LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE. The following verses, in the handwriting of Burns, were copied from a bank-note, in the possession of Mr. James F. Gracie, of Dumfries. The note is of the Bank of Scotland, and is dated on the 1st of March, 1780. WAE worth thy power, thou cursed leaf! For lack o' thee I leave this much-lov'd shore, BURNS-EXTEMPORE. YE true 'Loyal Natives," attend to my song, REMORSE." Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, That to our folly, or our guilt, we owe. The political fever ran high in 1794, and a member of a club at Dumfries, called the Loyal Natives, in a violent paroxysm, produced some verses, to which Burns gave the extempore reply. 2 I entirely agree with that judicious philosopher, Mr. Smith, in his excellent "Theory of Moral Sentiments," that remorse is the most painful sentiment that can embitter the human bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may bear up tolerably well under those calamities in the procurement of which we ourselves have had no hand; but when our own follies or crimes have made us miserable and wretched, to bear up with manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper penitential sense of our misconduct, is a glorious effort of self-command.-R. B. IN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE. In every other circumstance, the mind Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart Can reason down its agonizing throbs; O glorious magnanimity of soul! SIR, TO 243 YOURS this moment I unseal, To tell the truth an' shame the Deil, But foorsday, Sir, my promise leal 2 If on a beastie I can speel," Or hurl in a cartie. R. B. "IN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE." In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer, I know its worst-and do that worst despise. A proverb for a drinker. a Climb. "THOUGH FICKLE FORTUNE." She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill; I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able, Then come, Misfortune, I bid thee welcome, "I BURN, I BURN."" "I BURN, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd corn, I dare not combat-but I turn and fly; Conscience in vain upbraids th' unhallowed fire; By all on high adoring mortals know! The above was an extempore, under the pressure of a heavy train of misfortunes, which, indeed, threatened to undo me altogether. It was just at the close of that dreadful period before mentioned (March, 1784); and though the weather has brightened up a little with me since, yet there has always been a tempest brewing round me in the grim sky of futurity, which I pretty plainly see will some time or other, perhaps ere long, overwhelm me, and drive me into some doleful dell, to pine in solitary, squalid wretchedness. However, as I hope my poor country Muse, who, all rustic, awkward, and unpolished as she is, has more charms for me than any other of the pleasures of life beside--as I hope she will not then desert me, I may end, then learn to be, if not happy, at least easy, and south a sang to soothe my misery.-R. B. 2 To Clarinda. TAM, THE CHAPMAN.' As Tam, the Chapman, on a day Weel pleas'd, he greets a wight sae famous, Death takes him hame to gie him quarters. TO DR. MAXWELL, ON MISS JESSY STAIG'S MAXWELL, if merit here you crave, You save fair Jessy from the grave! ON A SICK CHILD. Now health forsakes that angel face, The cruel Powers reject the prayer Ye Heavens, how great is my despair, TO THE OWL. BY JOHN M'CREDDIE.2 SAD Bird of Night, what sorrow calls thee forth, Threat'ning to nip the verdure of thy bow'r? 1 Mr. Kennedy, who is styled "Chapman," in allusion to his con nexion with a mercantile house, as agent. Mr. M'Creddie is supposed to be a mythical personage, the ver ses having been found in the hand-writing of Burns. Is it, sad Owl, that Autumn strips the shade, Or friendly Melancholy bids thee mourn? Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek Ah no, sad Owl! nor is thy voice less sweet, That Sadness tunes it, and that Grief is there; That Spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou canst repeat; And Sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair. Nor that the treble songsters of the day, Are quite estranged, sad Bird of night! from thee; From some old tower, thy melancholy dome, There hooting, I will list more pleased to thee, 992 "WAS E'ER PUIR POET." "WAS e'er puir Poet sae befitted, The maister drunk-the horse committed: Thou'lt be a horse, when he's nae mair (mayor)." 1 Burns once visited Carlisle; and while he was in the condition which his verses describe, the Mayor put his horse, which had trespassed on a corporation meadow, into the "pound." |