But first hang out, that she 'll discern
Your Hymeneal charter,
Then heave aboard your grapple-airn,
An', large upo' her quarter,

The point of misery festering in his heart,
And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward.
Such, such am I! undone!"

THOMSON'S Edward and Eleanora.

Come full that day.

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a',

Ye royal lasses dainty,

FAREWELL Old Scotia's bleak domains,
Far dearer than the torrid plains
Where rich ananas blow!

Heaven mak' you guid as weel as braw, Farewell a mother's blessing dear!

A brother's sigh! a sister's tear!

My Jean's heart-rending throe!
Farewell, my Bess! though thou 'rt bereft
Of my parental care!

A faithful brother I have left,
My part in him thou 'lt share!
Adieu too, to you too,

My Smith, my bosom frien';
When kindly you mind me,

Oh, then befriend my Jean!

What bursting anguish tears my heart!
From thee, my Jeanie, must I part!

Thou, weeping, answerest, "No!"
Alas! misfortune stares my face,
And points to ruin and disgrace,
I for thy sake must go!
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear,
A grateful, warm adieu!
I, with a much indebted tear,
Shall still remember you!

All hail then, the gale then,
Wafts me from thee, dear shore!

It rustles, and whistles

I'll never see thee more!

VERSES

LEFT IN THE ROOM WHERE THE POET SLEPT
ONE NIGHT AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S
HOUSE.

A DEDICATION TO GAVIN
HAMILTON, ESQ.

[It was from Gavin Hamilton, already mentioned as a writer to the signet at Mauchline, and who was principal tenant of the Earl of Loudoun, the chief landed proprietor of the neighbourhood, that the Poet, shortly after the death of his father, William Burness, took the sub-lease of the farm of Mossgiel. Apart from O THOU dread Power, who reign'st tion, it was upon the whole a most fortunate the farm itself, which proved an unlucky specula

[The friend here alluded to was the Rev. George Lawrie, D.D., at the time of their acquaintance fifty-seven years of age and minister of Loudoun.]

above,

I know Thou wilt me hear,
When for this scene of peace and love

I make my prayer sincere !

The hoary sire-the mortal stroke,
Long, long, be pleased to spare!
To bless his little filial flock,

And show what good men are.

She, who her lovely offspring eyes

With tender hopes and fears,
Oh, bless her with a mother's joys,
But spare a mother's tears!

Their hope, their stay, their darling
youth,

In manhood's dawning blush;
Bless him, Thou God of love and truth,
Up to a parent's wish!

The beauteous, seraph sister-band,
With earnest tears I pray,

connection, for the young lawyer was not only Burns's intimate and congenial friend, but one of his most sagacious admirers.]

EXPECT na, Sir, in this narration,
A fleechin' fletherin' dedication,
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' sprung
o' great an' noble bluid,
Because ye 're surnamed like his Grace;
Perhaps related to the race;
Then when I'm tired, and sae are ye,
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie,
Set up a face, how I stop short,
For fear your modesty be hurt.

This may do-maun do, Sir, wi' them
wha

Maun please the great folk for a wame.
fou;

For me! sae laigh I needna bow,
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough:
And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg:
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatterin',

Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand-It's just sic poet, an' sic patron.
Guide Thou their steps alway!

When, soon or late, they reach that coast,

O'er life's rough ocean driven, May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, A family in heaven!

The Poet, some guid angel help him,
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him,
He may do weel for a' he's done yet,
But only he's no just begun yet.

The Patron (Sir, ye maun forgi'e me,
I winna lie, come what will o' me),
On ev'ry hand it will allowed be,
He's just-nae better than he should be.

I readily and freely grant,

He downa see a poor man want;
What's no his ain he winna tak' it,
What ance he says he winna break it;
Ought he can lend he'll no refuse't,
Till aft his guidness is abused;
And rascals whyles that do him wrang,
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang:
As master, landlord, husband, father,
He does na fail his part in either.

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that;
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that;
It's naething but a milder feature
Of our poor, sinfu' corrupt nature:
Ye'll get the best o' moral works
'Mang black Gentoos and Pagan Turks,
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi,
Wha never heard of orthodoxy.
That he's the poor man's friend in need,
The gentleman in word and deed,
It's no through terror of d-mn-tion;
It's just a carnal inclination.

Morality, thou deadly bane,

Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain!
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is
In moral mercy, truth, and justice!

No-stretch a point to catch a plack;
Abuse a brother to his back;
Steal through a winnock frae a wh-re,
But point the rake that tak's the door;
Be to the poor like onie whunstane,
And haud their noses to the grunstane;
Ply every art o' legal thieving;
No matter-stick to sound believing.

I'll warrant then, ye 're nae deceiver,
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer.

O ye wha leave the springs of Calvin,
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin'!
Ye sons of heresy and error,

Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror!
When Vengeance draws the sword in
wrath,

And in the fire throws the sheath;
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom,
Just frets till Heaven commission gi’cs

him:

While o'er the harp pale Mis'ry means,
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones,
Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans!

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression,
I maist forgat my dedication;
But when divinity comes 'cross me,
My readers still are sure to lose me.

So, Sir, ye see 't was nae daft vapour,
But I maturely thought it proper,
When a' my works I did review,
To dedicate them, Sir, to You:
Because (ye need na tak' it ill)
I thought them something like yoursel'.

Then patronize them wi' your favour,
And your petitioner shall ever-—
I had amaist said, ever pray,
But that's a word I need na say:
For prayin' I ha'e little skill o't;
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched illo't;
But I'se repeat each poor man's prayer,
Sir-

Learn three-mile prayers, an' half-mile That kens or hears about you,

graces,

Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang wry

faces; Grunt up a solemn, lengthened groan, And damn a' parties but your own ;

"May ne'er Misfortune's growling bark
Howl through the dwelling o' the Clerk!
May ne'er his generous, honest heart,
For that same generous spirit smart!

Alga berth wind postces with mutual rays, passion of his life; his love for her at all times

The morn that warns th' approaching ALL hail! inexorable lord!