Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit,

Be hain't wha like.

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink,

Rivin the words to gar them clink;

Whyles dais't wi' love, whyles dais't wi' drink, Wi' jads or masons;

And whyles, but aye owre late, I think

Braw sober lessons.

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man,
Commen' me to the Bardie clan ;

Except it be some idle plan

O' rhymin' clink,

The devil-haet, that I sud ban,

They ever think.

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin, Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin';

But just the pouchie put the nieve in,

And while ought's there,

Then, hiltie, skiltie, we gae scrievin',

And fash nae mair.

Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure,
My chief, amaist my only pleasure,

At home, a-fiel', at work or leisure,

The Muse, poor hizzie! Tho' rough and raploch be her measure, She's seldom lazy.

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie ;
The warl' may play you monie a shavie;
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye,
Tho' e'er sae puir,
Na, even tho' limpin wi' the spavie

Frae door to door.

THE LAMENT,*

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!

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.

1 joyless view thy rays adorn

The faintly marked distant hill :
I joyless view thy trembling horn,
Reflected in the gurgling rill :
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still;
Thou busy pow'r, Remembrance, cease!
Ah! must the agonizing thrill

For ever bar returning peace!

No idly-feign'd poetic pains,

My sad love-lorn lamentings claim;
No shepherd's pipe-Arcadian strains;
No fabled tortures, quaint and tame ;

HOME

* The occasion of this poem refers to the poet's amour with Jean Armour, as appears from his letter to Dr Moore. After mentioning the appearance of "Holy Willie's Prayer," which alarmed the Kirk session so much that they held several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, if haply any of it might be pointed against profane rhymers. Burns states, "unluckily for me my wanderings led me on another side within point blank shot of their heaviest metal. This is the unfortunate story that gave rise to my printed poem, The Lament.'"-M.

The plighted faith; the mutual flame ;
The oft attested Pow'rs above;
The promis'd father's tender name;
These were the pledges of my love!

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 sooth,
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.

And when my nightly couch I try,

Sore harass'd out with care and grief, My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, Keep watchings with the nightly thief: Or if I slumber, fancy, chief,

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright : Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief,

From such a horror-breathing night.

O! thou bright queen, who o'er th expanse Now highest reign'st with boundless sway! Oft has thy silent-marking glance

Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray! The time, unheeded, sped away,

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray,

To mark the mutual kindling eye.

Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set!
Scenes, never, never, to return!

Scenes, if in stupor I forget,

Again I feel, again I burn!
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn,
Life's weary vale I'll wander thro';
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn
A faithless woman's broken vow.

EPISTLE TO MAJOR W. LOGAN.*

HAIL, thairm-inspirin, rattlin Willie!
Though Fortune's road be rough and hilly

To every fiddling, rhyming billie,

We never heed,

But tak it like the unback'd filly,

Proud o' her speed.

When idly goavan whiles we saunter;
Gin Fancy barks, awa we canter,
Up-hill, down-brae, till some mishanter,
Some black bog-hole,

Arreest us; then the scathe and banter,

We're forc'd to thole.

Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle!
Lang may your elbuck jiuk and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O' this vile warl';

*The above epistle was addressed by Burns to the late Major Wm. Logan of Camlarg, whilst residing at Park House, near Ayr, brother of the Miss Logan, to whom the Poet presented a copy of Beattie's Minstrel. Major Logan was esteemed one of the first violin players of his day. He was a great favourite with Neil Gow, who entertained a high opinion of the Major's musical skill. The epistle was written shortly after the Poet's intended visit to the West Indies was abandoned. To the kindness of Mr Auld of Bridge of Doon, we are indebted for its appearance in the present edition, as well as for the following note from Mrs McKenzie (late Miss Logan,) regarding the authenticity of the poem. "Mrs M'Kenzie feels pleasure in having it in her power to present Mr Auld with the inclosed. It is the handwriting of Burns, and was addressed by him to her brother the late Major Legan. Mrs M'Kenzie has reason to believe it has never been published, as she found it in a drawer of an old cabinet after her brother's death, and where, it is probable, it may have lain for the last forty years."-M.

Ayr, 26th Augt. 1828