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.

Sweetly decked with pe
The morning rose r
But cold successive
May lay its ber

Fair on Isabell

The sun pr

But, long e
Succeed

Fate of
The

So J

RLING.

iumph reigned,

nd's weal ordained;
ed their palace stands,
's fallen to other hands.
ed Stuarts' line are gone,
outlandish fill their throne-

idiot race to honour lost:

Who know them best, despise them most.-BURNS.

reproving him for writing these lines, Burns added,—

Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name
no longer appear in the records of fame;

Shall

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

Says

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;

to the wrongs of fate half reconciled,
ne's lightened steps might wander wild;
ppointment, in these lonely bounds,

to soothe her bitter rankling wounds:

ruck Grief might heavenward stretch her scan, Vorth forget and pardon man.

*

PETITION OF BRUAR WATER TO

HE 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 amang,

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;

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

Enjoying large each spring and well,
As Nature gave them me,

I am, although I say't mysel,
Worth gaun a mile to see.

Would, then, my nobie master please

To grant my highest wishes,

He'll shade my 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.

staring

long

among

wept, vexation

promised

would have

cascade

going

The mournfu' sang I here enclose,

song

In gratitude I send you;

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

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 amang,

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;

Thore, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild roaring o'er a linn:
Enjoying large each spring and well,
As Nature gave them me,

I am, although I say't mysel,
Worth gaun a mile to see.

staring

long

among

wept, vexation

promised

would have

cascade

going