Rivin' the words to gar them clink; make Whyles dacz't wi' love, whyles dacz'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, Except it be some idle plan O' rhymin' clink, The devil-hac't, that I sud ban, They ever think. Leeze me on rhyme! it's aye a treasure, At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure; The Muse, poor hizzie ! fist trouble Though rough and raploch be her measure, coarse Haud to the Musc, my dainty Davie: Na, even though limpin' wi' the spavie THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.1 The Catrine woods were yellow seen, Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, Shall birdie charm, or flow'ret smile; Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle! 'Several of the poems,' says Gilbert Burns, 'were produced for the purpose of bringing forward some favourite sentiment of the 1 Composed on the amiable and excellent family of Whitefoord's leaving Ballochmyle, when Sir John's misfortunes obliged him to sell the estate.-B. Maria was Miss Whitefoord, afterwards Mrs Cranstoun. author. He used to remark to me, that he could not well conceive a more mortifying picture of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy Man was made to Mourn was composed.' MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. A DIRGE. When chill November's surly blast I spied a man whose aged step 'Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?' 'Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or haply, prest with cares and woes, To wander forth, with me, to mourn 'The sun that overhangs yon moors, 'Oh, man! while in thy early years, Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, 'Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported is his right: But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn; Then Age and Want-oh ill-matched pair!-Shew man was made to mourn. 'A few seem favourites of fate, Yet think not all the rich and great But, oh! what crowds in every land, 'Many and sharp the numerous ills More pointed still we make ourselves Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! 'See yonder poor, o'erlaboured wight, 'If I'm designed yon lordling's slave- Or why has man the will and power "Yet let not this too much, my son, This partial view of human-kind The poor, oppressed, honest man, Had there not been some recompense 'Oh, Death! the poor man's dearest friend The kindest and the best! Welcome the hour, my aged limbs. Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, That weary-laden mourn!' The metrical structure, and some other features of this poem, may be traced to an old stall-ballad, entitled the Life and Age of Man, which Mr Cromek recovered, and which opens thus:'Upon the sixteen hunder year Of God and fifty-three, Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, As writings testifie; On January the sixteenth day, As I did ly alone, With many a sigh and sob did say, Ah! man is made to moan.' Burns, in a letter to Mrs Dunlop, says: 'I had an old grand-uncle with whom my mother lived while in her girlish years; the good old man, for such he was, was long blind ere he died; during which time, his highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of the Life and Age of Man.' It would be the wildest injustice to Burns to suppose that even now, when so eager to satirise the more zealous professors of religion in his district, he was himself indifferent on that subject. We see an expression of devout adherence to true religion and undefiled in his letter to Mr M Math in September. In October, he makes a final entry in his first Commonplace-book as follows: October 1785. If ever any young man, in the vestibule of the world, chance to throw his eye over these pages, let him pay a warm attention to the following observations, as I assure him they are the fruit of a poor devil's dear-bought experience. I have literally, like that great poet and great gallant, and, by consequence, that great fool, Solomon, turned my eyes to behold madness and folly.' Nay, I have, with all the ardour of lively, fanciful, and whimsical imagination, accompanied with a warm, feeling, poctic heart, shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship. In the first place, let my pupil, as he tenders his own peace, keep up a regular, warm intercourse with the Deity. The observations are thus broken off-very characteristically; but it is something that the only one he had entered signifies that the poet was a devout man amidst all his errors. In his earlier |