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Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times | He sang wi' joy the former day, are fled;

[bred He weeping wail'd his latter times; Now, well-bred menand you are all well But what he said it was nae playMost justly think (and we are much the I winna ventur't in my rhymes. gainers)

[ners. (269) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor man

Likerta-. Fragment. For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest,

[nearest,

THEE, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, That right to fluttering female hearts the Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song Which even the Rights of Kings in low

To thee I turn with swimming eyes! prostration

[tion! Where is that soul of freedom fled ? Most humbly own--'tis dear, dear admira- | Immingled with the mighty dead !

[lies !

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace In that blest sphere alone we live and move: There taste that life of life--immortal love.

Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death! Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations,

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep; airs,

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 'Gains't such an host what fiinty savage Nor give the coward secret breath. dares ?

[charnis,

Is this the power in freedom's war, When awful Beauty joins with all her

That wont to bid the battle rage ? Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ?

Behold that eye which shot immortal hate,

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing But truce with kings and truce with consti- Behold e'en grizzly death's majestic state tutions,

When Freedom's sacred glance e'en death With bloody armaments and revolutions,

is wearing Let majesty your first attention summon, Ah! ca ira! THE MAJESTY OF WOMAN.

To Mr. Marwell,

OF TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, & Vision.

HEALTH to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief! As I stood by yon roofless tower (270),

Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief:
Where the wa’-flower scents the dewy air. Inspir’d, I turn’d Fate's sybil leaf

This natal morn;
Where th' owlet mourns in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight moon her care;

I see thy life is stuff o'prief,

Scarce quite half worn.
The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky;

This day thou metes'st three score eleven,

And I can tell that bounteous Heaven
The fox was howling on the hill,
To the distant-echoing glens reply.

(The second sight, ye ken, is given

To ilka poet) The stream, adown its hazelly path,

On thee a tack o' seven times seven Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,

Will yet bestow it. Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow Whose distant roaring swells and fa's.

Thy lengthen’d days on this blest morrow, The cauld blue north was streaming forth

May desolation's lang teeth'd harrow, Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din;

Nine miles an hour, Athwart the lift they start and shift,

Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah,
Like fortune's favours, tint as win.

In brimstane shoure
By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, But for thy friends, and they are mony,
And, by the moonbeam, shook to see

Baith honest men and lasses bonnie,
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,

May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.

In social glee, Had I a statue been o'stane,

Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny, His darin' look had daunted me;

Bless them and thee! And on his bonnet grav'd was plain,

Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye, The sacred motto--“ Libertie !"

And then the deil he daurna steer ye: And frae his harp sic strains did flow,

Your friends aye love, your

faes
aye
fear

ye, Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear;

For me, shame fa' me, But oh! it was a tale of woe,

If near'st my heart I dinna wear ye As ever met a Briton's ear,

While Burns they ca' me!

zonnet, WRITTEN ON THE 25TH JANUARY 1793, TH. BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A

THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless

bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain,

See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow. So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart,

[part, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or

fear.

On Pastoral Portrq. (271) HAIL Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd ! In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd Frae common sense, or sunk unnerv'd

Mang heaps o'clavers; And och! owre aft thy joes hae starv'd,

Mid a' thy favours ! Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, While loud, the trump's heroic clang, And sock or buskin skelp alang

To death or marriage;
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang

But wi' miscarriage?
In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives;
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives

Horatian fanie;
In thy sweet sang, Barhauld, survives

Ev'n Sappho's flame.
But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches;
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches

O' heathen tatters:
I pass by hundred, nameless wretches,

That ape their betters.
In this braw age o' wit and lear,
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair
Blaw sweetly in its native air

And rural grace ;
And wi' the far fam'd Grecian share

A rival place?
Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan
There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan!
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,

A chiel sae clever;
The teeth o'time may gnaw Tantallan,

But thou's for ever!

I thank thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon

orient skies! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take

away! Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite

with thee I'll share.

Thou paints auld nature to the nines,
In thy sweet Caledonian lines;
Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines,

Where Philomel,
While nightly breezes sweep the vines,

Her griefs will tell!
In goweny glens thy burnie strays,
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes;
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,

Wi hawthorns grey, Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays

At close o' day.
Thy rural loves are nature's sel;
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell ;
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spelí

O' witchin' love;
That charm that can the strongest quell,

The sternest move.

