I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap,
Douse hingin o'er my curple,
Than ony ermine ever lap,
Or proud imperial purple.
Fareweek then, lang hale then,
An' plenty be your fa':
May losses and crosses

Ne'er at your hallan ca'.

March, 1787.

R. BURNS.

SONG.

Tune-" BONNIE DUNDEE."

IN Mauchline there dwells six proper young Belles,
The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a',
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess,
In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a':

Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine,
Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw;
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton,
But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'.

* This is one of our Bard's early productions. Miss Armour is now Mrs Burns.

N 4

ON THE DEATH OF

SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR.

THE lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare,
Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave;
Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the darkening air,
And hollow whistled 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 wellt, Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane‡.

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks,
The clouds swift-wing'd flew o'er the starry sky,
The groaning trees untimely shed their locks,
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye.

The paly moon rose in the livid east,

And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately Form,

In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm.

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,
'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd:
Her form majestic droop'd in pensvie woe,
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.

The King's Park, at Holyrood-house.
St Anthony's Well.

St Anthony's Chapel.

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.

"My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" With accents wild and lifted arms she cried;

"Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, "Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride

"A weeping country joins a widow's tear, "The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; "The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, "And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh.

"I saw my sons resume their ancient fire; "I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow; "But, ah! how hope is born but to expire! "Relentless fate has laid this guardian low.

"My patriot falls but shall he lie unsung, "While empty greatness saves a worthless name! "No; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, "And future ages hear his growing fame.

"And I will join a mother's tender cares, "Thro' future times to make his virtues last, "That distant years may boast of other Blairs"She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast.

WRITTEN

ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF THE POEMS, PRESENTED TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED".

ONCE fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear,
Sweet early object of my youthful vows,
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,
Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows.--

And when you read the simple artless rhymes,
One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more,
Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes,
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar.

* The girl mentioned in the letter to Dr Moore, vol. i,

18

THE JOLLY BEGGARS:

A CANTATA.

RECITATIVO.

WHEN lyart leaves bestrow the yird, Or wavering like the Bauckie-bird*,

*

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast;

When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte,
And infant frosts begin to bite,
In hoary cranreuch drest;
Ae night at e'en a merry core
O' randie, gangrel bodies,

In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore,
To drink their orra duddies:
Wi' quaffing and laughing,
They ranted and they sang;
Wi' jumping and thumping,
The vera girdle rang.

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, And knapsack a' in order;

His doxy lay within his arm,

Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm —

She blinket on her sodger :

An' ay he gies the tozie drab
The tither skelpin kiss,

The old Scotch name for the Bat.
NG