ON LEAVING A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS WHERE HE HAD
BEEN KINDLY ENTERTAINED.

WHEN death's dark stream I ferry o'er-
A time that surely shall come-
In heaven itself I'll ask no more
Than just a Highland welcome!

ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ., BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S.

SAD thy tale, thou idle page,

And rueful thy alarms-

Death tears the brother of her love

From Isabella's arms.

Sweetly decked with pearly dow
The morning rose may blow,
But cold successive noontide blasts
May lay its beauties low.
Fair on Isabella's morn
The sun propitious smiled,
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
Succeeding hopes beguiled.

Fate oft tears the bosom cords
That nature finest strung;
So Isabella's heart was formed,
And so that heart was wrung.
Were it in the poet's power,
Strong as he shares the grief
That pierces Isabella's heart,
To give that heart relief!
Dread Omnipotence, alone,
Can heal the wound he gave-
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes
To scenes beyond the grave.

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow,
And fear no withering blast;
There Isabella's spotless worth
Shall happy be at last.

ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR.

THE lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare,

Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave;

The inconstant blast howled through the darkening air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave.

Lone as I wandered by each cliff and dell,

Once the loved haunts of Scotia's royal train ;*
Or mused where limpid streams once hallowed well,†
Or mouldering ruins marked the sacred fane. ‡
The increasing blast roared round the beetling rocks,
The clouds, swift-winged, 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 disclosed a stately form,
In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast,
And mixed her wailings with the raving storm.

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow,

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I viewed: Her form majestic drooped in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued.

* Park, Holyrood.

+ St Anthony's Well.

St Anthony's Chapel.

Reversed that spear, redoubtable in war,
Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurled,
That like a deathful meteor gleamed afar,
And braved 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 stretched to save,
Low lies the heart that swelled 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 their 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,

Through future times to make his virtue last; That distant years may boast of other Blairs!" She said, and vanished with the sweeping blast.

TO MISS FERRIER,

ENCLOSING THE FOREGOING ELEGY ON SIR J. H. BLAIR.

NAE heathen name shall I prefix

Frae Pindus or Parnassus;

Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks,
For rhyme-inspiring lasses.

Jove's tunefu' dochters three times three

Made Homer deep their debtor;

But, gi'en the body half an e'e,

Nine Ferriers wad done better !

Last day my mind was in a bog,
Down George's Street I stoited;

A creeping cauld prosaic fog
My very senses doited.

Do what I dought to set her free,

My saul lay in the mire;

Ye turned a neuk-I saw your e'e-
She took the wing like fire!

(Edinburgh) beats

aaughters

eye would

tottered

cold

stupified

could soul

corner, eye

The mournfu' sang I here enclose,

In gratitude I send you;

And [wish and] pray in rhyme sincere,
A' gude things may attend you!

song

good

LINES ON STIRLING.

HERE Stuarts once in triumph reigned,
And laws for Scotland's weal ordained;
But now unroofed their palace stands,
Their sceptre's fallen to other hands.
The injured Stuarts' line are gone,
A race outlandish fill their throne-
An idiot race to honour lost:

Who know them best, despise them most.-BURNS. On some one reproving him for writing these lines, Burns added,

"Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name

Shall no longer appear in the records of fame;

Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible
Says the more 'tis a truth, sir, the more 'tis a libel?"

WRITTEN

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

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,

These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
The abodes of covied grouse and timid sheep,

My savage journey, curious, I pursue,

Till famed Breadalbane opens to my view.
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, well scattered, clothe their ample sides;
The outstretching lake, embosomed 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills;
The Tay, meandering sweet in infant pride,
The palace, rising on its verdant side;

The lawns, wood-fringed in Nature's native taste
The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste;
The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream;
The village, glittering in the noontide beam-

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell,
Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell:
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods;
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods-

Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre,
And look through Nature with creative fire:

Here to the wrongs of fate half reconciled,
Misfortune's lightened steps might wander wild;
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds:

Here,heartstruck Grief might heavenward stretch her scan,
And injured Worth forget and pardon man.

*

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER TO
THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.

My lord, I know your noble ear
Woe ne'er assails in vain;
Emboldened thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble slave complain,

How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,

Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

The lightly-jumpin' glowerin trouts.
That through 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 ainang,

In gasping death to wallow.

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:
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
Even as I was he shored me;

But had I in my glory been,

He, kneeling, wad adored me.

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin;

There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild roaring o'er a linn:

Enjoying large each spring and well,

staring

long

among

wept, vexation

promised

would have

cascade

As Nature gave them me,

I

an, although I say't mysel,

Worth gaun a mile to see.

Would, then, my nobie master please

To grant my highest wishes,

Ile'll shade iny banks wi' towering 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.

going