lady's name, for a silly new reel. Did the fellow imagine that I looked for any dirty gratuity?" This Robert Dundas was the elder brother of that Lord Melville to whose hands, soon after these lines were written, all the government patronage in Scotland was confided, and who, when the name of Burns was mentioned, pushed the wine to Pitt, and said nothing. The poem was first printed by me, in 1834.]

LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks;
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains,
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains;
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan;
The hollow caves return a sullen moan.

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests and ye caves,
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves!
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly;
Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore.

O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear!
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair!
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God,
Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her rod;
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow
She sank, abandon'd to the wildest woe.

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den,
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men:
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise,
And throw on poverty his cruel eyes;
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly,
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry.

Mark ruffian Violence, distained with crimes,
Rousing elate in these degenerate times;
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey,
As guileful Fraud points out the erring way:
While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue

The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong:
Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale,
And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied

wail!

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains,
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains:
Ye tempests, rage! ye turbid torrents, roll!
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul.
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign,

Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine,
To mourn the woes my country must endure,
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure.

LXXIII.

ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER THE

DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ.,

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S.

[John M'Leod was of the ancient family of Raza, and brother to that Isabella M'Leod for whom Burns, in his correspondence, expressed great regard. The little Poem, when first printed, consisted of six verses I found a seventh in the MMurdo Manuscripts, the fifth in this edition, along with an intimation in prose, that the M'Leod family had endured many unmerited misfortunes. I observe that Sir Harris Nicolas has rejected this new verse, because, he says, it repeats the same sentiment as the one which precedes it. I think differently, and have retained it.]

SAD thy tale, thou idle page,

And rueful thy alarms:

Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms.

Sweetly deckt with pearly dew The morning rose may blow; But cold successive noontide blasts May lay its beauties low.

Fair on Isabella's morn

The sun propitious smil'd;

But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil'd.

Fate oft tears the bosom cords
That nature finest strung:
So Isabella's heart was form'd,
And so that heart was wrung.

Were it in the poet's power, Strong as he shares the grief That pierces Isabella's heart, To give that heart relief!

Dread Omnipotence, alone,

Can heal the wound He gave— Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes To scenes beyond the grave.

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow,

And fear no withering blast; There Isabella's spotless worth Shall happy be at last.

LXXIV.

TO MISS LOGAN,

WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS FOR A NEW YEAR'S GIFT.

JAN. 1, 1787.

[Burns was fond of writing compliments in books, and giving them in presents among his fair friends. Miss Logan, of Park House, was sister to Major Logan, of Camlarg, and the "sentimental sister Susie" of the Epistle to her brother. Both these names were early dropped out of the poet's correspondence.]

ACAIN the silent wheels of time

Their annual round have driv'n, And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, Are so much nearer Heav'n.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail :

I send you more than India boasts
In Edwin's simple tale.

Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charg'd, perhaps, too true;

But may, dear maid, each lover prove An Edwin still to you!

LXXV.

THE AMERICAN WAR.

A FRAGMENT.

[Dr. Blair said that the politics of Burns smelt of the smithy, which, interpreted, means, that they were unstatesman-like, and worthy of a country alehouse, and an audience of peasants. The Poem gives us a striking picture of the humorous and familiar way in which the hinds and husbandmen of Scotland handle national topics: the smithy is a favourite resort, during the winter evenings, of rustic politicians; and national affairs and parish scandal are alike discussed. Burns was in those days, and some time after, a vehement Tory: his admiration of "Chatham's Boy" called down on him the dusty indignation of the republican Ritson.]

I.

WHEN Guilford good our pilot stood,

And did our hellim thraw, man, Ae night, at tea, began a plea, Within America, man: Then up they gat the maskin-pat, And in the sea did jaw, man; An' did nae less, in full Congress, Than quite refuse our law, man.

VOL. II.

II.

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes,

I wat he was na slaw, man;
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn,
And Carleton did ca', man;
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec,
Montgomery-like did fa', man,
Wi' sword in hand, before his band,
Amang his en'mies a', man.

III.

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage,
Was kept at Boston ha', man;
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe
For Philadelphia, man;

Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin

Guid Christian blood to draw, man; But at New York, wi' knife an' fork, Sir-loin he hacked sma', man.

IV.

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an whip, Till Fraser brave did fa', man; Then lost his way, ae misty day,

In Saratoga shaw, man. Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought, An' did the buckskins claw, man; But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save, He hung it to the wa', man.

V.

Then Montague, an' Guilford too,
Began to fear a fa', man;
And Sackville dour, wha stood the stoure,
The German Chief to thraw, man;
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,

Nae mercy had at a', man;
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box,
An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man.

VI.

Then Rockingham took up the
game,
Till death did on him ca', man;
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,
Conform to gospel law, man;
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise,
They did his measures thraw, man,
For North an' Fox united stocks,
An' bore him to the wa', man.

VII.

Then clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes,

He swept the stakes awa', man,

Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race,

Led him a sair faux pas, man;

M

LXXVIII.

TO CLARINDA.

