1 Steal out unperceived, and sow a handful of hempseed, harrowing it with anything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat, now and then, "Hemp-seed, I saw thee; hemp-seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true love, come after me and pou thee.” Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, "Come after me, and shaw thee," that is, show thyself; in which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, "Come after me, and harrow thee."

2 This charm must likewise be performed, unperceived, and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger

He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw,
Or crouchie Merran Humphie,
"Till, stop! she trotted thro' them a';
An' wha was it but Grumphie
Asteer that night!

Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen,
To win three wechts o' naething;2
But for to meet the deil her lane,
She pat but little faith in:
She gies the herd a pickle nits,
An' twa red cheekit apples,

To watch, while for the barn she sets,
In hopes to see Tam Kipples
That vera night.

She turns the key wi' cannie thraw,
An' owre the threshold ventures;
But first on Sawnie gies a ca',

Syne bauldly in she enters:

A ratton rattled up the wa',

An' she cried, L-d preserve her!
An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a',
An' pray'd wi' zeal and fervour,

Fu' fast that night.

They hoy't out Will, wi sair advice;
They hecht him some fine braw ane;
It chanc'd the stack he faddom't thrice,3
Was timmer-propt for thrawin';
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak,

For some black, grousome carlin;
An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke,
'Till skin in blypes cam haurlin'
Aff's nieves that night.

A wanton widow Leezie was,

As canty as a kittlin;

But, och! that night, amang the shaws,

She got a fearfu' settlin'!

She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn,
An' owre the hill gaed scrievin,

that the being about to appear may shut the doors and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in our country dialect, we call a wecht; and go through all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time, an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the windy door, and out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinue marking the employment or station in life.

3 Take an opportunity of going unnoticed, to a bean stack, and fathom it three times round. The last fathon of the last time, you will catch in your arms the appear ance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.

Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn,1 To dip her left sark-sleeve in,

Was bent that night.

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays,

As through the glen it wimpl't; Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays, Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't; Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel,

Unseen that night.

Amang the brackens on the brae,

Between her an' the moon, The deil, or else an outler quey,

Gat up an' gae a croon:

Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool!

Near lav'rock-height she jumpit, But mist a fit, an' in the pool

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit,

Wi' a plunge that night.

In order, on the clean hearth-stane,
The luggies three2 are ranged,
And ev'ry time great care is ta'en,

To see them duly changed:

Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys

Sin Mar's-year did desire,
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice,
He heav'd them on the fire

In wrath that night.

Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks,
I wat they did na weary;

An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes,

Their sports were cheap an' cheery;
Till butter'd so'ns3 wi' fragrant lunt,
Set a' their gabs a-steerin';
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt,
They parted aff careerin'

Fu' blythe that night.

1 You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south running spring or rivulet, where "three lairds' lands meet," and dip your left shirt-sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake: and, some time near midnight, an apparition having the exact figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it.

2 Take three dishes: put clean water in one, foul water in another, and leave the third empty; blindfold a person

XXVI.

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.

A DIRGE.

[The origin of this fine poem is alluded to by Burns in one of his letters to Mrs. Dunlop: “I had an old granduncle with whom my mother lived in her girlish years: the good old man was long blind ere he died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of The Life and Age of Man.'" From that truly venerable woman, long after the death of her distinguished son, Cromek, in collecting the Reliques, obtained a copy by recitation of the older strain. Though the tone and sentiment coincide closely with "Man was made to Mourn," I agree with Lockhart, that Burns wrote it in obedience to his own habitual feelings.]

WHEN chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One ev❜ning as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spy'd a man whose aged step
Seem'd weary, worn with care;

His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

"Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?" Began the rev'rend sage;

"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

Or youthful pleasure's rage?

Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me to mourn
The miseries of man.

"The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support

A haughty lordling's pride:
I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return,
And ev'ry time has added proofs.
That man was made to mourn.

"O man! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time!

and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand: if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered.

3 Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween supper.

Misspending all thy precious hours,

Thy glorious youthful prime! Alternate follies take the sway; Licentious passions burn;

Which tenfold force gives nature's law, That man was made to mourn.

"Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported in his right:
But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn;

Then age and want-oh! ill-match'd pair!— Show man was made to mourn.

"A few seem favourites of fate, In pleasure's lap carest:

Yet, think not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly blest.

But, oh! what crowds in every land,

All wretched and forlorn! Thro' weary life this lesson learnThat man was made to mourn.

Many and sharp the num'rous ills Inwoven with our frame! More pointed still we make ourselves, Regret, remorse, and shame! And man, whose heaven-erected face The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

"See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, So abject, mean, and vile,

Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, though a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.

"If I'm design'd yon lordling's slaveBy Nature's law design'd

Why was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?

If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty or scorn?

Or why has man the will and power
To make his fellow mourn?

"Yet, let not this too much, my son, Disturb thy youthful breast;

This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the best!
The poor, oppressed, honest man
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

"O Death! the poor man's dearest friendThe kindest and the best!

Welcome the hour, my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn!
But, oh! a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn."

XXVII.

TO RUIN.

["I have been," says Burns, in his common-placu book, "taking a peep through, as Young finely says, The dark postern of time long elapsed.' 'Twas a rueful prospect! What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly! my life reminded me of a ruined temple. What strength, what proportion in some parts. what unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others!" The fragment, To Ruin, seems to have had its origin in moments such as these.]

I.

ALL hail! inexorable lord!

At whose destruction-breathing word,
The mightiest empires fall!
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train,
The ministers of grief and pain,
A sullen welcome, all!
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye,

I see each aimed dart;
For one has cut my dearest tie,
And quivers in my heart.

Then low'ring and pouring,

The storm no more I dread; Though thick'ning and black'ning, Round my devoted head.

II.

And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd,
While life a pleasure can afford,
Oh! bear a wretch's prayer!
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid;
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,
To close this scene of care!

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS.

[This burning commentary, by Burns, on the Essays of Goudie in the Macgill controversy, was first published by Stewart, with the Jolly Beggars, in 1801; it is akin in life and spirit to Holy Willie's Prayer; and may be cited as a sample of the wit and the force which the poet brought to the great, but now forgotten, controversy of the West.]

O GOUDIE! terror of the Whigs,

Dread of black coats and rev'rend wigs,
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,

Girnin', looks back,

Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues
Wad seize you quick.

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition,
Waes me! she's in a sad condition:
Fie! bring Black Jock, her state physician,
To see her water:

Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion
She'll ne'er get better.

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, But now she's got an unco ripple; Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel, Nigh unto death;

See, how she fetches at the thrapple, An' gasps for breath.

Enthusiasm's past redemption,
Gaen in a gallopin' consumption,
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption,
Will ever mend her.
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption
Death soon will end her.

'Tis you and Taylor1 are the chief, Wha are to blame for this mischief,

1 Dr. Taylor, of Norwich.

TO

J. LAPRAIK.

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD.

April 1st, 1785.

(FIRST EPISTLE.)

["The epistle to John Lapraik," says Gilbert Burns, was produced exactly on the occasion described by the author. Rocking is a term derived from primitive times, when our country-women employed their spare hours in spinning on the roke or distaff. This simple instrument is a very portable one; and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a neighbour's house; hence the phrase of going a rocking, or with the roke. As the connexion the phrase had with the implement was forgotten when the roke gave place to the spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes on social occa sions, and men talk of going with their rokes as well as women."]

WHILE briers an' woodbines budding green,
An' paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en,
An' morning poussie whidden seen,
Inspire my muse,
This freedom in an unknown frien'
I pray excuse.

On Fasten-een we had a rockin
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin',
And there was muckle fun an' jokin',
Ye need na doubt;

At length we had a hearty yokin'
At sang about.

There was ae sang, amang the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best,
That some kind husband had addrest
To some sweet wife;

It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast,
A' to the life.

I've scarce heard aught describ'd sae weel,
What gen'rous manly bosoms feel,
Thought I, "Can this be Pope or Steele,
Or Beattie's wark?"

They told me 'twas an odd kind chiel

About Muirkirk.