draw. On being pressed to stay, he mentioned, for the first time, his engagement with his fellow-traveller; and his noble host offering to send a servant to conduct Mr Nicol to the castle, Burns insisted on undertaking that office himself. He was, however, accompanied by a gentleman, a particular acquaintance of the Duke, by whom the invitation was delivered in all the forms of politeness. The invitation came too late; the pride of Nicol was inflamed into a high degree of passion, by the neglect which he had already suffered. He had ordered the horses to be put to the carriage, being determined to proceed on his journey alone; and they found him parading the streets of Fochabers, before the door of the inn, venting his anger on the postillion, for the slowness with which he obeyed his commands. As no explanation nor entreaty could change the purpose of his fellow-traveller, our poet was reduced to the necessity of separating from him entirely, or of instantly proceeding with him on their journey. He chose the last of these alternatives; and seating himself beside Nicol in the post-chaise, with mortification and regret, he turned his back on Gordon Castle where he had promised himself some happy days. Sensible, however, of the great kindnes of the noble family, he made the best return in his power, by the following poem.*

Streams that glide in orient plains,
Never bound by winter's chains;

This information is extracted from a letter of Dr Couper of Fochabers, to the Editor.

Glowing here on golden sands,
There commix'd with foulest stains
From tyranny's empurpled bands;
These, their richly-gleaming waves,
I leave to tyrants and their slaves;
Give me the stream that sweetly laves
The banks by Castle-Gordon.

Spicy forests, ever gay,

Shading from the burning ray
Helpless wretches sold to toil,
Or the ruthless native's way,
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil:
Woods that ever verdant wave,
I leave the tyrant and the slave,
Give me the groves that lofty brave
The storms, by Castle-Gordon.

Wildly here, without contro!,

Nature reigns and rules the whole;
In that sober pensive mood

Dearest to the feeling soul,

She plants the forest, pours the flood;

Life's poor day I'll musing rave,

And find at night a sheltering cave,

Where waters flow and wild woods wave,
By bonnie Castle-Cordon. †

Burns remained at Edinburgh during the greater part of the winter, 1787-8, and again entered into the society and dissipation of that metropolis. It appears that on the 31st day of December, he attended a meeting to celebrate the birth-day of the lineal descendant of the Scottish race of kings, the late unfortunate Prince Charles Edward. Whatever might have been the wish or purpose of the original

These verses our poet composed to be sung to Morag, a Highland air of which he was extremely fond,

institutors of this annual meeting, there is no reason to suppose that the gentlemen of whom it was at this time composed, were not perfectly loyal to the King on the throne. It is not to be conceived that they entertained any hope of, any wish for, the restoration of the House of Stuart; but, over their sparkling wine, they indulged the generous feelings which the recollection of fallen greatness is calculated to inspire; and commemorated the heroic valour which strove to sustain it in vain-valour worthy of a nobler cause, and a happier fortune. On this occasion our bard took upon himself the office of poetlaureate, and produced an ode, which though deficient in the complicated rhythm and polished versification that such compositions require, might on a fair competition, where energy of feelings and of expression were alone in question, have won the butt of Malmsey from the real laureate of that day.

The following extracts may serve as a specimen:

*

False flatterer, Hope, away!

Nor think to lure us as in days of yore:
We solemnize this sorrowing natal day,
To prove our loyal truth—we can no more;
And, owning Heaven's mysterious sway,
Submissive, low, adore.

Ye honoured mighty dead!

Who nobly perished in the glorious cause,
Your King, your country, and her laws!

From great Dundee, who smiling victory led

And fell a martyr in her arms,

(What breast of northern ice but warms?)

Ta bold Balmerino's undying name,

Whose soul of fire, lighted at heav'ns high flame, Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim.

Nor unreveng'd your fate shall be,

It only lags the fatal hour;

Your blood shall with incessant cry
Awake at last th' unsparing power.
As from the cliff, with thundering course,
The snowy ruin smokes along,

With doubling speed and gathering force,
Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the vale!
So vengeance

In relating the incidents of our poet's life in Edinburgh, we ought to have mentioned the sentiments of respect and sympathy with which he traced out the grave of his predecessor Ferguson, over whose ashes, in the Canongate church-yard, he obtained leave to erect an humble monument, which will be viewed by reflecting minds with no common interest, and which will awake in the bosom of kindred genius, many a high emotion.+ Neither should we pass over the continued friendship he experienced from a poet then living, the amiable and accomplished Blacklock. To his encouraging advice it was owing (as has already appeared) that Burns, instead of

In the first part of this ode there is some beautiful imagery, which the poet afterwards interwove in a happier manner, in: the Chevalier's Lament, (See vol. ii. No. XLV.). But if there were no other reasons for omitting to print the entire poem, the want of originality would be sufficient. A considerable part of it is a kind of rant, for which indeed precedent may be cited: in various other birth-day odes, but with which it is impossible to go along.

Sce vol. ii. No. XIX. and XX. where the Epitaph will be found, &c.

emigrating to the West Indies, repaired to Edinburgh. He received him there with all the ardour of affectionate admiration; he eagerly introduced him to the respectable circle of his friends; he consulted his interest; he blazoned his fame; he lavished upon him all the kindness of a generous and feeling heart, into which nothing selfish or envious ever found admittance. Among the friends to whom he introduced Burns was Mr Ramsay of Ochtertyre, to whom our poet paid a visit in the Autumn of 1787, at his delightful retirement in the neighbourhood of Stirling, and on the banks of the Teith. Of this visit we have the following particulars :

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"I have been in the company of many men of genius," says Mr Ramsay, some of them poets; but never witnessed such flashes of intellectual brightness as from him, the impulse of the moment, sparks of celestial fire! I never was more delighted, therefore, than with his company for two days, tête-a-tête. In a mixed company I should have made little of him; for, in the gamester's phrase, he did not always know when to play off and when to play on. *

* I not only proposed to him the writing of a play similar to the Gentle Shepherd, qualem decet esse sororem, but Scottish Georgics, a subject which Thomson has by no means exhausted in his Seasons. What beautiful landscapes of rural life and manners might not have been expected from a pencil so faithful and forcible as his, which could have exhibited scenes as familiar and interesting as those in the Gentle Shepherd, which every one who knows our swains in their unadulterated state, instantly recognises as true to