Dim-seen, through rising mists, and Still in prayers for King George I most ceaseless showers, The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, lowers. Still through the gap the struggling river toils, And still below, the horrid cauldron boils POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, WITH A PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE. [Mr. Tytler, who was born in 1711, and who died in 1792, was well known in his day as the author of a vindication of Mary Queen of Scots. His father was Lord Woodhouselee, while his grandson, Patrick Fraser Tytler, was destined to win distinction for himself by taking his place the historians of Scotland.] among REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart, A name which to love was the mark of a But now 't is despised and neglected. Though something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal; A poor friendless wanderer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wanderer were royal. My fathers that name have revered on a throne; ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF [The subject of this elegy was the elder brother of Lord Melville, Robert Dundas of Arniston, who was born in 1713 and died in December 1787. In 1760 he was appointed President of the Court of Session. To his eldest son, who was for many years Lord Advocate of Scotland, Burns, out of a feeling of mingled That name should he scoffingly slight it. courtesy and sympathy, sent a copy of this My fathers have fallen to right it; Those fathers would spurn their degen erate son, den, Now gay in hope explore the paths of poem, but receiving in return not a word of Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome acknowledgment, wrote in scorn thus to Dr. Geddes-"It has some tolerable lines in it, but the incurable wound in my pride will not suffer me to correct, or even peruse it. I sent a copy of it, with my best prose letter, to the son of the great man-the theme of the piece-by the hands of one of the noblest men in God's world, Alexander Wood, surgeon, when, behold! his solicitorship took no more notice of my poem or me than if I had been a strolling fiddler, who had made free with his lady's name over a silly new reel. Did the gentleman imagine that I looked for any dirty gratuity?"] men; See, from his cavern, grim Oppression And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes : Mark ruffian Violence, distained with Rousing elate in these degenerate times; While subtle Litigation's pliant tongue Hark! injured Want recounts th' un- And much-wronged Misery pours th' unpitied wail. Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling To you I sing my grief-inspired strains : waves ! Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, roar Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll! Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, Pale Scotia's recent wound I may Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings Oh, heavy loss, thy country ill could To mourn the woes my country must TO A HAGGIS. [No Scotchman would do otherwise than resent Or fricassée wad mak' her spew On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, a reminder, which may nevertheless be here offered Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view, to the English reader, that the national dish rapturously sung of by Burns as "The Haggis " is nothing more nor less than a conglomeration of minced offal of mutton, oatmeal and suet, duly seasoned with salt and pepper, and thoroughly boiled up to one luscious whole inside a sheep's stomach. While it satisfies the stomach of every true Scot, to which a sufficiently ample portion of it may be transferred, it would probably turn that of every other inhabitant of the three kingdoms. The poem which follows first made its appearance in the January number for 1787 of the Scot's Magazine.] FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face, Painch, tripe, or thairm: As lang's my arm. While through your pores the dews distil His knife see rustic Labour dight, And then, oh, what a glorious sight, Then horn for horn they stretch an' De'il tak' the hindmost! on they drive, Is there that o'er his French ragout, Through bloody flood or field to dash, But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, He'll mak' it whissle; Ye Powers, wha mak' mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, VERSES ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER THE DEATH [The death of John M'Leod of Raasay occurred on the 20th July, 1787, and these lines were probably penned by Burns during a brief stay at Mauchline, immediately after his return from his first visit to Edinburgh.] SAD thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy alarms: Death tears the brother of her love [Clarinda was the fanciful name under which Mrs. McLehose corresponded with Burns, whose companion pseudonym was Sylvander. They became known to one another in Edinburgh, during the winter of 1787; and the Poet, shortly after they had made each other's acquaintance, having been confined to his room with a bruised leg, from the effects of an accident, they fell into a rapturous interchange of letters, expressive on both sides of the most romantic attachment. Clarinda at the time of their meeting was a married woman, but separated from her husband. Her maiden name was Agnes Craig, she being | TO CLARINDA, WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKING GLASSES. FAIR Empress of the Poet's soul, And Queen of Poetesses; Clarinda, take this little boon, This humble pair of glasses. |