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In a letter to William Nicol, dated the 9th of February, 1790, Burns wrote- "For the last two or three months, on an average, I have not ridden less than two hundred miles per week. I have done little in the poetic way. I have given Mr. Sutherland two prologues, one of which was delivered last week."

"The themes which Burns points out for the tragic muse are noble ones :- -but the heroic Wallace and the beauteous Mary would require sentiment and pathos such as are rare in the modern drama. James Grahame, the author of the Sabbath, and Thomas Doubleday, of Newcastle, have composed dramas on the sub

jeet of Queen Mary, and both have produced

scenes which cannot be perused without emotion. Scott, too, has thrown the charms of his genius around a life already sufficiently romantic. The words which Grahame ascribes to Mary when she looks from England towards her native land, are touching :

*

The absent lover, minor heir, In vain assail him with their prayer; Deaf, as my friend, he sees them press, Nor makes the hour one moment less. Will you (the Major's with the hounds, The happy tenants share his rounds; Coila's fair Rachel's + care to-day, And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) From housewife cares a minute borrowThat grandchild's cap will do to-morrowAnd join with me a-moralizing, This day's propitious to be wise in.

First, what did yesternight deliver ?
And what is this day's strong suggestion?
"Another year is gone for ever!"
"The passing moment's all we rest on !"
Rest on-for what? what do we here?
Or why regard the passing year?
Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,

Add to our date one minute more?
A few days may-a few years must-

MARY.-O England! England! grave of murdered princes! Repose us in the silent dust.

Why did I leave thee, Scotland, dearest land?

In thee I had some friends-they died for me:

O were I on the side of yon dim mountain!

Though wild and bleak it be, it is in Scotland.
ADELAIDE.-Alas! 'tis but a clond.

MARY.-No! 'tis a mountain of sweet Annandale.

Then is it wise to damp our bliss? Yes-all such reasonings are amiss! The voice of Nature loudly cries, And many a message from the skies, That something in us never dies:

ADELAIDE.-Ah, no! 'tis but a cloud; you know our distance. That on this frail, uncertain state,

MARY.-Well, then, it is a cloud that hovers o'er

My dear, my native land: I love that cloud,
That misty robe of spirits. O, Adelaide,
Come soothe me with that mournful song-
'Tis an old thing; we heard it in the days

Of happiness, and yet it filled our eyes

With tears: we heard it in the vale of Morven :

'Twas something-'Twas about the voice of Cona

ADELAIDE. The maiden with the distaff by the stream

'Twas she that sung it.

I do remember-and after she had sung it,

She tried to tell it o'er in broken Scottish.

MARY.-Let me hear it.

ADELAIDE. I feel my heart so full that but one note,

A single note, sung even by myself,

Would quite untune my voice.

Hang matters of eternal weight:
That future life, in worlds unknown,
Must take its hue from this alone;
Whether as Heavenly glory bright,
Or dark as Misery's woeful night.-

Since then, my honor'd, first of friends,
On this poor being all depends,
Let us th' important now employ,

And live as those who never die.

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, Witness that filial circle round,

(A sight, life's sorrows to repulse, A sight, pale Envy to convulse,)

MARY.-The weary rook hies home-my home's a prison, Others now claim your chief regard;

All things are free but me. Why did I leave
Lochleven's beauteous isle? There I could range
Along the shore, or, seated on the bank,
Hope still for better days."

Mary's woes still await some future Shakspeare, or pathetic Otway."CUNNINGHAM.

Dew Year's Day.-A Sketch.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

THIS day, Time winds th' exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonth's length again:
I see the old, bald-pated fellow,
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,
Adjust the unimpair'd machine,

To wheel the equal, dull routine.

Major, afterwards General Andrew Dunlop, Mrs. Dunlop's second son. He died, unmarried, in the West Indies, in 1804, while obeying the call of his professional duty.

Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

[The picture contained in this sketch of the fire-side of Mrs. Dunlop is equally true and beautiful. That lady herself had not only a fine taste for poetry, but she wrote verses elcgant and flowing: her son, the late General Dunlop, exhibited all the courage of his house, and it has been remarked that, for fiery and persevering impetuosity of attack, few officers equalled him. Her daughter Rachel, whose skill in drawing was considerable, employed her pencil on the Coila of the Vision. To this Burns refers in one of his letters,-"I am highly flattered by the news you tell me of

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Coila. I may say to the fair painter who does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie says to Ross the poet, of his muse Scota-from which, by-the-by, I took the idea of Coila

'Ye shake your head, but by my fegs,
Ye've set auld Scota on her legs;
Lang had she lien wi' beffs an' flegs,

Bum-baz'd and dizzie;

Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs,

Wae's me, poor hizzie !' "' The Scota of Ross, described by Burns as the forerunner of Coila, figures in the Invocation to "The Fortunate Shepherdess." On the original MS. of these lines, in the poet's hand-writing, Burns wrote as follows:

"On second thoughts I send you this extempore blotted sketch. It is just the first random scrawl; but if you think the piece worth while, I shall retouch it, and finish it. Though I have no copy of it, my memory serves me.]"

Lines

WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN

WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED
TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE.

KIND Sir, I've read your paper through,
And, faith, to me 'twas really new!
How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist I wanted?
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted
To ken what French mischief was brewin';
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin';
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie works
Atween the Russians and the Turks;
Or if the Swede, before he halt,
Would play anither Charles the Twalt :
If Denmark, any body spak o't;
Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't;
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin';
How libbet Italy was singin';

If Spaniards, Portuguese, or Swiss
Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss:
Or how our merry lads at hame,

In Britain's Court, kept up the game:
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him!
Was managing St. Stephen's quorum;
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin',
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in;
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin',
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin';
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd,
Or if bare a-s yet were tax'd;

* [The Poet here took the opportunity of making a hasty summary of important matters, on which even a solitary newspaper had thrown light, and this he has done with both knowledge and humour. We know now-to the shame of Europe-who has the "tack of Poland." We also know that Warren Hastings triumphed over the eloquence of his opponents, and is now looked upon by many as a sort of martyr in the cause of our empire in the East. The favourable change which took place respecting him in public opinion has been ascribed to a pamphlet written by Logan, the minister of Leith. Burns was not solitary in his sarcastic strictures on the wild course of life pursued by some of our

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The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls;
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales,
Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails;
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,
And no a perfect kintra cooser.-
A' this and mair I never heard of;
And but for you I might despair'd of.
So gratefu', back your news I send you,
And pray, a' guid things may attend you!
Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790.

The Ruined Maid's Lament.
Oн meikle do I rue, fause love,
Oh sairly do I rue,

That e'er I heard your flattering tongue,
That e'er your face I knew.
Oh I hae tint my rosy cheeks,
Likewise my waist sae sma';
And I hae lost my lightsome heart
That little wist a fa'.

Now I maun thole the scornfu' sneer

O' mony a saucy quean;

When, gin the truth were a' but kent,
Her life's been waur than mine.
Whene'er my father thinks on me,

He stares into the wa';
My mither, she has ta'en the bed
Wi' thinkin on my fa'.
Whene'er I hear my father's foot,
My heart wad burst wi' pain;
Whene'er I meet my mither's ee,

My tears rin down like rain.
Alas! sae sweet a tree as love

Sic bitter fruit should bear! Alas! that e'er a bonnie face

Should draw a sauty tear!

But Heaven's curse will blast the man
Denies the bairn he got;

Or leaves the painfu' lass he lov'd
To wear a ragged coat.†

Verses

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR
DRUMLANRIG.
I.

As on the banks o' wandering Nith,
Ae smiling simmer-morn I stray'd,
And traced its bonnie howes and haughs,
Where linties sang and lambkins play'd,

young princes. His sallies are not ill-natured, nor is be unwilling to believe that the folly of youth will sober down into sedateness and wisdom.-CUNNINGHAM.]

