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 among the historians of Scotland.] REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected, A name which to love was the mark of a true heart, 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; heartily join, The Queen, and the rest of the gentry; Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine- Their title 's avowed by my country. But why of this epocha make such a That gave us the Hanover stem; But, loyalty, truce! we're on dangerous ground, Who knows how the fashions may alter? The doctrine to-day that is loyalty sound, I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, A trifle scarce worthy your care; But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard, Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, And ushers the long dreary night; But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright. 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 To his My fathers have fallen to right it; erate son, 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 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?”] den, Now gay in hope explore the paths of men; See, from his cavern, grim Oppression rise, And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes : Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry. Mark ruffian Violence, distained with crimes, Rousing elate in these degenerate times; While subtle Litigation's pliant tongue Hark! injured Want recounts th' unlistened tale, 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, Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; Where to the whistling blast and waters' 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 deplore. mine, 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 Wi' perfect scunner, 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 " On sic a dinner? is nothing more nor less than a conglomeration Poor devil! see him owre his trash, FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face, Painch, tripe, or thairm: As lang 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 : Sweetly deckt with pearly dew The morning rose may blow; But cold successive noontide blasts May lay its beauties low. Fair on Isabella's morn The sun propitious smiled; But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguiled. Fate oft tears the bosom chords Were it in the Poet's power, Strong as he shares the grief That pierces Isabella's heart, To give that heart relief! Dread Omnipotence alone Can heal the wound He gave ; Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes To scenes beyond the grave. Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, And fear no withering blast; There Isabella's spotless worth Shall happy be at last. -0 TO CLARINDA. [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 cousin to Lord Craig. Mrs. McLehose died in the October of 1841, at the age of eighty-three, in Edinburgh. The letters of Sylvander to Clarinda have repeatedly been published.] CLARINDA, mistress of my soul, To what dark cave of frozen night We part-but, by these precious drops, No other light shall guide my steps Till thy bright beams arise. She, the fair sun of all her sex, TO CLARINDA, WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKINGGLASSES. FAIR Empress of the Poet's soul, And Queen of Poetesses; Clarinda, take this little boon, This humble pair of glasses. And fill them high with generous juice, "The whole of human kind!" "To those who love us !" second fill; |