OH, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL!

TUNE- My Love is lost to me.

We have to suppose the poet in his solitary life at Ellisland, gazing towards the hill of Corsincon, at the head of Nithsdale, beyond which, though at many miles' distance, was the valley in which his heart's idol lived.

Он, were I on Parnassus' hill,
Or had of Helicon my fill!
That I might catch poetic skill,

To sing how dear I love thee.
But Nith maun be my Muse's well,
My Muse maun be thy bonny sel';1
On Corsincon I'll glower and spell, stare
And write how dear I love thee.

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay!
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day

I couldna sing, I couldna say,

How much, how dear I love thee.

discourse

1 An anonymous writer in the Notes and Queries points out

a similar idea to this in Propertius (II. i. 3):

"Non hæc Calliope, non hæc mihi cantat Apollo,

Ingenium nobis ipsa puella facit."

I see thee dancing o'er the green,

Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,1 slender Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een

By heaven and earth I love thee!

By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
The thoughts of thee my breast inflame;
And aye I muse and sing thy name
I only live to love thee.

Though I were doomed to wander on
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,

Till my

last weary sand was run;

Till then

and then I love thee.2

VERSES IN FRIARS' CARSE HERMITAGE.

One piece of special good-fortune in Burns's situation at Ellisland was his having for his next neighbor, at less than a mile's distance along the bank of the Nith, Captain Riddell of Glenriddell, a man of literary and antiquarian spirit, and of kindly social nature. Captain Riddell had given Burns a key

1 Clean in this relation means well-shaped — handsome. 2 It is but four or five months since he said: "I admire you, I love you as a woman beyond any one in all the circle of I am yours, Clarinda, for life!"

creation.

admitting him to the grounds. On the 28th of June he composed, under the character of a bedesman, or alms-fed recluse, the following verses.

THOU whom chance may hither lead,
Be thou clad in russet weed,

Be thou decked in silken stole,
Grave these maxims on thy soul.
Life is but a day at most,

Sprung from night, in darkness lost;
Day, how rapid in its flight;
Day, how few must see the night.
Hope not sunshine every hour,
Fear not clouds will always lower.
Happiness is but a name,

Make content and ease thy aim.
Ambition is a meteor gleam;

Fame a restless, idle dream;

Pleasures, insects on the wing

Round Peace, the tenderest flower of Spring;

Those that sip the dew alone,

Make the butterflies thy own;

Those that would the bloom devour,

Crush the locusts

save the flower.

For the future be prepared,

Guard wherever thou canst guard;

But, thy utmost duly done,

Welcome what thou canst not shun.

Follies past, give thou to air,

Make their consequence thy care:

Keep the name of man in mind,
And dishonour not thy kind.
Reverence, with lowly heart,

Him whose wondrous work thou art;
Keep His goodness still in view,

Thy trust and thy example too.

Stranger, go! Heaven be thy guide!
Quod the Bedesman. on Nithside.

According to the recital of Gilbert Burns: "When Mr. Cunninghame, of Enterkin, came to his estate, two mansion-houses on it, Enterkin and Anbank, were both in a ruinous state. Wishing to introduce himself with some éclat to the county, he got tem

banks of Ayr, taste

porary erections made on the fully decorated with shrubs and flowers, for a supper and ball, to which most of the respectable families in the county were invited. It was a novelty, and attracted much notice. A dissolution of Parliament was soon expected, and this festivity was thought to be an introduction to a canvass for representing the county. Several other candidates were spoken of

particularly Sir John Whitefoord, then residing at Cloncaird, commonly pronounced Glencaird, and Mr. Boswell, the well-known biographer of Dr. Johnson. The political views of this festive assemblage, which are alluded to in the ballad, if they ever existed, were, however, laid aside, as Mr. Cunninghame did not canvass the county." By the favor of W. Allasone Cunninghame, Esq., son of Mr. Cunninghame of Enterkin, I learn that this affair must have taken place in the summer of 1788.

OH wha will to Saint Stephen's House,
To do our errands there, man?
Oh wha will to Saint Stephen's House,
O' th' merry lads o' Ayr, man ?
Or will ye send a man-o'-law?
Or will ye send a sodger?
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a'
The meikle Ursa-Major?1

Come, will ye court a noble lord,
Or buy a score o' lairds, man?
For worth and honour pawn their word,

Their vote shall be Glencaird's, man.
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine,
Anither gies them clatter;
Anbank, wha guessed the ladies' taste,
He gies a Fête Champêtre.

idle stories

1 An allusion to the well-known joke of the elder Boswell, who, hearing his son speak of Johnson as a great luminary, quite a constellation, said: "Yes, Ursa Major."