Farewell again; and yet,

Was never fashioned in a summer dream, Must it indeed be somand on this shore

Where Nymph or Naiad from the hot sunbeam Shall you and I no more

Might hide, or in the waters cool her feet. Together see the sun of the summer set?

-A lovelier rivulet was never seen For me, my days are gone:

Wandering amidst Italian meadows, where

Clitumnus lapses from his fountain fair; No more shall I, in vintage times, prepare

Nor in that land where gods, 'tis said, have been; Chaplets to bind my hair,

Yet there Cephisus ran thro' olives green, As I was wont: oh 'twas for you alone.

And on its banks Aglaia bound her hair.
But on my bier I'll lay
Me down in frozen beauty, pale and wan,

Perhaps the lady of my love is now
Martyr of love to man,

Looking upon the skies. A single star
And, like a broken flower, gently decay.

Is rising in the east, and from afar
Sheds a most tremulous lustre: silent night

Doth wear it like a jewel on her brow:

But see, it motions, with its lovely light,
Onwards and onwards thro' those depths of blue,

To its appointed course stedfast and true.

So, dearest, would I fain be unto thee,
There is no river in the world more sweet, Stedfast for ever,-like yon planet fair;
Or fitter for a sylvan poet's dream,

And yet more like art thou a jewel rare. Than this romantic solitary stream,

Oh! brighter than the brightest star, to me, Over whose banks so many branches meet,

Come hither, my young love; and I will wear Entangling:-a more shady bower or neat

Thy beauty on my breast delightedly.

ROBERT BURNS.-A. D. 1759-96.



'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil,
Upon a bonie day in June,
When wearing through the afternoon,
Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar,
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure:
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Where sailors gang to fish for cod.

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar,
Show'd him the gentleman and scholar;
But though he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride nae pride had he;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gypsey's messin:
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him.

The tither was a ploughman's collie,
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend an' comrade had him,
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland sang,
Was made lang syne-lord kuows how lang.

He was a gash an' faithful tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke.
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Ay gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl.

Nae doubt but they were fain o'ither,
An' unco pack an' thick thegither;
Wi' social nose whyles snuff’d and snowkit,
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit;
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,
An' worry'd ither in diversion;
Until wi' daffin weary grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down,
And there began a lang digression
About the Lords o' the Creation.

Cæsar. I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, What sort o' life poor dogs like you have; An' when the gentry's life I saw, What way poor bodies liv’d ava.

Our laird gets in his racked rents,
His coals, bis kain, and a' his stents:
He rises when he likes himsel;
His flunkies answer at the bell:
He ca's bis coach, he ca's his horse ;
He draws a bonie silken purse
As lang's my tail, where, through the steeks,
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks.

Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling,
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling;
An' though the gentry first are stechin,
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie,
That's little short o' downright wastrie.
Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner,
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner,
Better than ony tenant man
His honour has in a' the lan':
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,
I own it's past my comprehension.

Trowth, Cæsar, whyles thy're fasht enough;
A cotter howkin in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, and sic like,
Himself, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
An'nought but his han' darg, to keep
Them right and tight in thack an' rape.

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters,
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger:
But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet,
They're maistly wonderfu' contented;
An' buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.

Cæsar. But then to see how ye’re negleckit, How huff’d, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit! L-d, man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor folk, As I wad by a stinking brock.

I've notic'd, on our laird's court-day, An' mony a time my heart's been wae, Poor tenant bodies, scant o'cash, How they maun thole a factor's snash : He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear, He'll apprehend them, poind their gear; While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble; An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble!

I see how folk live that hae riches;

There, at Vienna or Versailles, But surely poor folk maun be wretches.

He rives his father's auld entails ;

Or by Madrid he takes the rout,

To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowt;
They're nae sae wretched's ane wad think;

Or down Italian vista startles, Though constantly on poortith's brink:

Wh-re-hunting among groves o' myrtles: They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,

Then bouses drumly German water, The view o't gies them little fright.

