PIECES DOUBTFULLY ATTRIBUTED

TO BURNS.

THE HERMIT.

WRITTEN ON A MARBLE SIDEBOARD, IN THE HERMITAGE BELONGING TO THE DUKE OF ATHOLE, IN THE WOOD OF ABERFELDY.

WHOE'ER thou art, these lines now reading,
Think not, though from the world receding,
I joy my lonely days to lead in

This desert drear;

That fell remorse a conscience bleeding
Hath led me here.

No thought of guilt my bosom sours;
Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers;
For well I saw in halls and towers
That lust and pride,

The arch-fiend's dearest, darkest powers,
In state preside.

I saw mankind with vice incrusted;
I saw that honour's sword was rusted;

THE HERMIT.

That few for aught but folly lusted;
That he was still deceived who trusted
To love or friend;

And hither came, with men disgusted,
My life to end.

In this lone cave, in garments lowly,
Alike a foe to noisy folly,

And brow-bent gloomy melancholy,
I wear away

My life, and in my office holy

Consume the day.

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This rock my shield, when storms are blowing,
The limpid streamlet yonder flowing
Supplying drink, the earth bestowing
My simple food;

But few enjoy the calm I know in
This desert wood.

Content and comfort bless me more in
This grot, than e'er I felt before in
A palace and with thoughts still soaring
To God on high,

Each night and morn with voice imploring,
This wish I sigh:

"Let me, O Lord! from life retire, Unknown each guilty worldly fire,

Remorse's throb, or loose desire ;

And when I die,

Let me in this belief expire

To God I fly."

Stranger, if full of youth and riot,
And yet no grief has marred thy quiet,
Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at
The hermit's prayer:

But if thou hast good cause to sigh at
Thy fault or care,

If thou hast known false love's vexation,
Or hast been exiled from thy nation,
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation,
And makes thee pine,

Oh! how must thou lament thy station,
And envy mine!

THE VOWELS:

A TALE.

"TWAS where the birch and sounding thong are

plied,

The noisy domicile of pedant pride;

THE VOWELS.

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Where Ignorance her darkening vapour throws,
And Cruelty directs the thickening blows;
Upon a time, Sir Abece the great,
In all his pedagogic powers elate,

His awful chair of state resolves to mount,
And call the trembling vowels to account.

First entered A, a grave, broad, solemn wight,
But, ah! deformed, dishonest to the sight!
His twisted head looked backward on his way,
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai!

Reluctant, E stalked in; with piteous race
The justling tears ran down his honest face!
That name, that well-worn name, and all his

own,

Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne!
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound;
And next the title following close behind,
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assigned.

The cobwebbed Gothic dome resounded, Y!
In sullen vengeance, I disdained reply:
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round,
And knocked the groaning vowel to the ground!

In rueful apprehension entered O,

The wailing minstrel of despairing wo;

The Inquisitor of Spain the most expert,

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ON PASTORAL POETRY.

Might there have learnt new mysteries of his

art;

So grim, deformed, with horrors entering, U His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew!

As trembling U stood staring all aghast,
The pedant in his left hand clutched him fast,
In helpless infants' tears he dipped his right,
Baptised him eu, and kicked him from his sight.

ON PASTORAL POETRY.

HAIL Poesie! thou Nymph reserved!

In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved

Frae common-sense, or sunk enerved

'Mang heaps o' clavers;

babblings

And och! ower aft thy joes hae starved, favorites Mid a' thy favours!

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,
While loud the trump's heroic clang,
And sock or buskin skelp alang

To death or marriage,

Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang
But wi' miscarriage?

trip.