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Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.

But, Oh! what crowds in every land,
Are wretched and forlorn,
Through weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.

VII.

Many and sharp the numerous ills
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse and shame!

And man, whose heaven-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man,

Makes countless thousands mourn!

VIII.

See yonder poor, o'erlabor'd wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

IX.

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave,
By Nature's law design'd,
Why was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty, or scorn?

Or why has man the will and power
To make his fellow mourn?

X.

Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast;
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, honest man,

Had never, sure, been born,

Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

XI.

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O Death! the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best!

Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn;
But, Oh! a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn!

WINTER:

A DIRGE.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

I.

THE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;(1)

(1) Blow.

Or, the stormy north sends driving forth

The blinding sleet and snaw;(1)

While tumbling brown, the burn(2) comes down,

And roars frae bank to brae ;(3) And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day.

II.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast*,"
The joyless winter-day,

Let others fear-to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;

The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!

III.

Thou Power supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,
Because they are thy will!

Then all I want-(0, do thou grant
This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.

(1) Snow. (2) Water, a rivulet.
(3) A declivity, a precipice, the slope of a hill.

*Dr. Young.

T

TO RUIN.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

I.

ALL hail, inexorable lord!
At whose destruction-breathing word,
The mightiest empires fall!
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,
The ministers of grief and pain,
A sullen welcome, all!
With stern-resolved, despairing eye,
I see each aimed dart;
For one has cut my dearest tie,
And quivers in my heart.

Then lowering, and pouring,

The storm no more I dread; Though thickening and blackening, Round my devoted head.

II.

And thou, grim power, by life abhorr'd, While life a pleasure can afford,

Oh! hear a wretch's prayer!
No more I shrink, appall'd, afraid;
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,
To close this scene of care!
When shall my soul, in silent peace,
Resign life's joyless day;

My weary heart its throbbings cease,
Cold mouldering in the clay;

No fear more, no tear more,
To stain my lifeless face,
Enclasped, and grasped
Within thy cold embrace!

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

I.

EDINA! Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and towers, Where once, beneath a monarch's feet, Sat legislation's sovereign powers! From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the lingering hours, I shelter in thy honor'd shade.

II.

Here wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy trade his labor plies;
There architecture's noble pride

Bids elegance and splendor rise;
Here justice, from her native skies,
High wields her balance and her rod;
There learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks science in her coy abode.

III.
Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,
With open arms the stranger hail ;

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