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Upon a time, Sir Abece the great,
First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, But ah ! deform’d, dishonest to the sight! 10 His twisted head look'd backward on his way, And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ai !
Reluctant, E stalk'd in ; with piteous race The jostling tears ran down his honest face !
“ It may, perhaps, be worthy of notice that Lord Craig was cousin-german of Mrs. M‘Lehose, the celebrated Clarinda of Burns, who is still living in Edinburgh, and was left an annuity by his Lordship. She is now nearly eighty years of age, but enjoys excellent health. We found her sitting in the parlour, with some papers on the table. Her appearance at first betrayed a little of that languor and apathy which attend age and solitude; but the moment she comprehended the object of our visit, her countenance, which even yet retains the lineaments of what Clarinda may be supposed to have been, became animated and intelligent. • That,' said she, rising up and pointing to an engraving over the mantelpiece, 'is a likeness of my relative (Lord Craig) about whom you have been inquiring. He was the best friend I ever had. After a little farther conversation about his lordship, she directed our attention to a picture of Burns, by Horsburgh, after Taylor, on the opposite wall of the apartment. You will know who that is-it was presented to me by Constable and Co., for having simply declared, what I knew to be true, that the likeness was good. We spoke of the correspondence betwixt the Poet and Clarinda, at which she smiled, and pleasantly remarked on the great change which the lapse of so many years had produced on her personal appearance. Indeed, any observation respecting Burns seemed to afford her pleasure; and she laughed at a little anecdote we told of him, which she had never before heard. Having prolonged our intrusion to the limits of courtesy, and conversed on various topics, we took leave of the venerable lady, highly gratified by the interview.”
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own,
The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y!
In rueful apprehension enter'd 0, The wailing minstrel of despairing woe; Th’ Inquisitor of Spain the most expert, Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art: So grim, deform’d, with horrors entering U, His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew! 30
As trembling U stood staring all aghast, The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, Baptiz’d him eu, and kick'd him from his sight.
LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping A
wight, And still his preciousselfhis dear delight; Who loves his own smart shadow in the
streets Better than e'er the fairest she he meets :
* The following Sketch seems to be one of a Series, intended for a projected work, under the title of “The Poet's
A man of fashion too, he made his tour,
PROLOGUE FOR MR. SUTHERLAND'S
Z HAT needs this din about the town o'
Lon’on, REVAVEN How this new play an' that new sang
is comin'? Progress." This character was sent as a specimen, accompanied by a letter to Professor Dugald Stewart, dated Ellisland, 20th January, 1789, in which it is thus noticed : “ The fragment beginning, “A little, upright, pert, tart,' &c. I have not shown to man living, till I now send it to you. It forms the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This particular part I send you merely as a sample of my hand at portrait-sketching, but, lest idle conjecture should pretend to point out the original, please to let it be for your single, sole inspection."
* To William Nicol, Burns wrote on the 9th February, 1790, saying, “ For the last two or three months, on an average, I have not ridden less than two hundred miles per week. I have done little in the poetic way. I have given Mr. Sutherland two Prologues, one of which was delivered last week.”
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted ?
Is there no daring Bard will rise, and tell
As ye hae generous done, if a’ the land
Would tak the Muses' servants by the hand;
For us and for our stage should onie spier,
ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788.*
POR Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, EVA E'en let them die—for that they're
* This Elegy was printed in the Glasgow Collection in