TO THE RUINS OF LINCLUDEN ABBEY. 247

THERE'S NAETHING LIKE THE HONEST NAPPY.

THERE'S naething like the honest nappy!
Whaur 'll ye e'er see men sae happy,

Or women sonsie, saft, an' sappy,

"Tween morn and morn,

As them wha like to taste the drappie
In glass or horn.

I've seen me daez't upon a time;
I scarce could wink or see a styme;1
Just ae hauf muchkin' does me prime,
Ought less is little;

Then back I rattle on the rhyme

As gleg 's a whittle!

TO THE RUINS OF LINCLUDEN ABBEY.'

YE holy walls, that still sublime
Resist the crumbling touch of Time,
How strongly still your form displays
The piety of ancient days.

As through your ruins, hoar and grey—
Ruins, yet beauteous in decay-
The silvery moonbeams trembling fly,
The forms of ages long gone by
Crowd thick on Fancy's wond'ring eye,
And wake the soul to musings high.
Ev'n now, as lost in thought profound,
I view the solemn scene around,
And pensive gaze with wistful eyes,
The past returns, the present flies;
Again the dome, in pristine pride,
Lifts high its roof, and arches wide,
That, knit with curious tracery
Each Gothic ornament display;

The high-arched windows, painted fair,
Show many a saint and martyr there;
As on their slender forms I gaze,

Methinks they brighten to a blaze;
With noiseless step and taper bright,
What are yon forms that meet my sight?
Slowly they move, while every eye

Is heavenward raised in ecstasy :

1 Glimmer.

2 Half-a-pint.

On the banks of the river Cluden, near Dumfries. The verses were ascribed to Burns by an anonymous writer, and are included in later editions of his works.

'Tis the fair, spotless, vestal train,
That seeks in prayer the midnight fane.
And hark! what more than mortal sound
Of music breathes the pile around?
'Tis the soft-chaunted choral song,
Whose tones the echoing aisles prolong:
Till thence return'd they softly stray
O'er Cluden's wave with fond delay;
Now an the rising gale swell high,
And now in fainting murmurs die:
The boatmen on Nith's gentle stream,
That glistens in the pale moon's beam,
Suspend their dashing oars to hear
The holy anthem, loud and clear;
Each worldly thought a while forbear,
And mutter forth a half-formed prayer.
But as I gaze, the vision fails,

Like frost-work touch'd by southern gales;
The altar sinks, the tapers fade,

And all the splendid scene's decay'd.

In window fair the painted pane

No longer glows with holy stain,

But, through the broken glass, the gale
Blows chilly from the misty vale.
The bird of eve flits sullen by,

Her home, these aisles and arches high:
The choral hymn, that erst so clear
Broke softly sweet on Fancy's ear,
Is drown'd amid the mournful scream,
That breaks the magic of my dream:
Roused by the sound, I start and see
The ruin'd, sad reality.

PROLOGUE,' SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS, ON HIS
BENEFIT NIGHT, MONDAY, APRIL 16, 1787.

WHEN by a generous Public's kind acclaim,
That dearest meed is granted-honest fame:
When here your favour is the actor's lot,
Nor even the man in private life forgot;
What breast, so dead to heavenly virtue's glow,
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe?
Poor is the task to please a barb'rous throng,
It needs no Siddons' power in Southern's song:

1 Ascribed to Burns on very slight evidence.

TRAGIC FRAGMENT.
TRAG

But here an ancient nation, fam'd afar
For genius, learning high, as great in war-
Hail, Caledonia! name for ever dear!
Before whose sons I'm honour'd to appear!
Where every science, every nobler art-
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart,
Is known; as grateful nations oft have found,
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound.
Philosophy, no idle, pedant dream,

Here holds her search, by heaven-taught Reason's beam;
Here History paints, with elegance and force,
The tide of Empire's fluctuating course;

Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan,
And Harley rouses all the God in man.

When well-form'd taste, and sparkling wit unite,
With manly lore, or female beauty bright,
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace,
Can only charm us in the second place),
Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear,
As on this night, I've met these judges here!
But still the hope Experience taught to live,
Equal to judge-you're candid to forgive.
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet,
With decency and law beneath his feet,
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name;
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame.

O Thou, dread Power! whose empire-giving hand
Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd land!
Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire;
May every son be worthy of his sire;
Firm may she rise with generous disdain
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's, chain;

Still self-dependent in her native shore,

Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar
Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more.

TRAGIC FRAGMENT.'

"ALL devil as I am, a damned wretch,
A harden'd, stubborn, unrepenting villain,
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness;
And with sincere, tho' unavailing, sighs
I view the helpless children of distress.
With tears indignant I behold the oppressor

1 In my early years nothing less would serve me than courting the Tragic Muse. I was, I think, about eighteen or nineteen when I

K*

Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction,
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.
Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you;
Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity;
Ye poor, despis'd, abandon'd vagabonds,
Whom Vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to Ruin.
O but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends,
I had been driven forth like you, forlorn,
The most detested, worthless wretch among you!
O injur'd God! thy goodness has endow'd me
With talents passing most of my compeers,
Which I in just proportion have abus'd
As far surpassing other common villains,
As Thou in natural parts had given me more."

O CAN YE LABOUR LEA.

O CAN ye labour lea, young man,
An' can ye labour lea;
Gae back the gate ye cam' again,
Ye'se never scorn me.

I feed a man at Martinmas,
Wi' airl'-pennies three;
An' a' the faut I fan' wi' him,
He couldna labour lea.

The stibble rig is easy plough'd,
The fallow land is free;

But wha wad keep the handless coof,
That couldna labour lea?

O THOU, in whom we live and move,
Who mad'st the sea and shore;
Thy goodness constantly we prove,
And grateful would adore.

And if it please thee, Pow'r above!
Still grant us with such store,

The friend we trust, the fair we love,

And we desire no more.

sketched the outlines of a tragedy, forsooth: but the bursting of a cloud of family misfortunes, which had for some time threatened us, prevented my further progress. In those days I never wrote down anything; so, except a speech or two, the whole has escaped my memory. The following, which I most distinctly remember, was an exclamation from a great character-great in occasional instances of generosity, and daring at times in villanies. —R. B,

1 Silver penny given as hiring money.

Songs.

THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE.'

TUNE-MISS FORBES'S FAREWELL TO BANFF.

"TWAS even-the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang,
The Zephyrs wanton'd round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In every glen the Mavis sang,

All nature listening seem'd the while,
Except where green-wood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

With careless step I onward stray'd,
My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy,
When musing in a lonely glade,

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy;
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like nature's vernal smile,
Perfection whisper'd, passing by,
"Behold the Lass of Ballochmyle!"

Fair is the morn in flowery May,
And sweet is night in Autumn mild,
When roving through the garden gay,
Or wandering in a lonely wild:
But Woman, Nature's darling child!
There all her charms she does compile;
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd

By the bonnie Lass o' Ballochmyle.

"The Lass of Ballochmyle" was Miss Alexander, whose brother had recently come to reside in Ballochmyle House, of which the pleasure grounds extend along the north bank of the Ayr. The farm of Burns, Mossgiel, was in the immediate neighbourhood. He inclosed a copy of the song to Miss Alexander, and was extremely indignant at the lady's silence respecting his letter. Of the verses his own opinion was justly high:-"I think myself," he told Mrs. Stewart of Stair, it has some merit, both as a tolerable description of one of Nature's scenes-a July evening, and one of the finest pieces of Nature's workmanship,-the finest indeed we know anything of-an amiable, beautiful young woman.'