he began to think of the Whigs: the first did nothing, and the latter held out hopes; and as hope, he said, was the cordial of the human heart, he continued to hope on.]

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite; How virtue and vice blend their black and their white;

How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction

I sing: if these mortals, the critics, should bustle, I care not, not I-let the critics go whistle!

But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, In the make of that wonderful creature, call'd man,

No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, Nor even two different shades of the same, Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, Possessing the one shall imply you've the other.

But truce with abstraction, and truce with a muse,

Whose rhymes you'll perhaps, Sir, ne'er deign to peruse:

glory

At once may illustrate and honour my story.

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits; Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits;

With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong,

No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong;
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright,
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite
right;-

A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses,
For using thy name offers fifty excuses.

Good L-d, what is man? for as simple he looks,

Do but try to develope his hooks and his crooks; With his depths and his shallows, his good and

his evil,

All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil.

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours,

That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours;

Mankind are his show-box-a friend, would you

know him?

Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will show him.

What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd

him;

For spite of his fine theoretic positions, Mankind is a science defies définitions.

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, And think human nature they truly describe; Have you found this, or t'other? there's more in the wind,

As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find.

quarrels,

Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels. My much-honour'd Patron, believe your poor

poet,

Your courage much more than your prudence

you show it;

In vain with Squire Billy, for laurels you struggle, He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle;

Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em, He'd up the back-stairs, and by G— he would

steal 'em.

Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er can achieve 'em;

It is not, outdo him, the task is, out-thieve him.

CI.

ON SEEING

A WOUNDED HARE

LIMP BY ME,

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT.

[This Poem is founded on fact. A young man of the name of Thomson told me quite unconscious of the existence of the Poem-that while Burns lived at Ellisland-he shot at and hurt a hare, which in the twilight was feeding on his father's wheat-bread. The poet, on observing the hare come bleeding past him, "was in great wrath," said Thomson, "and cursed me, and said little hindered him from throwing me into the Nith; and he was able enough to do it, though I was both young and strong." The boor of Nithside did not use the hare worse than the critical Dr. Gregory, of Edinburgh, used the Poem: when Burns read his remarks he said, "Cregory is a good man, but he crucifies me !"] INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art, And blasted be thy murder-aining eye; May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart.

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field! The bitter little that of life remains:

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,

No more of rest, but now thy dying bed! The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait

The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn; I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate.

CII.

TO DR. BLACKLOCK,

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER.

[This blind scholar, though an indifferent Poet, was an excellent and generous man: he was foremost of the Edinburgh literati to admire the Poems of Burns, promote their fame, and advise that the author, instead of shipping himself for Jamaica, should come to Edinburgh and publish a new edition. The poet reverenced the name of Thomas Blacklock to the last hour of his life.-Henry Mackenzie, the Earl of Glencairn, and the Blind Bard, were his three favourites.]

Ellisland, 21st Oct. 1789. Wow, but your letter made me vauntie! And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie? I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie Wad bring ye to: Lord send you ay as weel's I want ye, And then ye'll do.

The ill-thief blaw the heron south!
And never drink be near his drouth!
He tauld mysel' by word o' mouth,
He'd tak my letter:
I lippen'd to the chief in trouth,
And bade nae better.

But aiblins honest Master Heron,

Had at the time some dainty fair one,

To ware his theologic care on,

And holy study;

And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on

But what dy'e think, my trusty fier,
I'm turn'd a gauger-Peace be here!
Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear,

Ye'll now disdain me!

And then my fifty pounds a year
Will little gain me.

E'en tried the body.

CIII.

But golden sands did never grace

The Heliconian stream;

Then take what gold could never buyAn honest Bard's esteem.

DELIA.

AN ODE.

[These verses were first printed in the Star newspaper, in May, 1789. It is said that one day a friend read to the poet some verses from the Star, composed on the pattern of Pope's Song, by a Person of Quality. "These lines are beyond you," he added: "the muse of Kyle cannot match the muse of London." Burns mused a moment, and then recited "Delia, an Ode."]

FAIR 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 flow'r-enamoured busy bee
The rosy banquet loves to sip;
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
To the sun-brown'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.

CIV.

TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ.

[John M'Murdo, Esq., one of the chamberlains of the Duke of Queensberry, lived at Drumlanrig: he was a high-minded, warm-hearted man, and much the friend of the poet. These lines accompanied a present of books: others were added soon afterwards on a pane of glass in Drumlanrig castle.

"Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day!

No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray;
No wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care,
Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair!
O may no son the father's honour stain,
Nor ever daughter give the mother pain."

How fully the poet's wishes were fulfilled need not be told to any one acquainted with the family.]

O, COULD I give thee India's wealth,
As I this trifle send!
Because thy joy in both would be
To share them with a friend.

CV.

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES,

1 JAN. 1790.

[This prologue was written in December, 1789, for Mr. Sutherland, who recited it with applause in the little theatre of Dumfries, on new-year's night. Sir Harris Nicolas, however, has given to Ellisland the benefit of a theatre! and to Burns the whole barony of Dalswinton for a farm!]

