How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend! How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain flows round the untimely tomb where Riddel lies.

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of wo, And soothe the Virtues weeping o'er his bier; The Man of Worth, and hath not left his peer, Is in his narrow house, for ever darkly low.

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet;

Me, memory of my loss will only meet!

THE BANKS OF CREE.

TUNE The Banks of Cree.

“I got an air, pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron of Heron, which she calls The Banks of Cree. Cree is a beautiful romantic stream; and as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written the following song to it."— Burns to Mr. Thomson, May, 1794.

HERE is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade;

ÆT. 36.] ODE FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. 119

The village-bell has tolled the hour,
O what can stay my lovely maid?

'Tis not Maria's whispering call;
'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale,
Mixed with some warbler's dying fall,
The dewy star of eve to hail.

It is Maria's voice I hear!

So calls the woodlark in the grove,
His little faithful mate to cheer;
At once 'tis music and 'tis love.

And art thou come?—and art thou true?
O welcome, dear, to love and me!

And let us all our vows renew,
Along the flowery banks of Cree.

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY.

"I am just going to trouble your critical patience with the first sketch of a stanza I have been framing as I passed along the road. The subject is Liberty: you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme is to me. I design it as an irregular ode for General

Washington's birthday. After having mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms, I come to Scotland thus: "— [Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, 25th June, 1794.]

THEE, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of freedom fled?

Immingled with the mighty dead,

Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace

lies!

Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death,
Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep,
Disturb ye not the hero's sleep,
Nor give the coward secret breath.
Is this the power in freedom's war,
That wont to bid the battle rage e?

"With the additions of"

Behold that eye which shot immortal hate,
Braved usurpation's boldest daring;
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate,
Crushed the despot's proudest bearing;

One quenched in darkness like the sinking star, And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age.

FROM BURNS'S LAST LETTER TO CLARINDA.

"You must know, my dearest madam, that these now many years, wherever I am, in whatever company, when a married lady is called as a toast, I constantly give you; but as your name has never passed my lips, even to my most intimate friend, I give you by the name of Mrs. Mac. This is so well known among my acquaintances, that when any married lady is called for, the toast-master will say: 'Oh, we need not ask him who it is: here's Mrs. Mac!' I have also, among my convivial friends, set on foot a round of toasts, which I call a round of Arcadian Shepherdesses that is, a round of favourite ladies, under female names celebrated in ancient song; and then you are my Clarinda. So, my lovely Clarinda, I devote this glass of wine to a most ardent wish for your happiness."

IN vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer,
Point out a censuring world, and bid me fear:
Above that world on wings of love I rise,
I know its worst, and can that worst despise.

"Wronged, injured, shunned, unpitied, unre

drest;

The mocked quotation of the 'scorner's jest
Let Prudence' direst bodements on me fall,
Clarinda, rich reward! o'erpays them all.

WRITTEN IN A COPY OF THOMSON'S MELODIES, PRESENTED TO A LADY.

"I have presented a copy of your songs to the daughter of a much-valued and much-honoured friend of mine - Mr. Graham of Fintry. I wrote on the blank-side of the title-page the following address to the young lady."- Burns to Mr. Thomson, July,

1794.

HERE, where the Scottish Muse immortal lives,

In sacred strains and tuneful numbers joined, Accept the gift, though humble he who gives: Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.

So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast,
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among;
But Peace attune thy gentle soul to rest,
Or Love ecstatic wake his seraph song;

Or Pity's notes, in luxury of tears,

As modest Want the tale of wo reveals ; While conscious Virtue all the strain endears, And heaven-born Piety her sanction seals.