Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, Where is thy blissful place of rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? LINES ON AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD ᎠᏁᎬᎡ. THIS wot ye all whom it concerns, I Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, October twenty-third, A ne'er to be forgotten day, I've been at drucken writers' feasts, I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, When mighty Squireships of the quorum, Their hydra drouth did słoken. But wi' a Lord-stand out my shin, But oh for Hogarth's magic pow'r! And how he star'd and stammer'd, I sidling shelter'd in a nook, I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, The arrogant assuming; The feint a pride, nae pride had he, Then from his Lordship I shall learn, One rank as well's another; ON A YOUNG LADY, Residing on the banks of the small river Devon, in Clackmannanshire, but whose infant years were spent in Ayrshire. How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding De[ing fair; von, With green-spreading bushes, and flowers bloomBut the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon, Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew! And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, And England triumphant display her proud rose, A fairer than either adorns the green valleys Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. VOL. XXXVIII. C c CASTLE GORDON. I. STREAMS that glide in orient plains, II. Spicy forests, ever gay, Shading from the burning ray III. Wildly here without control, Nature reigns and rules the whole; In that sober pensive mood, Dearest to the feeling soul, She plants the forest, pours the flood; Life's poor day I'll musing rave, NAE-BODY. I HAE a wife o' my ain, I hae a penny to spend, There-thanks to nae-body; I hae nothing to lend, I am nae-body's lord, I'll be slave to nae-body; I hae a guid braid sword, I'll tak dunts frae nae-body. I'll be merry and free, I'll be sad for nae-body; * These verses our Poet composed to be sung to Morag, a Highland air, of which he was extremely fond. |