited in his bosom. To wave (in his own language) the quantum of the sin,' he who, two years afterwards, wrote the Cotter's Saturday Night, had not, we may be sure, hardened his heart to the thought of bringing additional sorrow and unexpected shame to the fireside of a widowed mother. But his false pride recoiled from letting his jovial associates guess how little he was able to drown the whispers of the still small voice; and the fermenting bitterness of a mind ill at ease within itself, escaped, (as may be too often traced in the history of satirists) in the shape of angry sarcasms against others, who, whatever their private errors might be, had at least done him no wrong.

"It is impossible not to smile at one item of consolation which Burns proposes to himself on this occasion:

The mair they talk, I'm kend the better;

E'en let them clash !'

This is indeed a singular manifestation of the last infirmity of noble minds." "-M.

Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye
For't in Virginia,

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb,

But twa-three draps about the wame

;

Scarce thro' the feathers ;

And baith a yellow George to claim,

And thole their blethers!

It pits me aye as mad's a hare;
So I can rhyme nor write nae mair ;
But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient :

Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,

Your most obedient.

SCOTS PROLOGUE,*

FOR MR SUTHerland's benefit night, dumfries.

WHAT needs this din about the town o' Lon'on,
How this new play and that new sang is comin!

*This was accompanied with the following letter: "Sir, I was much disappointed, my dear Sir, in wanting your most agreeable company yesterday. However, I heartily pray for good weather next Sunday; and whatever aerial Being has the guidance of the elements, may take any other half dozen of Sundays he pleases, and clothe them with

Vapours, and clouds, and storms,
Until he terrify himself

At combustion of his own raising.

I shall see you on Wednesday forenoon. In the greatest hurry. Monday Morning.

R. B."

Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported ?
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame ?

For comedy abroad he needna toil,

A fool and knave are plants of every soil;
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece
To gather matter for a serious piece ;

There's themes enough in Caledonian story,
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory.—

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless, fell? Where are the muses fled that could produce A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword 'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord; And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin? O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene, To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen! Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms. She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, To glut the vengeance of a rival woman; A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil, As able and as cruel as the Devil! One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, But Douglases were heroes every age : And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, A Douglas followed to the martial strife, Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds, Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!

As ye ha'e generous done, if a' the land Would take the muses' servants by the hand;

2 B 3

Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them,
And where ye justly can commend, commend them :
And aiblins when they winna stand the test,

Wink hard and say, the folks ha'e done their best!
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution
Ye'll soon ha'e poets o' the Scottish nation
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack,
And warsle Time and lay him on his back!

For us and for our stage should ony spier,
"Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here?
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow,
We have the honour to belong to you!

We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like,
But like good mithers, shore before ye strike.-
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us,
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness
We've got frae a' professions, setts and ranks ;
God help us! we're but poor-ye'se get but thanks.

THE DEAN OF FACULTY.

A NEW BALLAD.

Tune-"The Dragon of Wantley.”

DIRE was the hate at old Harlaw,
That Scot to Scot did carry;
And dire the discord Langside saw,
For beauteous, hapless Mary:
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot,

Or were more in fury seen, Sir,

Than 'twixt Hal* and Bobt for the famous job

Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir.

*The Hon. Henry Erskine.

Robert Blair of Aventon.