ET. 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.

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

120 ODE FOR WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. [1794.

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?

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, power-

less age.

ET. 36.] LAST LINES TO CLARINDA.

121

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.

66

Wronged, injured, shunned, unpitied, unredrest;

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

122 WRITTEN IN THOMSON'S MELODIES. [1794.

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.

ET. 36.]

THE TREE OF LIBERTY.

123

THE TREE OF LIBERTY.

HEARD ye o' the tree o' France ?
I watna what's the name o't;
Around it a' the patriots dance,

Weel Europe kens the fame o't.
It stands where ance the Bastile stood,
A prison built by kings, man,
When Superstition's hellish brood
Kept France in leading-strings, man.

Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit,
Its virtues a' can tell, man;
It raises man aboon the brute,
It maks him ken himsel', man.
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit,
He's greater than a lord, man,
And wi' the beggar shares a mite
O' a' he can afford, man.

This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth,
To comfort us 'twas sent, man:
To gie the sweetest blush o' health,
And mak us a' content, man.