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.

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.

It clears the een, it cheers the heart,

Maks high and low guid friends, man; And he wha acts the traitor's part,

It to perdition sends, man.

My blessings aye attend the chiel,
Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man,

And staw a branch, spite o' the deil,

stole

Frae yont the western waves, man. beyond

Fair Virtue watered it wi' care,

And now she sees wi' pride, man, How weel it buds and blossoms there, Its branches spreading wide, man.

But vicious folk aye hate to see
The works o' Virtue thrive, man;

The courtly vermin's banned the tree,
And grat to see it thrive, man.
King Loui' thought to cut it down,

When it was unco sma', man;

wept

For this the watchman cracked his crown, Cut aff his head and a', man.

A wicked crew syne, on a time,
Did tak a solemn aith, man,

It ne'er should flourish to its prime,
I wat they pledged their faith, man.
Awa' they gaed wi' mock parade,
Like beagles hunting game, man,

ET. 36.]

THE TREE OF LIBERTY.

125

But soon grew weary o' the trade,

And wished they'd been at hame, man.

For Freedom, standing by the tree,

Her sons did loudly ca', man ;
She sang a sang o' liberty,

Which pleased them ane and a', man.
By her inspired, the new-born race
Soon drew the avenging steel, man;
The hirelings ran her foes gied chase,
And banged the despot weel, man.

Let Britain boast her hardy oak,
Her poplar and her pine, man ;
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke,
And o'er her neighbours shine, man:
But seek the forest round and round,
And soon 'twill be agreed, man,

That sic a tree can not be found
'Twixt London and the Tweed, man.

Without this tree, alake this life
Is but a vale o' wo, man;
A scene o' sorrow mixed wi' strife,
Nae real joys we know, man.
We labour soon, we labour late,

To feed the titled knave, man;
And a' the comfort we're to get,

Is that ayont the grave, man.