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An' yet content in darkness sit,

Wha shun the light, Wad let them see to 'scape the pit That lang dark night.

But fareweel, Rab, I maun awa,'
May He that made us keep us a',
For that would be a dreadfu' fa',
And hurt us sair,

Lad, ye wad never mend ava,

Sae, Rab, tak' care.]

Lines written on a Bank-note.
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 auld Scotland more.
R. B.-Kyle.

[The Bank-note, on the back of which these characteristic lines were endorsed, came into the hands of Mr. James F. Gracie, banker in Dumfries: he knew the hand-writing of the Poet, and preserved it as a curiosity. The note is of the Bank of Scotland, and is dated so far back as the 1st March, 1780. The lines exhibit the strong marks of the poet's vigorous pen, and are evidently an extempore effusion of his characteristic feelings. They bear internal proof of their having been written at that interesting period of his life when he was on the point of leaving the country, on account of the unfavourable manner in which his proposals for marrying his "Bonny Jean," were at first received by her parents.]

A Dream.

Thoughts, words, & deeds, the statute blames with reason; But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason.

On reading, in the public papers, the "Laureate's Ode," with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep than he imagined himself transported to the birth-day levee; and in his dreaming fancy made the following ADDRESS.-BURNS.

I.

GUID-MORNIN' to your Majesty!

May Heav'n auginent your blisses,

[Thomas Warton was then in this servile and ridiculous office. His ode for June 4, 1786, begins as follows:

"When Freedom nurs'd her native fire
In ancient Greece, and rul'd the lyre,
Her bards disdainful, from the tyrant's brow
The tinsel gifts of flattery tore,
But paid to guiltless power their willing vow,
And to the throne of virtuous kings, &c.

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On these verses, the rhymes of the Ayr-shire bard must be allowed to form an odd enough commentary.-CHAMBERS.

[The poet alludes here to the immense curtailment of the British dominions, which took place only three years before the writing of this poem, viz. at the close of the Ameri can war, when, by the treaties of 1783, the independence of the thirteen United States was acknowledged, and the extensive territory of Louisiana, acquired by the treaty of 1763, was again restored to Spain.]

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And softer flame,

solicited, in vain, to have it omitted in the Edin-
burgh edition. The suppression of the poem But thoughtless follies laid him low,
would have been of no benefit to the bard.
And stain'd his name!
The ear of his Majesty, like that of Pitt and
Dundas, was not to be charmed by sweet sounds:
he who mistook Pye for a poet was not likely
to regard Burns as one. Nor were his ministers

more merciful than their master to the tuneful
and the inspired: interest and influence were
every thing, and genius was as nothing. The
merits of the "Dream" are of a high order-
the gaiety as well as keenness of the satire, and
the vehement rapidity of the verse, are not the
only attractions. Even the prose introduction
is sarcastic-the Poet, on reading the Laureate's
ode, fell asleep a likely consequence, for the
birth-day strains of those times were something

of the dullest.

The poem seems prophetic; the young potentate of Wales lived to rue that he had "broken Diana's pales, and rattled dice with Charlie;" nor was the Bishop of Osnaburg long in getting a wife, as well as a ribbon to his lug, but this did not hinder him from going wrong in the very way intimated by the Poet. The hymeneal charter, which he proposes to the Royal Sailor, in the affair of the "glorious galley," or the early marriage which he recommends to the "bonnie blossoms-the royal lasses dainty "might have been beneficial to Britain. The last verse of the poem seems to intimate the coming of some great change among the nations: had not the island spirit stood firm, a scattering, such as France and other kingdoms endured, might have taken place.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

A Bard's Epitaph.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool?
Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,
That weekly this area throng?
O, pass not by!

But, with a frater-feeling strong,
Here, heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career

Wild as the wave?

Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear,
Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,

Reader, attend-whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,
In low pursuit;

Know, prudent, cautious self-control
Is wisdom's root.

["Whom did the poet intend should be thought of as occupying that grave, over which, after modestly setting forth the moral discernment and warm affections of the 'poor inhabitant ́ it is supposed to be inscribed, that

"Thoughtless follies laid him low

And stain'd his name?'

Who but himself-himself anticipating the too probable termination of his own course? Here is a sincere and solemn avowal—a public declaration from his own will-a confession at once devout, poetical, and human-a history in the shape of a prophecy! What more was required of the biographer than to have put his seal to the writing, testifying that the foreboding had been realized, and the record was authentic!" WORDSWORTH.]

Remorse.

A FRAGMENT.

