Ev'n in the peaceful rural väle, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale,

How pamper'd Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side,

The parasite empoisoning her ear, With all the servile wretches in the

rear,

Looks o'er proud property, extended wide;

And eyes the simple rustic hind, Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show,

A creature of another kind,

Some coarser zubstance, unrefin'd, Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below!

Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe,

With lordly Honour's lofty brow,

The pow'rs you proudly own?
Is there, beneath Love's noble name,
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim,
To bless himself alone!
Mark maiden-innocence a prey

To love-pretending snares,
This boasted Honour turns away,
Stunning soft Pity's rising sway,
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing
pray'rs !

Perhaps, this hour, in mis'ry's squalid

nest

She strains your infant to her joyless breast,

And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast!

Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create,

Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,

Whom friends and fortune quite disown!

Ill-satisfied keen nature's clam'rous call,

Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep,

While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall,

Chill o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap!

Think on the dungeon's grim confine, Where Guilt and poor Misfortune

pine!

Guilt, erring man, relenting view!
But shall thy legal rage pursue
The wretch, already crushed low
By cruel Fortune's undeserved blow!
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the
bliss!"

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery snaw,
And hail'd the morning with a cheer,
A cottage-rousing craw.1

But deep this truth impress'd my mind-
Thro' all His works abroad,

The heart benevolent and kind
The most resembles God.

THE TARBOLTON LASSES."

If ye gae up to yon hill-tap,
Ye'll there see bonny Peggy;
She kens her father is a laird,
And she forsooth's a leddy.

There Sophy tight, a lassie bright,
Besides a handsome fortune:
Wha canna win her in a night,

Has little art in courting.

Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale
And tak a look o' Mysie;
She's dour3 and din, a deil within,
But aiblins 4 she may please ye.

If she be shy, her sister try,

Ye'll maybe fancy Jenny,
If ye'll dispense wi' want o sense-
She kens hersel she's bonny.

As ye gae up by yon hill-side.

Speer in for bonny Bessy;
She'll gie ye a beck, and bid ye licht
And handsomely address ye.

There's few sae bonnie, nane sae guid
In a' King George's dominion;
ye should doubt the truth o' this-.
It's Bessy's ain opinion.

If

EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET.

January, 1784. WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,

And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,
And hing us owre the ingle,3
I set me down, to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,
In hamely, westlin jingle.

I Written on the fly-leaf of a copy of his poems presented to the lady, whose name is not mentioned. It is supposed that the poet was contemplating emigration.

2 Davie was David Sillar, the author of a book of Scottish verses. Gilbert Burns writes respecting his brother :It was, I think, in summer, 1784, when, in the interval of harder labour, he and I were weeding in the garden (kailyard), that he repeated to me the principal part of this Epistle. I believe the first idea of Robert's becoming author was started on this occasion.

3 Fire-place.

grudge a wee the great folks' gift. That live sae bien2 an' snug:

I tent 3 less, and want less
Their roomy fire-side;
But hanker and canker,

To see their cursed pride. It's hardly in a body's pow'r, To keep, at times, frae being sour, To see how things are shar'd; How best o' chiels are whiles in want, While coofs on countless thousands rant,

And ken na how to wair't; 4 But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash 5 your head, Tho' we hae little gear, We're fit to win our daily bread, As lang's we're hale and fier: 6 "Mair spier na, nor fear na,"7 Auld age ne'er mind a feg,8 The last o't, the warst o't, Is only for to beg.

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, When banes are craz'd, and bluid is

thin,

Is, doubtless, great distress! Yet then content could mak us blest ; Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a

taste

Of truest happiness.

The honest heart that's free frae a'
Intended fraud or guile,
However fortune kick the ba',9
Has aye some cause to smile:
And mind still, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma';
Nae mair then, we'll care then,
Nae farther can we fa'.

What tho', like commoners of air,
We wander out, we know not where,
But either house or hal'?

Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,

The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,

Are free alike to all.

1 To the parlour hearth. 2 Plentiful. 3 Heed. 4 Spend it. 5 Trouble. 6 Sound. 7 Ramsay.-R. B. 8 Fig. 9 Ball

In days when daisies deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle clear,
With honest joy our hearts will bound
To see the coming year:

On braes when we please, then,
We'll sit and sowth' a tune;
Syne2 rhyme till't,3 we'll time till't,
And sing't when we hae done.

It's no in titles nor in rank;
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,
To purchase peace and rest:
It's no in making muckle mair;
It's no in books; it's no in lear,4
To make us truly blest:
If happiness hae not her seat
And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest:

Nae treasures, nor pleasures,
Could make us happy lang;
The heart aye's the part aye,

That maks us right or wrang.

