one of the wildest and most untrodden ways in Scotland, for the purpose of looking at the fantastic coronation of the bad bust of an excellent poet, was worthy of Lord Buchan. The poor bard made answer, that a week's absence in the middle of his harvest was a step he durst not venture upon-but he sent this Poem. This wish was expressed in prose, and was in due time attended to, for Fintray was a gentleman at once kind and considerate.] LATE crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, The poet's manuscript affords the following interesting Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, variations: "While cold-eyed Spring, a virgin coy, Unfolds her verdant mantle sweet, Or pranks the sod in frolic joy, A carpet for her youthful feet: "While Summer, with a matron's grace, The progress of the spiky blade : WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, While Summer, with a matron grace, Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace The progress of the spiky blade: While Autumn, benefactor kind, By Tweed erects his aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind, Each creature on his bounty fed: While maniac Winter rages o'er The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows: So long, sweet Poet of the year! Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that Thomson was her son. CXXVII. ΤΟ ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., (Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest ;) Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail? (It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,) And hear him curse the light he first survey'd, And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade? Thou, Nature, partial Nature! I arraign; The lion and the bull thy care have found, ground: Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, snug; Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts; But, oh! thou bitter stepmother and hard, Critics!-appall'd I venture on the name, Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame. Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes! He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. His heart by causeless wanton malice wrung, By blockheads' daring into madness stung; His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd, in the unequal strife, So, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd, O dullness! portion of the truly blest! CXXVIII. то ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRAY. ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. [Graham of Fintray not only obtained for the poet the appointment in the Excise, which, while he lived in Edinburgh, he desired, but he also removed him, as he wished, to a better district; and when imputations were thrown out against his loyalty, he defended him with obstinate and successful eloquence. Fintray did all that was done to raise Burns out of the toiling humility of his condition, and enable him to serve the muse without fear of want.] I CALL no goddess to inspire my strains, Conscious the bounteous meed they well de- The gift still dearer, as the giver, you. serve, They only wonder "some folks" do not starve. So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train, Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; In equanimity they never dwell, By turns in soaring heav'n or vaulted hell Thou orb of day! thou other paler light! CXXIX. A VISIO N. [This Vision of Liberty descended on Burns among the magnificent ruins of the College of Lincluden, which stand on the junction of the Cluden and the Nith, a short mile above Dumfries. He gave us the Vision; perhaps, he dared not in those yeasty times venture on the song, which his secret visitant poured from her lips. The scene is chiefly copied from nature: the swellings of the Nith, the howlings of the fox on the hill, and the cry of the owl, unite at times with the natural beauty of the spot, and give it life and voice. These ruins were a favourite haunt of the poet.] As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower And tells the midnight moon her care; The winds were laid, the air was still, The stream, adown its hazelly path, Whose distant roaring swells and fa's. The cauld blue north was streaming forth Like fortune's favours, tint as win. By heedless chance I turn'd minė eyes, And, by the moonbeam, shook to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.2 Had I a statue been o' stane, His darin' look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, The sacred posy—' Libertie!' And frae his harp sic strains did flow, As ever met a Briton's ear. He sang wi' joy the former day, He weeping wail'd his latter times; But what he said it was nae play,— I winna ventur't in my rhymes. CXXX. то JOHN MAXWELL OF TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. [John Maxwell of Terraughty and Munshes, to whom these verses are addressed, though descended from the Earls of Nithsdale, cared little about lineage, and claimed merit only from a judgment sound and clear—a knowledge of business which penetrated into all the concerns of life, and a skill in handling the most difficult subjects, which was considered unrivalled. Under an austere manner, he hid much kindness of heart, and was in a fair way of doing an act of gentleness when giving a refusal. He loved to meet Burns: not that he either cared for or comprehended poetry; but he was pleased with his knowledge of human nature, and with the keen and VARIATIONS. 1 To join yon river on the Strath. 2 Now looking over firth and fauld, piercing remarks in which he indulged. He was seventy-one years old when these verses were written, and survived the poet twenty years.] HEALTH to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief! I see thy life is stuff o' prief, Scarce quite half worn This day thou metes three score eleven, On thee a tack o' seven times seven If envious buckies view wi' sorrow Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah, But for thy friends, and they are mony, Baith honest men and lasses bonnie, May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, In social glee, Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny Bless them and thee! Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye, And then the Deil he daur na steer If neist my heart I dinna wear ye While BURNS they ca' me! Dumfries, 18 Feb. 1792. CXXXI. THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT, Nov. 26, 1792. [Miss Fontenelle was one of the actresses whom Williamson, the manager, brought for several seasons to Dumfries: she was young and pretty, indulged in little levities of speech, and rumour added, perhaps maliciously, levities of action. The Rights of Man had been advocated by Paine, the Rights of Woman by Mary Wol stonecroft, and nought was talked of, but the moral and political regeneration of the world. The line "But truce with kings and truce with constitutions," got an uncivil twist in recitation, from some of the audience. The words were eagerly caught up, and had some hisses bestowed on them.] WHILE Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, And even children lisp the Rights of Man; First on the sexes' intermix'd connexion, Our second Right-but needless here is caution, Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times are fled; Now, well-bred men-and you are all wellbred Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration Most humbly own-'tis dear, dear admiration! In that blest sphere alone we live and move; There taste that life of life-immortal love.Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 'Gainst such an host what flinty savage daresWhen awful Beauty joins with all her charms, Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms? But truce with kings and truce with constitutions, CXXXII. MONODY, ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. [The heroine of this rough lampoon was Mrs. Riddel of Woodleigh Park: a lady young and gay, much of a wit, and something of a poetess, and till the hour of his death the friend of Burns himself. She pulled his displeasure on her, it is said, by smiling more sweetly than he liked on some "epauletted coxcombs," for so he sometimes designated commissioned officers: the lady soon laughed him out of his mood. We owe to her pen an account of her last interview with the poet, written with great beauty and feeling.] How cold is that bosom which folly once fired, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd! How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tired, How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd! If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection remov'd; How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate, Thou diest unwept as thou livedst unlov'd Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear: But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true, And flowers let us cull for Maria's cold bier. We'll search through the garden for each silly flower, We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed; But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed. We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre; There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire. THE EPITAPH. Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, Want only of wisdom denied her respect, CXXXIII. EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA. [Williamson, the actor, Colonel Macdouall, Captain Gillespie, and Mrs. Riddel, are the characters which pass over the stage in this strange composition: it is printed from the Poet's own manuscript, and seems a sort of outpouring of wrath and contempt, on persons who, in his eyes, gave themselves airs beyond their condition, or their merits. The verse of the lady is held up to contempt and laughter: the satirist celebrates her "Motley foundling fancies, stolen or strayed;" and has a passing hit at her "Still matchless tongue that conquers all reply."] FROM those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, Where infamy with sad repentance dwells; Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, And deal from iron hands the spare repast; Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin, Blush at the curious stranger peeping in; Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore, no more; Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing, Beat hemp for others, riper for the string: From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date, To tell Maria her Esopus' fate. "Alas! I feel I am no actor here!" Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale; Now prouder still, Maria's temples press. 1 Captain Gillespie. The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred, Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head; Comes, 'mid a string of coxcombs to display That veni, vidi, vici, is his way; The shrinking bard adown the alley skulks, And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks; Though there, his heresies in church and state Why, Lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour? Must earth no rascal save thyself endure? Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares; And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply. 2 Col. Macdouall. |