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city That queens it o'er our taste-the more's the pity:

Tho', by-the-by, abroad why will you roam?
Good sense and taste are natives here at home:
But not for panegyric I appear,

I come to wish you all a good new year!
Old Father Time deputes me here before ye,
Not for to preach, but tell his simple story:
The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me
say,

"You're one year older this important day."
If wiser too-he hinted some suggestion,
But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the ques-

tion;

And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, He bade me on you press this one word"think!"

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush'd with hope and spirit,

Who think to storm the world by dint of merit,
To you the dotard has a deal to say,
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way;
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle,
That the first blow is ever half the battle:
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch
him,

Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him;
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing,
You may do miracles by persevering.

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care i

To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, And humbly begs you'll mind the important

To crown your happiness he asks your leave, And offers bliss to give and to receive.

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, With grateful pride we own your many favours, And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it.

CVI.

SCOTS PROLOGUE,

FOR MR. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT NIGHT,

DUMFRIES.

[Burns did not shine in prologues: he produced some vigorous lines, but they did not come in harmony from nis tongue, like the songs in which he recorded the loveliness of the dames of Caledonia. Sutherland was manager of the theatre, and a writer of rhymes.-Burns said his players were a very decent set: he had seen them an evening or two.]

WHAT needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, How this new play an' that new sang is comin' ? Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted? Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when imported?

Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame?
For comedy abroad he need nae toil,
A fool and knave are plants of every soil;
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece
To gather matter for a serious piece ;
There's themes enough in Caledonian story,
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory.

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?
Where are the muses fled that could produce
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce;
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the

sword,

'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord, And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin? O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene, To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen! Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's

arms.

She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman;
A woman-tho' the phrase may seem uncivil-
As able and as cruel as the Devil!

One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page,
But Douglases were heroes every age:
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life,
A Douglas follow'd to the martial strife,
Perhaps if bowls row right, and right succeeds,
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land
Would take the muses' servants by the hand;
Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them,
And where ye justly can commend, commend
them;

And aiblins when they winna stand the test,
Wink hard, and say the folks hae done their best!
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation,
Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack,
And warsle time, an' lay him on his back!
For us and for our stage should ony spier,
"Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle
here!"

My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow,
We have the honour to belong to you!
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like,
But like good mithers, shore before ye strike.—
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us,
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness
We've got frae a' professions, sets, and ranks :
God help us! we're but poor-ye'se get but
thanks.

CVII.

SKETCH.

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

[This is a picture of the Dunlop family: it was printed from a hasty sketch, which the poet called extempore. The major whom it mentions, was General Andrew Dunlop, who died in 1804: Rachel Dunlop was afterwards married to Robert Glasgow, Esq. Another of the Dunlops served with distinction in India, where he rose to the rank of General. They were a gallant race, and all distinguished.]

THIS day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, To run the twelvemonth's length again:

I see the old, bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpair'd machine,
To wheel the equal, dull routine.

The absent lover, minor heir,

In vain assail him with their prayer;
Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,
Nor makes the hour one moment less.
Will you (the Major's with the hounds,
The happy tenants share his rounds;
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)
From housewife cares a minute borrow-
-That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-
And join with me a moralizing,
This day's propitious to be wise in.

First, what did yesternight deliver?
"Another year is gone for ever."
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
"The passing moment's all we rest on!"
Rest on-for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,
Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may-a few years must-
Repose us in the silent dust.
Then is it wise to damp our bliss?
Yes-all such reasonings are amiss!
The voice of nature loudly cries,
And many a message from the skies,
That something in us never dies:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
Hang matters of eternal weight:
That future life in worlds unknown
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether as heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as misery's woeful night.—

Since then, my honour'd, first of friends,
On this poor being all depends,
Let us th' important now employ,
And live as those who never die.

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd,
Witness that filial circle round,
(A sight, life's sorrows to repulse,
A sight, pale envy to convulse,)
Others now claim your chief regard;
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

CVIII.

TO A GENTLEMAN

WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE.

[These sarcastic lines contain a too true picture of the times in which they were written. Though great changes have taken place in court and camp, yet Austria, Russia, and Prussia keep the tack of Poland: nobody says a word of Denmark: emasculated Italy is still singing; opera girls are still dancing; but Chatham Will, glaikit Charlie, Daddie Burke, Royal George, and Geordie Wales, have all passed to their account.]

KIND Sir, I've read your paper through,
And, faith, to me 'twas really new!
How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted?
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted,
To ken what French mischief was brewin';
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin';
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie works
Atween the Russians and the Turks;
Or if the Swede, before he halt,
Would play anither Charles the Twalt:
If Denmark, any body spak o't;

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't;
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin';
How libbet Italy was singin';

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss
Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss:
Or how our merry lads at hame,
In Britain's court kept up the game:
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him!
Was managing St. Stephen's quorum;
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin';
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in;
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin',
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin;
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd,
Or if bare as yet were tax'd;
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls;
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales,
Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails;
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,
And no a perfect kintra cooser.---
A' this and mair I never heard of;
And but for you I might despair'd of.
So, gratefu', back your news I send you,
And pray, a' guid things may attend you!

Ellisland, Monday morning, 1790.