Think ye, that sic as you and I, Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry,

Wi' never-ceasing toil;

Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent 5 us in their way,
As hardly worth their while?
Alas! how aft in haughty mood,
God's creatures they oppress!
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid,
They riot in excess!

Baith careless, and fearless,
Of either heav'n or hell!
Esteeming and deeming

It's a' an idle tale!

Tho' losses, and crosses,

Be lessons right severe,
There's wit there, ye'll get there,
Ye'll find nae other where.

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts!
(To say aught less wad wrang thi
cartes,

And flatt'ry I detest)

This life has joys for you and I;
And joys that riches ne'er could buy;
And joys the very best.

There's a' the pleasures o' the heart,
The lover an' the frien';

Ye hae your Meg,2 your dearest part.
And I my darling Jean!

It warms me, it charms me,
To mention but her name:
It heats me, it beets me,3

And sets me a' on flame!
O all ye pow'rs who rule above!
O Thou, whose very self art love!

Thou know'st my words sincere ! The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, Or my more dear immortal part,

Is not more fondly dear!
When heart-corroding care and grief
Deprive my soul of rest,

Her dear idea brings relief
And solace to my breast
Thou Being, All-seeing,

O hear my fervent pray'r;
Still take her, and make her
Thy most peculiar care !

All hail, ye tender feelings dear:
The smile of love, the friendly tear,
The sympathetic glow!

Long since, this world's thorny ways
Had number'd out my weary days,
Had it not been for you!

Fate still has blest me with a friend,
In every care and ill;

And oft a more endearing band,
A tie more tender still.
It lightens, it brightens
The tenebrific scene,
To meet with, and greet with
My Davie, or my Jean.

1 Cards.

2 "Meg" was Margaret Orr, the nursery-maid of Mrs. Stewart of Stair -A. Č. 3 Adds fuel.

O, how that name inspires my style!
The words come skelpin,1 rank and file,
Amaist before I ken!

The ready measure rins as fine,
As Phoebus and the famous Nine
Were glowrin owre my pen.
My spaviet? Pegasus will limp,
Till ance he's fairly het: •

And then he'll hilch,3 and stilt, and jimp,

An' rin an unco fit:*

But lest then, the beast then,
Should rue this hasty ride,
I'll light now, and dight 4 now
His sweaty, wizen'd 5 hide.

THE LAMENT.6

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S AMOur.

Alas! how oft does Goodness wound itself,

And Sweet AFFECTION prove the spring of woe! Home.

O THOU pale Orb, that silent shines, While care-untroubled mortals sleep! Thou seest a wretch that inly pines,

And wanders here to wail and weep! With woe I nightly vigils keep,

Beneath thy wan unwarming beam; And mourn, in lamentation deep,

How life and love are all a dream. I joyless view thy rays adorn

The faintly-marked, distant hill: [ joyless view thy trembling horn, Reflected in the gurgling rill:

Encircled in her clasping arms,

How have the raptur'd moments flown!

How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, For her dear sake, and hers alone! And must I think it! is she gone,

My secret heart's exulting boast? And does she heedless hear my groan! And is she ever, ever lost?

Oh! can she bear so base a heart,
So lost to honour, lost to truth,
As from the fondest lover part,

The plighted husband of her youth! Alas! life's path may be unsmooth!

Her way may lie thro' rough distress! Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe,

Her sorrows share, and make them less?

Ye winged hours that o'er us past,

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, Your dear remembrance in my breast, My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd.

That breast, how dreary now, and void, For her too scanty once of room! Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd,

And not a wish to gild the gloom! The morn that warns th' approaching day,

Awakes me up to toil and woe: I see the hours in long array,

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. Full many a pang, and many a throe, Keen recollection's direful train, Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low Shall kiss the distant, western main

Happy, ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard!
Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd,
Yet while the busy means are ply'd,
They bring their own reward:
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,
Unfitted with an aim,

Meet ev'ry sad returning night,
And joyless morn the same;
You, bustling, and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I, listless, yet restless,

Find every prospect vain.
How blest the Solitary's lot,
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,

Within his humble cell,

The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,
Beside his crystal well!

Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought,
By unfrequented stream,

The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint-collected dream:
While praising, and raising

His thoughts to Heav'n on high
As wand'ring, meand'ring,
He views the solemn sky.

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd
Where never human footstep trac'd,
Less fit to play the part;
The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop, and just to move,
With self-respecting art:

But, ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys

Which I too keenly taste,
The Solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be blest!
He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here must cry here,
At perfidy ingrate!

Oh! enviable, early days,

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's