ADDRESS

TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,

On crowning his Bust, at Ednam, Roxburghshire,. with Bays.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green,
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian strains between:

While Summer, with a matron grace,
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace

The progress of the spiky blade:
While Autumn, benefactor kind

By Tweed erects his aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty fed: While maniac Winter rages o'er

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:

So long, sweet poet of the year,

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won ;

While Scotia, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

On seeing a wounded Hare limp by me, which a Fellow had just shot at.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

INHUMAN man! curse on thy barbarous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
The bitter little that of life remains :

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains To thee shall home, or food, or pastime, yield.

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest;
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom press'd.

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait

The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.

ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AFR.
BY ROBERT BURNS.

OH! had each Scor of ancient times,
Been JEANY SCOTT, as tho art,
The bravest heart on English ground,
Had yielded like a coward.

THE FAKENHAM GHOST.

BY ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

THE lawns were dry in Euston Park :
(Here truth inspires my tale)
The lonely foot-path, still and dark,
Led over hill and dale.

Benighted was an ancient dame,
And fearful haste she made
To gain the vale of Fakenham,
And hail its willow shade.

Her footsteps knew no idle stops,
But follow'd faster still;

And echo'd to the darksome copse,
That whisper'd on the hill.

Where clamorous rooks, yet scarcely hush'd,
Bespoke a peopled shade;

And many a wing the foliage brush'd,
And hovering circuits made.

The dappled herd of grazing deer,
That sought the shades by day,
Now started from her path with fear,
And gave the stranger way.

Darker it grew; and darker fears
Came o'er her troubled mind;
When now a short quick step she hears
Come patting close behind.

She turn'd; it stopp'd-nought could she see

Upon the gloomy plain;

But, as she strove the sprite to flee,
She heard the same again.

Now terror seized her quaking frame :
For, where the path was bare,
The trotting ghost kept on the same!
She mutter'd many a prayer.

Yet once again, amidst her fright,
She tried what sight could do;
When, through the cheating glooms of night,
A MONSTER stood in view.

Regardless of whate'er she felt,

It follow'd down the plain!
She own'd her sins, and down she knelt,
And said her prayers again.

Then on she sped; and hope grew strong,
The white park gate in view;
Which pushing hard, so long it swung
That ghost and all pass'd through.
Loud fell the gate against the post!

Her heart-strings like to crack:
For much she fear'd the grisly ghost
Would leap upon her back.

Still on, pat, pat, the goblin went,
As it had done before;

Her strength and resolution spent,
She fainted at the door.

Out came her husband, much surprised;
Out came her daughter dear;

Good-natured souls! all unadvised
Of what they had to fear.

The candle's gleam pierced through the night,
Some short space o'er the green ;
And there the little trotting sprite
Distinctly might be seen.

An ass's foal had lost its dam
Within the spacious park;
And, simple as the playful lamb,
Had follow'd in the dark.

No goblin he; no imp of sin:
No crimes had ever known.
They took the shaggy stranger in,
And rear'd him as their own.

His little hoofs would rattle round
Upon the cottage floor:

The matron learn'd to love the sound
That frighten'd her before.

A favorite the ghost became;
And 'twas his fate to thrive :
And long he lived, and spread his fame,
And kept the joke alive.

For many a laugh went through the vale,
And some conviction too:-

Each thought some other goblin tale,
Perhaps, was just as true.