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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
fuss,

That gave us the Hanover stem;
If bringing them over was lucky for us,
I'm sure 't was as lucky for them.

But, loyalty, truce! we're on dangerous ground,

Who knows how the fashions may

alter?

The doctrine to-day that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring us a halter.

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
ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ., OF
ARNISTON.

[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;
Those fathers would spurn their degen- President of the Court of Session.

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?”]

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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;
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,
As guileful Fraud points out the erring
way:

While subtle Litigation's pliant tongue
The life-blood equal sucks of Right and
Wrong;

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

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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

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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,
of minced offal of mutton, oatmeal and suet,
As feckless as a withered rash,
duly seasoned with salt and pepper, and
thoroughly boiled up to one luscious whole His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash,
inside a sheep's stomach. While it satisfies the
His nieve a nit;
stomach of every true Scot, to which a suffi-
ciently 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 Maga-
zine.]

FAIR fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin' race!
Aboon them a' ye tak' your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,

While through your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;

And then, oh, what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin', rich!

Then horn for horn they stretch an'
strive,

De'il tak' the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swalled kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld guidman, maist like to ryve,
Bethankit hums.

Is there that o'er his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Through bloody flood or field to dash,
Oh, how unfit!

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He'll mak' it whissle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye Powers, wha mak' mankind your

care,

And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware,
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gi'e her a Haggis !

VERSES

ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER THE DEATH
OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ., BROTHER TO A
YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF
THE AUTHOR'S.

[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
From Isabella's arms.

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
That nature finest strung;
So Isabella's heart was formed,
And so that heart was wrung.

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,
The measured time is run!
The wretch beneath the dreary Pole,
So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie?
Deprived of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy!

We part-but, by these precious drops,
That fill thy lovely eyes!

No other light shall guide my steps

Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,
Has blest my glorious day;
And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray?

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,
As generous as your mind;
And pledge me in the generous toast-

"The whole of human kind!"

"To those who love us !" second fill;
But not to those whom we love ;
Lest we love those who love not us!
A third-"To thee and me, love!"

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"I BURN, I burn, as when through THE lamp of day, with ill-presaging

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Now maddening, wild, I curse that fatal | Th' inconstant blast howled through the

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