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EPITAPH FOR GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.

THE poor man weeps-here Gavin sleeps,

Whom canting wretches blam'd;

But with such as he, where'er he be,

May I be sav'd or d-d!

[Mr Hamilton, of whom we have already had occasion to say a good deal, survived till 8th Feb. 1805, dying at the comparatively early age of fifty-two.]

EPITAPH ON "WEE JOHNIE."

Hic Jacet wee Johnie.

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know

That Death has murder'd Johnie ;
An' here his body lies fu' low;

For saul he ne'er had ony.

[These four lines have been tacitly understood as a satire-not a very wicked one-on his printer. The decent little typographer, however, was not a whit the worse of setting up in type his own "Hic Jacet." He prospered in the world, and died at Ayr on 6th May 1821.]

THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE.

Tune-"Ettrick Banks."

"IWAS even-the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang ;1
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang :
In ev'ry glen the mavis sang,

All nature list'ning seem'd the while,
Except where greenwood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

1 "Hang," a common Scotticism for hung.

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 o' Ballochmyle!"

Fair is the morn in flowery May,

And sweet is night in autumn mild;
When roving thro' the garden gay,
Or wand'ring in the lonely wild :
But woman, nature's darling child!
There all her charms she does compile ;
Even there her other works are foil'd
By the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.

O had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed

That ever rose on Scotland's plain !
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil;
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slipp❜ry steep,
Where fame and honors lofty shine ;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward seek the Indian mine:

Give me the cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks or till the soil;

And ev'ry day have joys divine

With the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.

[According to the poet's own information, on a lovely evening in July 1786, the muse suggested this famous lyric. Strolling on the banks of Ayr

at Ballochmyle, while his "heart rejoiced in nature's joy," animation was added to the scene by the unexpected approach of Miss Williamina Alexander, the sister of the new proprietor of that estate; and although she only crossed his path like a vision, the above verses were the result of that incident.

In a warmly-composed letter, he enclosed the song to the lady; referring with much animation to the occasion which gave it birth. His professed object in addressing the lady was to obtain her consent to the printing of the song in the new edition. It would appear, however, that Miss Alexander judged it prudent not to reply to the poet's request. But a day at length arrived when she was proud to exhibit the letter and the poem together. That interesting production now hangs on the wall of the "spence" or back-parlour of the farm of Mossgiel, the place selected about twenty years ago, by the relatives of the heroine of the song, as the fittest for its exhibition to "all and sundries."

We have only to add that the "Bonie Lass" herself died unmarried in 1843, aged 88.]

MOTTO PREFIXED TO THE AUTHOR'S FIRST
PUBLICATION.

THE simple Bard, unbroke by rules of art,
He pours the wild effusions of the heart;

And if inspir'd, 'tis Nature's pow'rs inspire;

Her's all the melting thrill, and her's the kindling fire.

[The famous Kilmarnock volume of Burns, with the above motto on its title-page, was issued on the 30th July 1786.]

LINES TO MR JOHN KENNEDY.

FAREWELL, dear friend! may gude luck hit you,
And 'mang her favourites admit you :

If e'er Detraction shore* to smit you,

May nane believe him,

And ony deil that thinks to get you,

Good Lord, deceive him!

[The above forms the concluding part of a letter to the same friend to whom he addressed a former poetical epistle.]

* offer.

LINES TO AN OLD SWEETHEART.
ONCE fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear,
Sweet early object of my youthful vows,
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,
Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows.
And when you read the simple artless rhymes,
One friendly sigh for him—he asks no more,
Who, distant, burns in flaming torrid climes,

Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar.

[In his MS. collection made for Captain Riddell, we find the following heading and note attached :-"Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the first edition of my Poems, which I presented to an old sweetheart, then married.-'Twas the girl I mentioned in my letter to Dr Moore, where I speak of taking the sun's altitude. Poor Peggy! Her husband is my old acquaintance, and a most worthy fellow. When I was taking leave of my Carrick relations, intending to go to the West Indies, when I took farewell of her, neither she nor I could speak a syllable. Her husband escorted me three miles on my road, and we both parted with tears."]

KYLE.

LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK-NOTE.

WAE worth thy power, thou cursed leaf,
Fell source o' a' my woe and grief;

For lack o' thee I've lost my lass,

For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass :

I see the children of affliction
Unaided, through thy curst restriction:
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile
Amid his hapless victim's spoil;
And for thy potence vainly wished,
To crush the villain in the dust:

For lack o' thee, I leave this much-lov'd shore,
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.

R. B.

[The note is for one pound of the Bank of Scotland's issue, 1st March 1780. Internal evidence shows the lines were written about August 1786.]

STANZAS ON NAETHING.

EXTEMPORE EPISTLE TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ.

To you, sir, this summons I've sent,
Pray, whip till the pownie is fraething ;*
But if you demand what I want,

I honestly answer you-naething.

Ne'er scorn a poor Poet like me,

For idly just living and breathing,

While people of every degree

Are busy employed about-naething.

Poor Centum-per-centum may fast,

And grumble his hurdies + their claithing,
He'll find, when the balance is cast,
He's gane to the devil for-naething.

The courtier cringes and bows,
Ambition has likewise its plaything;
A coronet beams on his brows;
And what is a coronet ?—naething.

Some quarrel the Presbyter gown,
Some quarrel Episcopal graithing; ‡

But every good fellow will own

The quarrel is a' about-naething.

The lover may sparkle and glow,
Approaching his bonie bit gay thing;
But marriage will soon let him know
He's gotten-a buskit up naething.

* frothing.

† posteriors.

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