The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee,
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care;
So decked the woodbine sweet yon aged tree;
So from it ravished, leaves it bleak and bare.

LAMENT

'OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. Now Nature hangs her mantle green

On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea:

Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies;

But nought can glad the weary wight.
That fast in durance lies.

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bower,
Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis wild wi' mony a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest:
In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.
Now blooms the lily by the bank,

The primrose down the brae;

The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae;

The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their sweets amang;
But I, the queen of a' Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang!

I was the queen o' bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been;

blackbird

thrush, many

aloe peasant

must, strong

have

rose

Fu' lightly rase I in the morn,

As blithe lay down at e'en:

And I'm the sovereign of Scotland,

And mony a traitor there;

many

Yet here I lie in foreign bands,

And never-ending care.

And may those pleasures gild thy reign,
That ne'er wad blink on mine!
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,

Or turn their hearts to thee:

And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,
Remember him for me!.

O soon, to me, may summer suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn!

And in the narrow house o' death

Let winter round me rave;

And the next flowers that deck the spring
Bloom on my peaceful grave!

LAMENT

FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN.

would

no more

"I've seen sac mony changefu' years,
On earth I am a stranger grown;
I wander in the ways of men,
Alike unknowing and unknown:
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved,

I bear alane my lade o' care,
For silent, low, on beds of dust,

Lie a' that would my sorrows share.

"And last (the sum of a' my griefs !)
My noble master lies in clay;

The flower amang our barons bold,

His country's pride! his country's stay-
In weary being now I pine,

For a' the life of life is dead,

And hope has left my aged ken,

On forward wing for ever fled.

"Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!
The voice of wo and wild despair;
Awake! resound thy latest lay-
Then sleep in silence evermair!
And thou, my last, best, only friend,
That fillest an untimely tomb,

167

alone, load

evermore

Accept this tribute from the bard,

Thou brought from fortune's mirkiest gloom.

darkest

"In poverty's low barren vale

Thick mists, obscure, involved me round;

Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye,

Nae ray of fame was to be found:

Thou found'st me, like the morning sun,
That melts the fogs in limpid air,
The friendless bard and rustic song
Became alike thy fostering care.
"O why has worth so short a date?

While villains ripen gray with time;
Must thou, the noble, generous, great,
Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime!
Why did I live to see that day?

A day to me so full of wo!-
Oh had I met the mortal shaft
Which laid my benefactor low!

"The bridegroom may forget the bride,
Was made his wedded wife yestreen;
The monarch may forget the crown
That on his head an hour has been;
The mother may forget the child

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,

And a' that thou hast done for me!"

LINES

SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, BART. OF WHITEFOORD, WITH THE FOREGOING POEM.

THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'st,

Who, save thy mind's reproach, naught earthly fear'st,
To thee this votive offering I impart,

The tearful tribute of a broken heart.

The friend thou valued'st, I the patron loved;

His worth, his honour, all the world approved.

We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone,

And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown.

ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE WITH

BAYS.

WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green,

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian strains between :
While Summer with a matron grace
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
The progress of the spiky blade:
While Autumn, benefactor kind,
By Tweed erects his aged head,
And sees, with self-approving mind,
Each creature on his bounty fed:
While maniac Winter rages o'er

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,
Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows:

So long, sweet poet of the year!

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;

While Scotia, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

This day thou metes threescore eleven,
And I can tell, that bounteous Heaven
(The second-sight, ye ken, is given
To ilka Poet)

On thee a tack o' seven times seven
Will yet bestow it.

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow

Thy lengthened days on this blest morrow,

May desolation's lang-teethed harrow,

Nine miles an hour,

Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah,
In brunstane stoure!

But for thy friends, and they are mony,
Baith honest men and lasses bonnie,
May couthie Fortune, kind and cannie,
In social glee,

Wi' mornings blythe, and e'enings funny,
Bless them and thee!

Farewell, auld birkie! GRACE be near ye,
And then NAE EVIL daurs To steer ye:

know

each

lease

perverse fellows

many both

kindly, gentle

fellow

If neist my heart I dinna wear ye

Your friends aye love, your
faes aye fear ye;
For me, shame fa' me,

dares, move

foes

fall

next, do not

While BURNS they ca' me!

call

FOURTH EPISTLE TO MR GRAHAM OF FINTRY.

I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains,
A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns;
Friend of my life! my ardent spirit burns,
And all the tribute of my heart returns,
For boons accorded, goodness ever new,
The gift still dearer, as the giver, you.
Thou orb of day! thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night;
If aught that giver from my mind efface,
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace;
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres,
Only to number out a villain's years!

SWEET Sensibility, how charming,
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell;
But how Distress, with horrors arming,
Thou, alas! hast known too well!

Fairest Flower, behold the lily,
Blooming in the sunny ray;
Let the blast sweep o'er the valloy,
See it prostrate on the clay.