For you, no bred to barn and byre, Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre

Thanks to you for your line:
The marled plaid ye kindly spare,
By me should gratefully be ware;
'Twad please me to the nine.
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,
Douce hingin' owre my curple,
Than ony ermine ever lap,

Or proud imperial purple.
Fareweel then, lang heal then,
An' plenty be your fa';
May losses and crosses

Ne'er at your hallan ca'.

LXXXIII.

EPISTLE TO WILLIAM CREECH.

[A storm of rain detained Burns one day, during his border tour, at Selkirk, and he employed his time in writing this characteristic epistle to Creech, his bookseller. Creech was a person of education and taste: he was not only the most popular publisher in the north, but he was intimate with almost all the distinguished men who, in those days, adorned Scottish literature. But though a joyous man, a lover of sociality, and the keeper of a good table, he was close and parsimonius, and loved to hold money to the last moment that the law allowed.]

May sprout like simmer puddock-stools
In glen or shaw;
He wha could brush them down to mools,
Willie's awa!

The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer2 May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour; He was a dictionar and grammar

Amang them a';

I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, Willie's awa!

Nae mair we see his levee door
Philosophers and poets pour,3
And toothy critics by the score
In bloody raw!

The adjutant o' a' the core,

Willie's awa!

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, Tytler's and Greenfield's modest grace; Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace

As Rome ne'er saw; They a' maun meet some ither place, Willie's awa!

Poor Burns-e'en Scotch drink canna quicken,
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken,
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin'
By hoodie-craw;

Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin',
Willie's awa!

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum,
And Calvin's fock, are fit to fell him;
And self-conceited critic skellum

His quill may draw;

He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, Willie's awa!

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped,
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed,
And Ettrick banks now roaring red,
While tempests blaw;
But every joy and pleasure's fled,
Willie's awa!

May I be slander's common speech;
A text for infamy to preach;
And, lastly, streekit out to bleach

In winter snaw;

When I forget thee, Willie Creech, Tho' far awa!

(2) The Chamber of Commerce in Edinburgh, of which Creech was Secretary.

(3) Many literary gentlemen were accustomed to meet at Mr. Creech's house at breakfast.

[The Falls of Bruar in Athole are exceedingly beautiful and picturesque; and their effect, when Burns visited them, was much impaired by the want of shrubs and trees. This was in 1787: the poet, accompanied by his future biographer, Professor Walker, went, when close on twilight, to this romantic scene : "he threw himself," said the Professor, "on a heathy seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted, and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. In a few days I received a letter from Inverness, for the poet had gone on his way, with the Petition enclosed." His Grace of Athole obeyed the injunction; the picturesque points are now crowned with thriving woods, and the beauty of the Falls is much increased.]

I.

MY LORD, I know your noble car
Woe ne'er assails in vain;
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beans,
In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

II.

The lightly-jumpin' glowrin' trouts,
That thro' my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I'm scorching up so shallow,
They're left the whitening stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow.

III.

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen,
As Poet Burns came by,
That to a bard I should be seen
Wi' half my channel dry:

V.

Would then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes,
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees
And bonnie spreading bushes.
Delighted doubly then, my Lord,
You'll wander on my banks,
And listen mony a grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.

VI.

The sober laverock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire;
The gowdspink, music's gayest child,
Shall sweetly join the choir:

The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,
The mavis mild and mellow;
The robin pensive autumn cheer,
In all her locks of yellow.

VII.

This, too, a covert shall insure

To shield them from the storm And coward maukin sleep secure, Low in her grassy form: Here shall the shepherd make his seat, To weave his crown of flow'rs; Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat From prone-descending show'rs.

VIII.

And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair,
Despising worlds with all their wealth
As empty idle care.

The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms
The hour of heav'n to grace,
And birks extend their fragrant arms
To screen the dear embrace.

IX.

Here haply too, at vernal dawn, Some musing bard may stray, And eye the smoking, dewy lawn,

And misty mountain grey; Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,

Mild-chequering thro' the trees, Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.

X.

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,

My lowly banks o'erspread, And view, deep-bending in the pool, Their shadows' wat'ry bed!

Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest My craggy cliffs adorn;

And, for the little songster's nest,

The close embow'ring thorn.

XI.

So may old Scotia's darling hope,
Your little angel band,

Spring, like their fathers, up to prop
Their honour'd native land!
So may thro' Albion's farthest ken,
To social-flowing glasses,

The grace be-"Athole's honest men,
And Athole's bonnie lasses!"

Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.
Man, your proud usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below:
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels:
But man, to whom alone is giv'n
A ray direct from pitying heav'n,
Glories in his heart humane-
And creatures for his pleasure slain.

In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv'let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
All on Nature you depend,

And life's poor season peaceful spend.

Or, if man's superior might
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,

Man with all his pow'rs you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

LXXXV. ON

SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL

IN LOCH TURIT.