To mak himsel look fair and fatter, Then chance an' fortune are sae guided,

An' clear the consequential sorrows, They're ay in less or mair provided;

Love-gifts of carnival signoras. An' though fatigu'd wi' close employment,

For Britain's guid! for her destruction! A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.

Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction.
The dearest comfort o' their lives;

Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives;
The prattling things are just their pride,

Hech man! dear sirs ! is that the gate
That sweetens a' their fire-side.

They waste sae mony a braw estate! An' whyles twalpennie-worth o' nappie

Are we sae foughten an' harass'd Can make the bodies unco happy;

For gear to gang that gate at last! They lay aside their private cares,

O would they stay aback frae courts, To mind the kirk and state affairs:

An' please themselves wi' countra sports, They'll talk o' patronage and priests,

It wad for ev'ry ane be better, Wi' kindling fury in their breasts,

The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter! Or tell what new taxation's comin,

For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.

Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows! As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns,

Except for breakin o' their timmer, They get the jovial, ranting kirns,

Or speakin lightly o’ their limmer, When rural life, o' every station,

Or shootin o' a hare or moor-cock, Unite in common recreation :

The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor

folk. Love blinks, wit slaps, and social mirth,

But will you tell me, Master Cæsar, Forgets there's care upon the earth.

Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ? That merry day the year begins,

Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, They bar the door on frosty winds;

The vera thought o't need na fear them.
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,

An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam;
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill,

L-d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, Are handed round wi' right guid will;

The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. The cantie auld folks crackin crouse,

It's true, they need na starve or sweat, The young ones rantin through the house

Through winter's cauld, or simmer's heat; My heart has been sae fain to see them,

They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.

An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes: Still its owre true that ye hae said,

But human bodies are sic fools, Sic game is now owre aften play'd.

For a' their colleges and schools, There's monie a creditable stock

That when pae real ills perplex them, O decent, honest, fawsont folk,

They make enow themsels to vex them; Are riven out baith root and branch,

An'ay the less they hae to start them, Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,

In like proportion less will hurt them. Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster

A country-fellow at the pleugh, In favour wi' some gentle master,

His acres tillid, he's right enough; Wha, aiblins, thrang a-parliamentin,

A country girl at her wheel, For Britain's guid his saul indentin

Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel :

But gentlemen, an' ladies warst,

Wi' ev'ndown want o wark are curst.
Haith, lad, ye little ken about it;

They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; For Britain's guid! guid faith: I doubt it.

Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy ; Say rather, gaun as premiers lead him,

Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless; An' saying aye or no's they bid him:

Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless : At operas an' plays parading,

An' e'en their sports, their balls, an' races, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading;

Their galloping through public places. Or, maybe, in a frolic daft,

There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, To Hague or Calais takes a waft,

The joy can scarcely reach the heart. To make a tour, an' tak a whirl,

The men cast out in party matches, To learn bon ton an' see the worl'.

Then sowther a' in deep debauches :


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Ae night thy're mad wi' drink an' wh-ring,

The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, Niest day their life is past enduring.

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,

The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.
As great and gracious a' as sisters;
But hear their absent thoughts o'ither,

Their master's an' their mistress's command, They're a' run deils an' jades thegither.

The younkers a' are warned to obey; Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie,

“ An’ mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, They sip the scandel potion pretty;

An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play: Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks

An'o! be sure to fear the Lord alway! Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks;

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night! Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard.

Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
An'cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard.

Implore his counsel and assisting might:
There's some exception, man an' woman;

They never sought in vain, that sought the Lord
But this is gentry's life in common.

By this, the sun was out o'sight,

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
An' darker gloaming brought the night;

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone;

Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor,
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan:

To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
When up they gat, and shook their lugs,

The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs;

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and Alush her cheek;
An' each took aff his several way,

With heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name,
Resolv'd to meet some ither day.

