Warm'd with "a spark o' Nature's fire,"
From the rough plough thou didst aspire
To make a sordid world admire;

And few like thee,

Oh! BURNS, have swept the minstrel's lyre With ecstacy.

E'er winter's icy vapours fail,
The violet in the uncultur'd dale,
So sweetly scents the passing gale,

That shepherd boys,

Led by the fragrance they inhale,

Soon find their prize.

So when to life's chill glens confin'd,
Thy rich, tho' rough untutor'd mind,
Pour'd on the sense of each rude hind
Such sonsy lays,

That to thy brow was soon assign'd
The wreath of praise.

Anon, with nobler daring blest,

The wild notes throbbing at thy breast,
Of friends, wealth, learning unpossess'd,
Thy fervid mind

Tow'rds fame's proud turrets boldly press'd,
And pleas'd mankind.

But what avail'd thy pow'rs to please, When want approach'd and pale disease; Could these thy infant brood appease

That wail'd for bread?

Or could they, for a moment, ease
Thy wo-worn head?

Applause, poor child of minstrelsy,
Was all the world e'er gave to thee;
Unmov'd, by pinching penury

They saw thee torn,

And now, kind souls! with sympathy,

Thy loss they mourn.

Oh! how I loath the bloated train,
Who oft had heard thy dulcet strain ;
Yet, when thy frame was rack'd with pain,
Could keep aloof,

And eye with opulent disdain

Thy lowly roof.

Yes, proud Dumfries, oh! would to Heaven Thou hadst from that cold spot been driven, Thou might'st have found some shelt'ring haven On this side Tweed :

Yet, ah! e'en here, poor bards have striven, And died in need.

True genius scorns to flatter knaves,
Or crouch amidst a race of slaves;

His soul, while fierce the tempest raves,
No tremor knows,

And with unshaken nerve he braves

Life's pelting woes.

No wonder, then, that thou shouldst find
Th' averted glance of half mankind;
Shouldst see the sly, slow, supple mind
To wealth aspire,

While scorn, neglect, and want, combin'd
To quench thy fire.

While wintry winds pipe loud and strong; The high-perch'd storm-cock pours his song; So thy Eolian lyre was strung

'Mist chilling times;

Yet clearly didst thou roll along

Thyrouth of rhymes."

And oh! that routh of rhymes shall raise
For thee a lasting pile of praise.

Haply some wing, in these our days,

Has loftier soar'd:

But from the heart more melting lays

Were never pour'd.

Where Ganges rolls his yellow tide,
Where blest Columbus' waters glide!
Old Scotia's sons, spread far and wide,
Shall oft rehearse,

With sorrow some, but all with pride,
Thy 'witching verse,

In early spring, thy earthly bed

Shall be with many a wild flow'r spread;

The violet there her sweets shall shed,

In humble guise,

And there the mountain-daisy's head
Shall duly rise.

While darkness reigns, should bigotry,
With boiling blood, and bended knee,
Scatter the weeds of infamy

O'er thy cold clay,

Those weeds, at light's first blush, shall be Soon swept away.

And when thy scorners are no more,
The lonely glens, and sea-beat shore,
Where thou hast croon'd thy fancies o'er
With soul elate,

Oft shall the bard at eve explore,

And mourn thy fate..

LETTER FROM BURNS

To FRANCIS GROSE, Esq. F. A. S.*

SIR,

AMONG the many witch stories I have heard relating to Alloway kirk, I distinctly remember only two or three.

Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls of wind, and bitter blasts of hail; in short, on such a night as the devil would chuse to take the air in; a farmer or farmer's servant was plodding and plashing homeward with his plough-irons on his shoulder, having been getting some repairs on them at a neighbouring smithy. His way lay by the kirk of Alloway, and being rather on the anxious look out in approaching a place so well known to be a favourite haunt of the devil and the devil's friends and

This Letter was first published in the Censura Literaria, 1786, and was communicated to the Editor of that work by Mr Gilchrist of Stamford, accompanied with the following remark.

"In a collection of miscellaneous papers of the Antiquary Grose, which I purchased a few years since, I found the following letter written to him by Burns, when the former was collecting the Antiquities of Scotland: When I premise it was on the second tradition that he afterwards formed the inimitable tale of Tam O'Shanter,' I cannot doubt of its being read with great interest. It were burning day light' to point out to a reader (and who is not a reader of Burns?) the thoughts he afterwards transplanted into the rhythmical narrative.”

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