A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck !
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space
What dire events hae taken place!
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!
In what a pickle thou hast left us!
The Spanish empire's tint a head,
And auld teethless Bawtie's dead!
my
The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt an' Fox,

And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks;
The tane is game, a bludie devil,

But to the hen-birds unco civil;

The tither's something dour o' treadin,
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden.

Ye ministers, come mount the poupit,
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet,
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel,
And gied you a' baith gear an' meal;
E'en monie a plack, and monie a peck,
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck.

Ye bonie lasses, dight your een,
For some o' you hae tint a frien';
In Eighty-eight ye ken, was ta'en
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again.

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20

30

Observe the vera nowt an' sheep, How dowf and daviely they creep; Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry, For E'mbrugh wells are grutten dry. O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn! Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, Thou now has got thy daddie's chair, Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, hap-shackl❜d Regent, But, like himsel, a full free agent.

Be sure ye follow out the plan

Nae waur than he did, honest man:
As muckle better as you can.

January 1, 1789.

VERSES WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT

OF FERGUSSON THE POET,

IN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS PRESENTED

TO A YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH,

MARCH 19TH, 1787.

URSE on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd,

And yet can starve the author of the
pleasure!

O thou, my elder brother in misfortune,
By far my elder brother in the Muses,
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!
Why is the Bard unpitied by the world,
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures?

LAMENT,

WRITTEN AT A TIME WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT

TO LEAVE SCOTLAND.*

'ER the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying,

Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave,

What woes wring my heart while intently surveying The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave.

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail,

Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native shore; Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's

green vale,

The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more.

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave; No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her,

11

For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her

grave.

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast,

I haste with the storm to a far distant shore; Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.

*These verses, which were published in the Dumfries Weekly Journal of the 5th July, 1815, are apocryphal.

DELIA.*

AN ODE.

AIR the face of orient day,
Fair the tints of op'ning rose;
But fairer still my Delia dawns,
More lovely far her beauty blows.

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
But, Delia, more delightful still
Steal thine accents on mine ear.

The flower-enamour'd busy bee

The rosy banquet loves to sip;

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Allan Cunningham gives the following tradition about this Ode, but has, he says, some suspicion that it was not written by Burns: "One day when the Poet was at Brownhill, in Nithsdale, a friend read some verses composed after the pattern of Pope's song, by a person of quality, and said, Burns, this is beyond you: the Muse of Kyle cannot match the Muse of London city.' The Poet took the paper, hummed the verses over, and then recited Delia, an Ode." Another account of this Ode occurs in the Life of Burns in the "Lives of Scottish Poets," 12mo. 1822, where it is said that the Poet sent a copy of it to the Editor of the London Evening Star with this letter:-

"Mr. Printer,-If the productions of a simple ploughman can merit a place in the same paper with Sylvester Otway, and the other favourites of the Muses who illuminate THE STAR with the lustre of genius, your insertion of the inclosed trifle will be succeeded by future communications from yours, &c. R. BURNS.

"Ellisland, near Dumfries, 18th May, 1789."

Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
To the sunbrown'd Arab's lip;

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove!
O let me steal one liquid kiss!
For oh! my soul is parch'd with love!

ON THE

DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR.*

HE lamp of day, with ill-presaging

glare,

Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath1 the

western wave;

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air, And hollow whistl'd in the rocky cave.

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell,

Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train ;† Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd, well,+

Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane.§

VAR. 1 beyond.

Sir James Hunter Blair died in 1787. These verses have been collated with a copy in Burns' own hand, and the material variations are pointed out.

The King's Park, at Holyrood House. R. B.

St. Anthony's Well. R. B. Burns wrote originally,
Or mus❜d where erst revered waters well.

§ St. Anthony's Chapel. R. B.