SONNET,* ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK IN JANUARY, WRITTEN 25TH JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTH-DAY OF THE AUTHOR, R. B. AGED 34. ING on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough; Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, So in lone Poverty's dominion drear Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. I thank Thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies! Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give nor take away! 11 Yet come, thou child of poverty and care; The mite high Heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share. * Collated with a MS. on which Burns has written, "To Mr. Syme, from the Author." It does not occur in the edition of 1793 or 1794. POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. RIEND of the Poet, tried and leal, Wi' a' his witches Are at it, skelpin! jig and reel, In my poor pouches. I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, That one pound one, I sairly want it: It would be kind; And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted, So I'd bear't in mind. may the auld year gang out moaning To see the new come laden, groaning, Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin To thee and thine; Domestic peace and comforts crowning The hale design. 10 POSTSCRIPT. YE'VE heard this while how I've been licket, And sair me sheuk; But by guid luck I lap a wicket, And turn'd a neuk. But by that health, I've got a share o't, Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't, 30 SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HE friend whom wild from wisdom's way Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, "Tis thine to pity and forgive. The Poet's hopes, alas! were not realized. He died soon after these lines were written. † Allan Cunningham says the excess, which the Poet laments, occurred at the table of Mrs. Riddel, and that under the influence of wine, he had spoken of "thrones" and "dominations" and "epauletted puppies," in terms which gave offence. POEM ON LIFE, ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER,* DUMFRIES, 1796. Y honour'd Colonel, deep I feel Surrounded thus by bolus pill, And potion glasses. O what a canty warld were it, Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it; As they deserve: (And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret Syne wha wad starve ?) Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, I've found her still, Aye wav'ring like the willow wicker, "Tween good and ill. Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 10 20 Colonel De Peyster had distinguished himself in the American war, and afterwards commanded the volunteers of Dumfries, to which corps Burns belonged. These verses were written in the Poet's last illness. Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on Wi' felon ire; Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, Ah Nick! ah Nick! it isna fair, To put us daft; Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare Poor man, the flie, aft bizzies by, And hellish pleasure; Already in thy fancy's eye, Thy sicker treasure. Soon heels-o'er-gowdy! in he gangs, But lest you think I am uncivil, To plague you with this draunting drivel, I quat my pen: The Lord preserve us frae the Devil! Amen! amen! 30 40 |