[When Burns wrote these touching lines, he was staying with Sir William Murray of Ochtertyre, during one of his Highland tours. Loch Turit is a wild lake among the recesses of the hills, and was welcome from its loneliness to the heart of the poet.]

WHY, ye tenants of the lake,

For me your wat'ry haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties?—
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.

LXXXVI.

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL

OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH.

[The castle of Taymouth is the residence of the Earl of Breadalbane: it is a magnificent structure, contains many fine paintings: has some splendid old trees and romantic scenery.]

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,

These northern scenes with weary feet I trace:
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious, I pursue,
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view.
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides;
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills;
The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride,
The palace, rising on its verdant side;

[This is one of the many fine scenes, in the Celtic Parnassus of Ossian: but when Burns saw it the Highland passion of the stream was abated, for there had been no rain for some time to swell and send it pouring down its precipices in a way worthy of the scene. The descent of the water is about two hundred feet. There is another fall farther up the stream, very wild and savage, on which the Fyers makes three prodigious leaps into a deep gulf whero nothing can be seen for the whirling foam and the agitated mist.]

LXXXVIII.

POETICAL ADDRESS

TO MR. W. TYTLER,

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE

[When these verses were written there was much stately Jacobitism about Edinburgh, and it is likely that Tytler, who laboured to dispel the cloud of calumny which hung over the memory of Queen Mary, had a bearing that way. Taste and talent have now descended in the Tytlers through three generations; an uncommon event in families. The present edition of the poem has been completed from the original in the poet's handwriting.]

REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,
Of Stuart, a name once respected—

A name which to love was once mark of a true heart,

But now 'tis despis'd and neglected.

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye,

Let no one misdeem me disloyal;

A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal.

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne,
My fathers have fallen to right it;
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son,
That name should he scoffingly slight it.

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join,

The Queen, and the rest of the gentry, Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; Their title's avow'd by my country.

But why of that epocha make such a fuss, That gave us th' Electoral stem?

If bringing them over was lucky for us, I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them.

But loyalty truce! we're on dangerous ground,
Who knows how the fashions may alter?
The doctrine to-day that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring us a halter.

I send you a trifle, the head of a bard,
A trifle scarce worthy your care;
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard,
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.

Life is but a day at most,

Sprung from night, in darkness lost;
Day, how rapid in its flight-
Day, how few must see the night;
Hope not sunshine every hour,
Fear not clouds will always lower.
Happiness is but a name,
Make content and ease thy aim.
Ambition is a meteor gleam;
Fame a restless idle dream:

Pleasures, insects on the wing

Round Peace, the tenderest flower of spring;

Those that sip the dew alone,

Make the butterflies thy own;

Those that would the bloom devour,
Crush the locusts-save the flower.
For the future be prepar'd,
Guard wherever thou canst guard; '
But thy utmost duly done,
Welcome what thou canst not shun.
Follies past, give thou to air,
Make their consequence thy care:
Keep the name of man in mind,
And dishonour not thy kind.
Reverence with lowly heart,

Him whose wondrous work thou art;
Keep his goodness still in view,
Thy trust-and thy example too.

Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide!
Quod the Beadsman on Nithside.

VOL, IL

XC.

WRITTEN IN

FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE,

ON NITHSIDE.

DECEMBER, 1788.

[Of this Poem Burns thought so well that he gave away many copies in his own handwriting: I have seen three. When corrected to his mind, and the manuscripts showed many changes and corrections, he published it in the new edition of his Poems as it stands in this second copy. The little Hermitage, where these lines were written, stood in a lonely plantation belonging to the estate of Friars-Carse, and close to the march-dyke of Ellisland; a small door in the fence, of which the poet had the key, admitted him at pleasure, and there he found seclusion such as he liked, with flowers and shrubs all around him. The first twelve lines of the Poem were engraved neatly on one of the window-panes, by the diamond pencil of the bard. On Riddel's death the Hermitage was allowed to go quietly to decay: I remember in 1803 turning two outlyer stots out of the interior.]

THOU whom chance may hither lead,

Be thou clad in russet weed,

Be thou deckt in silken stole,

Grave these counsels on thy soul.

Life is but a day at most,

Sprung from night, in darkness lost;

Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour,

Fear not clouds will always lower.

As Youth and Love, with sprightly dance,
Beneath thy morning star advance,
Pleasure with her siren air

May delude the thoughtless pair:
Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup,
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up.

As thy day grows warm and high,
Life's meridian flaming nigh,
Dost thou spurn the humble vale?
Life's proud summits would'st thou scale?
Check thy climbing step, elate,

Evils lurk in felon wait:
Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold,
Soar around each cliffy hold,

While cheerful peace, with linnet song,
Chants the lowly dells among.

As the shades of ev'ning close,
Beck'ning thee to long repose;
As life itself becomes disease,
Seek the chimney-nook of ease.

N