OF all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,
That press the soul, or wring the mind with an-
Beyond comparison, the worst are those [guish,
That to our folly or our guilt we owe.
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 lo'ed us,
Nay, more-that very love their cause of ruin!
Oh, 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?
Oh, happy, happy, enviable man!
Oh, glorious magnanimity of soul!

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alluded to in the Life. They are preceded by the following remarks of the poet:-]

I entirely agree with that judicious philosopher Adam 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.

The Twa Dogs.

A TALE.

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil,*
Upon a bonnie day in June,

When wearing thro' the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar,
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure;
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.
His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar;
But tho' he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride-nae pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin',
Even wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin'.
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.

The tither was a ploughman's collie,
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland sang, t
Was made lang-syne-Lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his towzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gaucie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl.

[Kyle, or Coil, the native province of the poet, derives its name from Coilus, King of the Picts, alluded to in the Notes to the Vision.]

+ Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal.-R. B.

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,
An' unco pack an' thick thegither;
Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd an' snowkit,
Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit;
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,
An' worry'd ither in diversion;
Until wi' daffin weary grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down
And there began a lang digression
About the lords o' the creation.

CESAR.

I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have;
An' when the gentry's life I saw,
What way poor bodies liv'd ava.

Our Laird gets in his racked rents,
His coals, his kain, an' a' his stents;
He rises when he likes himsel❜;
His flunkies answer at the bell;
He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse;
He draws a bonnie silken purse
As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks,
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks.

Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling,
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin,
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan
Wi' sauce, ragouts, an' sic like trashtrie,
That's little short o' downright wastrie.
Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner
Better than ony tenant man
His honour has in a' the lan';

An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,
I own its past my comprehension.

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CESAR.

But then, to see how ye're negleckit,
How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit!
L-d, man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle;
They gang as saucy by poor folk
As I wad by a stinkin' brock.
I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day,
An' mony a time my heart's been wae,
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,
How they maun thole a factor's snash:
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear,
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear;
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble,
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!*

I see how folk live that hae riches;
But surely poor folk maun be wretches?

LUATH.

They're no sae wretched's ane wad think;
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink :
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,
The view o't gies them little fright.
Then chance an' fortune are sae guided,
They're ay in less or mair provided;
An' tho' fatigued wi' close employment,
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.
The dearest comfort o' their lives,
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a' their fire-side;
An' whyles twalpennnie worth o' nappy
Can mak' the bodies unco happy;
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk and State affairs:
They'll talk o' patronage an' priests,
Wi' kindling fury in their breasts;
Or tell what new taxation's comin',
An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns,
They get the jovial, ranting kirns,
When rural life, o' ev'ry station,
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.
That merry day the year begins
They bar the door on frosty win's;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,
And sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill,
Are handed round wi' right guid will;
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse,
The young anes rantin' thro' the house,—
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.†

[* The factor was the person into whose hands the affairs of Burns's father fell, after his misfortunes. In his letter to Dr. Moore, written in 1787, the Puet says, "My indignation, yet boils at the recollection of the scoundrel factor's inso

Still it's owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play'd.
There's monie a creditable stock
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k,
Are riven out baith root and branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi' some gentle master,
Wha aiblins, thrang a parliamentin',
For Britain's guid his saul indentin'-

CÆSAR.

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it;
For Britain's guid! guid faith! I doubt it.
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him,
An' saying aye or no's they bid him:
At operas an plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading;
Or may be, in a frolic daft,
To Hague or Calais tak's a waft,
To mak a tour, an' tak' a whirl,
To learn bon ton, an' see the worl'.
There, at Vienna or Versailles,
He rives his father's auld entails;
Or by Madrid he takes the route,
To thrum guitars, an' fecht wi' nowte;
Or down Italian vista startles,
Wh-re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles;
Then bouses drumly German water,
To mak' himsel' look fair and fatter,
An' clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival signoras.
For Britain's guid!--for her destruction!
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction!

LUATH.

Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate
They waste sae mony a braw estate!
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd
For gear to gang that gate at last!
O would they stay aback frae Courts,
An' please themsels wi' countra sports,
It wad for ev'ry ane be better,
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter!
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies,
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows;
Except for breakin' o' their timmer,
Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer,
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock,
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk.
But will ye tell me, Master Cæsar,
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure?
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them,
The vera thought o't need na fear them.

CESAR.

L-d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em.

lent threatening letters, which used to set us all in tears."]

[Many a hundred time have I seen this description verified to the letter-ETTRICK SHEPHERD.]

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