Thr Tirt of Librrtit

. (272) HEARD ye o' the tree o' France,

I watna what's the name o't; Around it a’ the patriots dance,

Weel Europe kens the fame o't. It stands where ance the Bastile stood,

A prison built by kings, man, When Superstition's hellish brood

Kept France in leading strings, man. Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit,

Its virtue's a' can tell, man; It raises man aboon the brute,

It maks him ken himself, man. If ance the peasant taste a bit

He's greater than a lord, man,
And wi' the beggar shares a mite

O' a' he can afford, man.
This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth,

To confort us 'twas sent, man :
To gie the sweetest blush o' health,

And mak us a' content, man.
It clears the een, it cheers the heart,

Maks high and low guid friends, man; And he wha acts the traitor's part,

It to perdition sends, man.
My blessings aye attend the chiel,

Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man,
Ard staw'd a branch, spite o' the deil,

Frae yon't the western waves, man.

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Syne let us pray, auld England may

Sure plant this far-famed tree, man; And blythe we'll sing, and hail the day

That gave us liberty, man.

To Genrral Dimonrirr.
A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. (273)
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier ;
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier.
How does Dampiere do ?
Ay and Bournonville too?
Why did they not come along with you,

Dumourier ?
I will fight France with you, Dumourier;
I will fight France with you, Dumourier
I will fight France with you ;
I will take my chance with you;
By my soul I'll dance a dance with

you,
Dumourier.
Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us tight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about,
Till freedom's spark is out,
Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt-Dumourier.

Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care,

And now she sees wi' pride, man How weel it buds and blossoms there.

Its branches spreading wide, man, But vicious folk aye hate to see

The works o' Virtue thrive, man; The courtly vermin's banned the tree,

And grat to see it thrive, man, King Loui' thought to cut it down,

When it was unco'sma', man; For this the watchman cracked his crown,

Cut aff his head and a', nan.
A wicked crew syne, on a time,

Did tak a solemn aith, man,
It ne'er should flourish to its prime,

I wat they pledged their faith, man;
Awa, they gaed wi' mock parade,

Like beagles hunting game, man, But soon grew weary o’the trade,

And wished they'd been at lame, man, For Freedon, standing by the tree,

Her sons did loudly ca’, man; She sang a song o'liberty,

Which pleased them ane and a’, man. By her inspired, the new-born race

Soon drew the avenging steel, man ; The hirelings ran-her foes gied chase,

And banged the despot weel, man.
Let Britain boast her hardy oak,

Her poplar and her pine, man,
Auld Britain auce could crack her joke,

And o'er her neighbours shine, man.
But seek the forest round and round,

And soon 't will be agreed, man, That sic a tree can not be found,

'Twixt London and the Tweed, man. Without this tree, alack this life

Is but a vale o' woe man ;
A scene o' sorrow mixed wi' strife,

Nae real joys we know, man.
We labour soon, we labour late,

To feed the titled knave, man; And a' the comfort we're to get,

Is that ayont the grave, man. Wi' plenty o'sic trees, I trow,

The warld would live in peace, man; The sword would help to mak a plough,

The din o' war wad cease, man. . Like brethren in a common cause,

We'd on each other smile, man; And equal rights and equal laws

Wad gladden every isle, man. Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat

Sic whalesome, dainty cheer, man; I'd gie my shoon frae aff my feet,

To taste sic fruit, I swear, man.

Lints

SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED.

(274) The friend whom wild from wisdom's way,

The fumes of wine infuriate send (Not moony madness more astray)

Who but deplores that hapless friend? Mine was tl' insensate frenzied part,

Ah, why should I such scenes outlive lScenes so abhorrent to

niy

heart! 'Tis thine to pity and forgive

Monor ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. (275) How cold is that bosom which folly once

fir'd, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd:

[tired, How silent that tongue which the echoes oft How dull is that ear which to flattery so

listen'd! If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection

remov'd; How doubly severer. Eliza, thy fate, [lov'd.

Thou diedst unwept, as thou lived'st un.

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