These touching verses first appeared in Hogg and Motherwell's edition of the Poet's works.]

[The Duke of Queensberry stripped his domains of Drumlanrig in Dumfries-shire, and Neidpath in Peeblesshire, of all the wood fit for being cut, in order to enrich the Countess of Yarmouth, whom he supposed to be his daughter, and to whom, by a singular piece of good fortune on her part, Mr. George Selwyn, the celebrated wit, also left a fortune, under the same, and probably equally mistaken, impression.]

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His forbears' virtues all contrasted-
The very name of Douglas blasted-
His that inverted glory.

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore;
But he has superadded more,

And sunk them in contempt;
Follies and crimes have stain'd the name:
But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim,
From aught that's good exempt.

ON AN

Evening View of the Ruins of
LINCLUDEN ABBEY.+

YE holy walls, that, still sublime,
Resist the crumbling touch of time;
How strongly still your form displays
The piety of ancient days!

As through your ruins, hoar and grey,—
Ruins, yet beauteous in decay,-
The silvery moon-beams trembling fly:
The form of ages long gone by
Crowd thick on fancy's wond'ring eye,
And wake the soul to musings high.
Ev'n now, as lost in thought profound,
I view the solemn scene around,
And, pensive, gaze with wistful eyes,
The past returns, the present flies;
Again the dome, in pristine pride,
Lifts high its roof, and arches wide,
That, knit with curious tracery,
Each Gothic ornament display.
The high-arch'd windows, painted fair,
Show many a saint and martyr there.
As on their slender forms I'd gaze,
Methinks they brighten to a blaze!
With noiseless step and taper bright,
What are yon forms that meet my sight?
Slowly they move, while every eye
Is heav'n-ward rais'd in ecstasy.
"Tis the fair, spotless, vestal train,
That seek in pray'r the midnight fane.
And, hark! what more than mortal sound
Of music breathes the pile around?
'Tis the soft chanted choral song,
Whose tones the echoing aisles prolong;
Till, thence return'd, they softly stray
O'er Cluden's wave, with fond delay;
Now on the rising gale swell high,
And now in fainting murmurs die;
The boatmen on Nith's gentle stream,
That glistens in the pale moon-beam,
Suspend their dashing oars to hear
The holy anthem, loud and clear;
Each worldly thought awhile forbear,
And mutter forth a half-form'd prayer.

tance from Dumfries, are the beautiful ruins of the Abbey of Lincluden, which was founded in the time of Malcolm, the fourth King of Scotland. The above splendid lines by the great national Poet of Scotland first appeared in Hogg and Motherwell's edition of the works of Burns, published at Glasgow in 1837, in 5 vols., small 8vo.]

But, as I gaze, the vision fails,

Like frost-work touch'd by southern gales;
The altar sinks, the tapers fade,
And all the splendid scene's decay'd;
In window fair the painted pane
No longer glows with holy stain,
But, through the broken glass, the gale
Blows chilly from the misty vale;
The bird of eve flits sullen by,

Her home, these aisles and arches high!
The choral hymn, that erst so clear
Broke softly sweet on fancy's ear,
Is drown'd amid the mournful scream,
That breaks the magic of my dream!
Rous'd by the sound, I start and see
The ruin'd sad reality!

The Discreet Hint.

LASS, when your mither is frae hame,
May I but be sae bauld
As come to your bower-window,
And creep in frae the cauld?
As come to your bower-window,
And when it's cauld an' wat,
Warm me in thy fair bosom,-
Sweet lass, may I do that?

Young man, gin ye should be sae kind,
When our gudewife's frae hame,
As come to my bower-window,
Whare I am laid my lane,
To warm thee in my bosom,-

Tak' tent, I'll tell thee what,

The way to me lies through the kirk:Young man, do hear that?

ye

The Tree of Liberty.*

I.

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.

II.

Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit,
It's 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,
An' wi' the beggar shares a mite
O' a' he can afford, man.

[*This poem is taken from a MS. in the Poet's hand-writing in the possession of Mr. James Duncan, Mosesfield,

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We labour soon, we labour late

To feed the titl'd knave, man, And a' the comfort we're to get Is that ayont the grave, man.

X.

Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow,

The warld would live in peace, man; The sword would help to mak' a plough, The din o' war wad cease, man. Like brethren in a common cause, We'd on each other smile, man; And equal rights and equal laws Wad gladden every isle, man.

XI.

Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat
Sic halesome dainty cheer, man;
I'd gie my shoon frae aff my feet,
To taste sic fruit, I swear, man.
Syne let us pray, auld England may

Sure plant this far-fam'd tree, man; And blythe we'll sing, and hail the day That gave us liberty, man.

Verses to my Bed.*

THOU bed, in which I first began
To be that various creature-Man!
And when again the fates decree,
The place where I must cease to be ;-
When sickness comes, to whom I fly,
To soothe my pain, or close mine eye;—
When cares surround me where I weep,
Or lose them all in balmy sleep;-
When sore with labour, whom I court,
And to thy downy breast resort-
Where, too, ecstatic joys I find,
When deigns my Delia to be kind—
And full of love, in all her charins,
Thou giv'st the fair one to my arms.
The centre thou, where grief and pain,
Disease and rest, alternate reign.
Oh, since within thy little space,
So many various scenes take place;
Lessons as useful shalt thou teach,
As sages dictate-churchmen preach;
And man, convinc'd by thee alone,
This great important truth shall own:-
That thin partitions do divide
The bounds where good and ill reside;
That nought is perfect here below;
But BLISS still bordering upon woɛ.

[These verses seem to have been suggested by a qua train of Dr. Johnson, of which they are simply an expan

sion:

In bed we laugh, in bed we cry, And, born in bed, in bed we die: The near approach a bed may show Of human bliss and human woe.]

t[Peg Nicholson was the successor of Jenny Geddes: the latter took her name from the zealous dame who threw a stool

Elegy on Peg Nicholson.†

PEG Nicholson was a good bay mare,
As ever trode on airn;

But now she's floating down the Nith,
And past the mouth o' Cairn.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And rode through thick and thin;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
And wanting even the skin.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And ance she bore a priest;
But now she's floating down the Nith,
For Solway fish a feast.

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare,
And the priest he rode her sair;
And much oppress'd and bruis'd she was,
As priest-rid cattle are.

["One of the men of skill whom Burns brought to the aid of Peg Nicholson was the eccentric Samuel Colan; a person eminently skilled in the ailments of four-footed creatures, but who believed that all diseases among cattle or horses proceeded from witchcraft or the malice of elves and fairies. The swelling of a cow from eating dewy clover was caused, he said, by a spell: pains in the limbs arose, he was certain, from elfarrows, and with regard to witches, he declared that the Cauldside of Dunscore was swarming with them. Little was to be hoped from honest Samuel's skill, if his employer chanced to smile as he laid down the rustic law regarding murrain, mooril, and other ailments."CUNNINGHAM.]

Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson,

A GENTLEMAN

WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD.

"Should the poor be flattered?” SHAKSPEARE.

But now his radiant course is run,
For Matthew's course was bright;
His soul was like the glorious sun,
A matchless heav'nly light! ‡

O DEATH! thou tyrant fell and bloody! The meikle devil wi' a woodie

Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie,

at the Dean of Edinburgh's head, when the ritual of the Episcopal Church was introduced; and the former acquired the name of Peg Nicholson from that frantic virago who attempted the life of George III. Peg was lent to Burns by his friend William Nicol. The Poet enclosed the above verses in a letter to his friend, in February, 1790, with a long account of the deceased mare, which letter will be found in the cor respondence of that year.]

VAR. In the original MS. this motto formed the last verse of the Epitaph, and closed the subject very beautifully.

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