While Jenny haffins is afraid to speak;
Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild worth-

Jess sake.
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ;

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;

A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye;
The short'ning winter-day is near a close;

Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta’en;
The miry beats retreating frae the pleugh;

The father craks of horses, pleughs, and kye.
The black’ning trains o' craws to their repose;

The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, The toil-worn cotter frae his labour goes,

But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; This night his weekly moil is at an end,

The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, What makes the youth sae bashfa'an' sae grave; Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,

Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the And weary, o'er the moor, his course does home

lave. ward bend.

O happy love! where love like this is found! At length his lonely cot appears in view,

O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare ! Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;

I've paced much this weary, mortal round,
Th' expectant wee-things, todlin, stacher through

And sage experience bids me this declare-
To meet their dad, wi’ Aichterin noise an' glee. “ If heaven a draught of heav'nly pleasure spare,
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonily,

One cordial in this melancholy vale,
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile,

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
The lisping infant pratiling on his knee,

In others' arms breathe out the tender tale, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile,

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'nAn' makes him quite forget his labour and his toil.

ing gale.” Belyve the elder bairns come drappin in,

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart-
At service out, amang the farmers roun';

A wretch ! a villain! lost to love and truth!
Some ca’ the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
A cannie errand to a neebor town:

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth 2
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smooth!
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ?
Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child?
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.

Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction

wild! Wi' joy unfeign’d brothers and sisters meet,

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers; But now the supper crowns their simple board!
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet; The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food :

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; The soupe their only hawkie does afford,
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cud:
Anticipation forward points the view.

The dame brings forth in complimental mood,

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To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck fell, Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; An' aft he's press'd, an' aft he ca's it good;

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell,

The parent-pair their secret homage pay, How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. And proffer up to Heaven the warm request

That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;

Would in the way his wisdom sees the best, The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,

For them and for their little ones provide; The big Ha’-Bible, ance his father's pride:

But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearin thin an' bare;

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,

springs, He wales a portion with judicious care ;

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: And "let us worship God!” he says, with solemn air. Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,

“ An honest man's the noblest work of God:" They chant their artless notes in simple guise ;

And certes, in fair virtue's heav'nly road, They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:

The cottage leaves the palace far behind: Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise,

What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Or plaintive Martyr's, worthy of the name :

Disguising oft the wretch of human-kind,
Or noble Elgin beats the heav'nward flame,

Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refind!
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:
Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame; O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent! Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, (tent!

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet conThe priest-like father reads the sacred


And, O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, With Amalek's ungracious progeny;

A virtuous populace may rise the while, Or, how the royal bard did groaning lie

And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'disle. Beneath the stroke of heaven's avenging ire; Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;

O thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide Or, rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire;

That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.

Who dar'd to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride, Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;

(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, How he, who bore in heav'n the second name,

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) Had not on earth whereon to lay his head:

O never, never, Scotia's realm desert: How his first followers and servants sped;

But still the patriot and the patriot bard,

In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;

LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronoun’d by Hea

GLENCAIRN. ven's command.

The wind blew hollow frae the hills,
Then kneeling down to heaven's eternal King, By fits the sun's departing beam

The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Look'd on the fading yellow woods
Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,” That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream:

That thus they all shall meet in future days: Beneath a craigy steep, a bard,
There, ever bask in uncreated rays,

Laden with years and meikle pain, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,

In loud lament bewail'd his lord,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,

Whom death had all untimely ta'en.
In such society, yet still more dear; [sphere.
While circling time moves round in an eternal

He lean'd him to an ancient aik,

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years;
Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, His locks were bleached white wi' time,
In all the pomp of method, and of art,

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears!
When men display to congregations wide, And as he touch'd his trembling harp,
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart!

And as he tun'd his doleful sang, The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert,

The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;

To echo bore the notes alang. But haply, in some cottage far apart,

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; “ Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. The reliques of the vernal quire!




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