[This is the lady of the drinking-glasses; the Mrs. Mac of many a toast among the poet's acquaintances. She was, in those days, young and beautiful, and we fear a little giddy, since she indulged in that sentimental and platonic flirtation with the poet, contained in the well-known letters to Clarinda. The letters, after the poet's death, appeared in print without her permission: she obtained an injunction against the publication, which still remains in force, but her anger seems to have been less a matter of taste than of whim, for the injunction has been allowed to slumber in the case of some editors, though it has been enforced against others.]

CLARINDA, mistress of my soul,
The measur'd time is run!
The wretch beneath the dreary pole
So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie;
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light,

The sun of all his joy.

We part-but, by these precious drops
That fill thy lovely eyes!

No other light shall guide my steps
Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,

Has blest my glorious day;
And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray?

LXXIX. VERSES

WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSON, THE POET, IN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS PRESENTED TO A YOUNG LADY.

[Who the young lady was to whom the poet presented the portrait and Poems of the ill-fated Fergusson, we have not been told. The verses are dated Edinburgh, March 19th, 1787.]

CURSE 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?

LXXX. PROLOGUE

SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT.

MONDAY, 16 APRIL, 1787.

[The Woods for whom this Prologue was written was in those days a popular actor in Edinburgh. He had other claims on Burns: he had been the friend as well as comrade of poor Fergusson, and possessed some poetical talent. He died in Edinburgh, December 14th, 1802.]

WHEN by a generous Public's kind acclaim,
That dearest meed is granted-honest fame;
When here your favour is the actor's lot,
Nor even the man in private life forgot;
What breast so dead to heavenly Virtue's glow,
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe?

Poor is the task to please a barbarous throng,
It needs no Siddons' powers in Southern's song;
But here an ancient nation fam'd afar,
For genius, learning high, as great in war--
Hail, CALEDONIA, name for ever dear!
Before whose sons I'm honoured to appear!
Where every science-every nobler art-
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart,
Is known; as grateful nations oft have found
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound.
Philosophy, no idle pedant dream,

Here holds her search by heaven-taught Reason's beam;

Here History paints, with elegance and force,
The tide of Empires' fluctuating course;
Here Douglas forms wild Shakspeare into plan,
And Harley1 rouses all the god in man.

When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite,
With manly lore, or female beauty bright,
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace,
Can only charm us in the second place,)
Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear,
As on this night, I've met these judges here!
But still the hope Experience taught to live,
Equal to judge-you're candid to forgive.
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet,
With decency and law beneath his feet;
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name:
Like CALEDONIANS, you applaud or blame.

O Thou dread Power! whose Empire-giving hand Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd land! Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire! May every son be worthy of his sire!

(1) "The Man of Feeling," by Mackenzie.

Firm may she rise with generous disdain
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain;
Still self-dependent in her native shore,
Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar,
Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no

more.

LXXXI. SKETCH.

[This Sketch is a portion of a long Poem which Burns proposed to call "The Poet's Progress." He communicated the little he had done, for he was a courter of opinions, to Dugald Stewart. "The Fragment forms," said he, "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." It is probable that the professor's response was not favourable, for we hear no more of the Poem.]

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,
And still his precious self his dear delight;
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets,
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets:
A man of fashion too, he made his tour,
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive l'amour;
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve,
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love.
Much specious lore, but little understood;
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood :
His solid sense-by inches you must tell,
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell;
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend,

Still making work his selfish craft must mend.

LXXXII. TO MRS. SCOTT,

OF WAUCHOPE.

[The lady to whom this epistle is addressed was a painter and a poetess: her pencil sketches are said to have been beautiful; and she had a ready skill in rhyme, as the verses addressed to Burns fully testify. Taste and poetry belonged to her family: she was the niece of Mrs. Cockburn, authoress of a beautiful variation of "The Flowers of the Forest."]

I MIND it weel, in early date,

When I was beardless, young, and blate, An' first could thresh the barn;

Or haud a yokin at the pleugh;
An' tho' forfoughten sair enough,
Yet unco proud to learn:
When first amang the yellow corn
A man I reckon'd was,

An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn
Could rank my rig and lass,
Still shearing, and clearing,
The tither stooked raw,
Wi' claivers, an' haivers,
Wearing the day awa.

E'en then a wish, I mind its pow'rA wish that to my latest hour

Shall strongly heave my breastThat I for poor auld Scotland's sake Some usefu' plan or beuk could make,

Or sing a sang at least.

The rough burr-thistle, spreading wide
Amang the bearded bear,

I turn'd the weeder-clips aside,
An' spar'd the symbol dear:
No nation, no station,

My envy e'er could raise,
A Scot still, but blot still,
I knew nae higher praise.

But still the elements o' sang
In formless jumble, right an' wrang,
Wild floated in my brain;
Till on that har'st I said before,
My partner in the merry core,

She rous'd the forming strain.

I see her yet, the sonsie quean,
That lighted up her jingle,
Her witching smile, her pauky een,
That gart my heart-strings tingle:
I fired, inspired,

At every kindling keek,
But bashing and dashing
I feared aye to speak.

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, Wi' merry dance in winter days,

An' we to share in common: The gust o' joy, the balm of woe, The saul o' life, the heaven below,

Is rapture-giving woman.
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name,
Be mindfu' o' your mither:
She, honest woman, may think shame
That ye're connected with her.

Ye're wae men, ye're nae men,
That slight the lovely dears;
To shame ye, disclaim ye,
Ilk honest birkie swears.