tion which he had chosen. As a writer, his prose composition was pronounced by Dr. Robertson to be as excellent as his verse; and the opinion in this instance of so high an authority seems to be confirmed by those letters of our author's which have been given to the public. And yet, be it for ever remembered, with shame and indignation, that this extraordinary man, so gifted and elevated by Nature, was suffered by his penurious country to live and to die in poverty and humiliation!

Of the poetry of Robert Burns, which alone falls within our immediate province, we cannot speak more properly than with the tongue of his biographer, Doctor Currie.

"To determine the comparative merit of Burns would be no easy task. Many persons, afterwards distinguished in literature, have been born in as humble a situation of life; but it would be difficult to find any other who, while earning his subsistence by daily labour, has written verses which have attracted and retained universal attention, and which are likely to give the author a permanent and distinguished place among the followers of the Muses. If he is deficient in grace, he is distinguished for ease as well as energy; and these are indications of the higher order of genius. The father of epic poetry exhibits one of his heroes as excelling in strength, another in swiftness; to form his perfect warrior, these attributes are combined. Every species of intellectual superiority admits perhaps of a similar arrangement. One writer excels in force, another in ease; he is superior to both, in whom both these qualities are united. The force of Burns lay in the powers of his understanding, and in the sensibility of his heart; and these will be found to infuse the living principle into all the works of genius which seem destined to immortality. His sensibility had an uncommon range. He was alive to every species

of emotion. He is one of the few poets that can be mentioned who have at once excelled in humour, in tenderness, and in sublimity; a praise unknown to the ancients, and which in modern times is only due to Ariosto, to Shakspeare, and perhaps to Voltaire. To compare the writings of the Scottish peasant with the works of these giants in literature, might appear presumptuous; yet it may be asserted, that he has displayed the foot of Hercules. How near he might have approached them by proper culture, with lengthened years, and under happier auspices, it is not for us to calculate. But while we run over the melancholy story of his life, it is impossible not to heave a sigh at the asperity of his fortune; and as we survey the records of his mind, it is easy to see that out of such materials have been reared the fairest and most honourable monuments of genius."

ENCOMIUM.

BY

THE REV. JAMES NICOL.

HAIL, BURNS! wha can the heart engage,
Thou shame an' glory o' our age!
Thy strang, expressive, pictur'd page,
While time remains,

Shall melt with love, or fire with rage,
Thy native swains.

POEMS

OF

ROBERT BURNS.

THE TWA DOGS.

A Tale.

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil,
Upon a bonnie day in June,

When wearing thro' the afternoon,
Twa dogs that werena thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar,
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure:
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for Cod.

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar, Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar; But though he was o' high degree, The fient a pride nae pride had he; But wad hae spent an hour caressin, Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie,

But he wad stand, as glad to see him,
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.
The tither was a ploughman's collie,
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland sang',
Was made lang syne-Lord knows how lang.
He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his towzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawcie tai wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl.
Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,
An' unco pack an' thick thegither;

Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit;
Whyles mice an' moudieworts they howkit;
Whyles seour'd awa in lang excursion,
An' worry'd ither in diversion;

Until wi' daffin weary grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down,
And there began a lang digression
About the lords o' the creation.

CESAR.

you

I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath,
What sort o' life poor dogs like
An' when the gentry's life I saw,
What way poor bodies liv'd ava.

have;

1 Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal.