Wr lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu sweet upon its thorny three: And my fause lover stole my rose, But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD.
WILLIE WASTLE dwalt on Tweed,
The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie;
Willie was a wabster guid,

Could stown a clue wi' ony bodie;
He had a wife was dour and din.

O, Tinkler Madgie was her mither-
Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wad na gic a button for her.

She had an e'e-she has but ane,
The cat has twa the very colour;
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; A whiskin' beard about her mou',

Her nose and chin they threaten ither;
Sic a wife, &c.

She's bow-hough'd, she's heinshinned,
Ae limpin' leg a hand-breed shorter;
She's twisted right, she's twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter:
She has a hump upon her breast,
The twin o' that upon her shouther;
Sic a wife, &c.

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits,
An' wi' her loof her face a-washin';
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig,

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion; Her wailie neives like midden creels, Her face wad fyle the Logan Water; Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wad na gie a button for her.

GLOOMY DECEMBER.

ANCE mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December,
Ance mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and care;
Sad was the parting thou mak'st me remember,
Parting wi' Nancy, Oh! ne'er to meet mair!
Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure,
Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour;
But the dire feeling, Oh! farewell for ever,
Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure.
Wild as the winter now tearing the forest,
"Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown,
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom,
Since my last hope and last comfort is gone!
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December,
Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care;
For sad was the parting thou mak'st me remem-
ber,

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh! ne'er to meet mair.

EVAN BANKS.

SLOW Spreads the gloom my soul desires,
The sun from India's shore retires;
To Evan banks, with temp'rate ray,
Home of my youth, it leads the day.
Oh! banks to me for ever dear!

Oh! streams whose murmurs still I hear!
Ah! all my hopes of bliss reside,
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde.

And she, in simple beauty drest,
Whose image lives within my breast:
Who trembling heard my piercing sigh,
And long pursu'd me with her eye!
Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine,
Oft in the vocal bowers recline?
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide,
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde?
Ye lofty banks that Evan bound!
Ye lavish woods that wave around,
And o'er the stream your shadows throw,
Which sweetly winds so far below;

What secret charm to mem'ry brings,
All that on Evan's border springs?
Sweet banks! ye bloom by Mary's side:
Blest stream! she views thee haste to Clyde.
Can all the wealth of India's coast
Atone for years in absence lost?
Return, ye moments of delight,
With richer treasures bless my sight!
Swift from this desert let me part,
And fly to meet a kindred heart!

Nor more may aught my steps divide,
From that dear stream which flows to Clyde.

WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? WILT thou be my dearie?

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart,
O wilt thou let me cheer thee?
By the treasure of my soul,
And that the love I bear thee!

I swear and vow, that only thou
Shall ever be my dearie.
Only thon, I swear and vow,
Shall ever be my dearic.

Lassie, say thou lo'es me:

Or, if thou wilt na be my ain,
Sae na thou'lt refuse me:
If it winna, canna be,
Thou for thine, may choose me:
Let me, lassie, quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo'es me,
Lassie, let me quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo'es me.

SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE.

SHE'S fair and fanse that causes my smart,
I lo'ed her meikle and lang;

She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart,
And I may e'en gae hang.

A coof cam in wi' roth o' gear,
And I hae tint my dearest dear,
But woman is but warld's gear,
Sae let the bonnie lass gang.
Whate'er ye be that woman love,
To this be never blind-
Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove,
A woman has't by kind:

O, woman lovely, woman fair!
An angel form's fa'n to thy share,
"Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair-
I mean an angel mind.

THE GALLANT WEAVER.
WHERE Cart rins rowin to the sea,
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree,
Thers lives a lad, the lad for me,
He is a gallant weaver.

Oh I had wooers aucht or nine,
They gied me rings and ribbons fine;
And I was fear'd my heart would tine,
And I gied it to the weaver.

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band
To gie the lad that has the land,
But to my heart I'll had my hand,
And give it to the weaver.

While birds rejoice in loafy bowers;
While bees delight in opening flowers;
While corn grows green fn simmer showers,
I'll love my gallant weaver. 135

LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE? LOUIS, what reck I by thee,

Or Geordie on his ocean?
Dyvour, beggar louns to me-
I reign in Jeanie's bosom.
Let her crown my love her law,
And in her breast enthrone me:
Kings and nations-swith awa'!
Reif randies, I disown ye!

FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY.
My heart is sair-I dare nae tell-
My heart is sair for somebody;
I could wake a winter night
For the sake of somebody.

Oh-hon! for somebody!
Oh-hey! for somebody!
I could range the world around,
For the sake of somebody.

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,
O'sweetly smile on somebody!
Frae ilka a danger keep him free,
And send me safe my somebody!
Oh-hon! for somebody!
Oh-hey! for somebody!
I wad do what wad I not?
For the sake of somebody!

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. THE lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en and morn she cries, alas!
And aye the saut tear blin's her e'e:
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,
A waefu' day it was to me;
For their I lost my father dear,

My father dear, and brethren three.
Their winding sheet the bloody clay,
Their graves are growing green to see:
And by them lies the dearest lad

That ever blest a woman's e'e!
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man, I trow, thou be

For mony a heart thou hast made sair,
That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee.

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON.

Tune-"Finlayston House."

FATE gave the word, the arrow sped,
And pierced my darling's heart:
And with him all the joys are fled
Life can to me impart.

By cruel hands the sapling drops,
In dust dishonour'd laid:
So fell the pride of all my hopes,
My age's future shade.
The mother linnet in the brake
Bewails her ravished young;
So I for my lost darling's sake,
Lament the live-long day.
Daath, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow,
Now fond I bare my breast.

O do thou kindly lay me low
With him I love at rest!

O MAY, THY MORN.

O MAY, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet,
As the mirk night o' December;
For sparkling was the rosy wine,
And private was the chamber:
And dear was she I darna name,
But I will aye remember!
And dear, &c.

And here's to them, that, like oursel',
Can push about the jorum;

And here's to them that wish us weel,
May a' that's gude watch o'er them!
And here's to them, we darna tell,
The dearest o' the quorum.
And here's to, &c.

O WHAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN. O WHAT ye wha's in yon town,

Ye see the e'ening sun upon? The fairest dame's in yon town, That e'en sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw
She wanders by yon spreading tree;
How blest ye flow'rs that mind her blaw,
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e!

How blest ye birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year,
And doubly welcome be the spring,
The season to my Lucy dear!

The sun blinks blythe on yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr;
But my delight in yon town,

And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair,
Without my love, not a' the charms,
O' paradise could yield me joy;
But gie my Lucy in my arms,
And welcome Lapland's dreary skyl

A RED, RED ROSE.

O MY love's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O my love's like the melody

That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I;

And I will love thee still, my dear, 'Till a' the seas gang dry.

"Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun
I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run,
And fare thee weel, my only love!
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my love,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

A VISION.

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 stars they shot alang the sky;
The fox was howling on the hill,

Whase distant echoing glens reply.
The stream adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's.
The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din:
Athort the lift they start and shift,
Like fortune's favours' tint as win.
By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,
And, by the moon-beam, shook, to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.

Had I a statue been o' stane,

His darin look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain,

The sacred posie-Liberty!

And frae his harp sic strains did flow,

Might roused the slumb'ring dead to hear;

But oh, it was a tale of woe,

As ever met a Briton's ear!

He sang wi' joy for his former day,
He weeping wail'd his latter times
But what he said it was nae play,
I winna ventur't in my rhymes,137

COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER,

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE. REVERED defender of beauteons Stuart,

Of Stuart, a name once respected

A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart,

But now 'tis despised and neglected.

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye,

Let no one misdeem me disloyal;

A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh,

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal.

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne; My fathers have fallen to right it;

Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it.

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join,

The Queen and the rest of the gentry:

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine;

Their title's avow'd by the country.

But why of that epocha make such a fuss,
That gave us the Hanover stem;

If bringing them over was lucky for us,
I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them.

But loyalty, true! we're on dangerous ground,
Who knows how the fashions may alter,
The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring us a halter!

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard,
A trifle scarce worthy your care;
But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard,
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye,
And ushers the long dreary night:

But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright.

My muse jilted me here, and turned a corner on me, and I have not got again into her good graces. Do me the justice to believe me sincere In my grateful remembrance of the many civilities you have honoured me with since I came to Edinburgh, and in assuring you that I have the honour to be,

Reverend Sir, Your obliged and very humble Servant, EDINBURGH, 1787. R. BURNS.

CALEDONIA.

Tune-"Caledonian Hunt's Delight."

THERE was once a day-but old Time then was

young

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, From some of your northern deities sprung, (Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?)

From Tweed to the Oreades was her domain, To hunt, or to pasture, or to do what she would:

Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good.

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war,

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew: Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore,"Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter shall rue!"

With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling

Long quiet she reign'd; 'till thitherward steers
A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand: 138
Repeated, successive, for many long years,
They darken'd the air, and they plundered the
land:

Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry,

They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside: She took to her hills aud her arrows let fly

The daring invaders they fled or they died. The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore ;139

The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth

To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore:140 O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd,

No arts could appease them, nor arms could repel;

But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd,

As Large well can witness, and Loncartie tell, 141

The cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose,
With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife:
Provoked beyond bearing, at last she rose,
And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his
life: 142

The Anglian lion, the terror of France.

Oft prowling, ensanguine'd the Tweed's silver Hood;

But taught by the bright Caledonian lance,

He learned to fear in his own native wood.

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, Her bright course of glory for ever shall run: For brave Caledonia immortal must be;

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun: Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose, The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base:

But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse; Then ergo she'll match them, and match them always.143

THE FOLLOWING POEM

WAS 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 guessed 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, ony body spak o't;

Or Poland, who had now the tack o't;

How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin';
How libbet Italy was singin:

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss,
Were sayin or takin ought 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 raxed,
Or if bare a- yet were taxed;
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls;
If that daft bubkic, Geordie Wales,
Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails,

Or if he was growin 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!

NOTE.

Complaining that the paper above mentioned did not come regularly.

Dear Peter, dear Peter,
We poor sons of metre
Are often negleckit, ye ken,
For instance, your sheet, man;
(Though glad I'm to see't, man,)
I get it no ae day in ten.

ELLISLAND, Monday Morning, 1799.

POEM.

ON PASTORAL POETRY.

HAIL, Poesie! thou nymph reserved!
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved
Frae common sense, or sunk enerved

'Mang heaps o' clavers; And ock! owre aft thy joes hae starved, 'Mid a' thy favours!

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang.
While loud the trump's heroic clang,
And socks or buskin skelp alang

To death or marriage;
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang
But wi' miscarriage?

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus' pen Will Shakespear drives;
Wee Pope, the knurlin', 'till him rives
Horatian fame;

In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives
Even Sappho's flame.

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches;
Squire Pope but busks his skinlin' patches
O' heathen tatters:

I pass by hunders, nameless wretches,
That ape their betters.

In this braw age o' wit and lear,
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mai
Blaw sweetly, in its native air
And rural grace;

And wi' the far-famed Grecian share
A rival place?

Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan!
There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan!
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,
A chiel so clever;
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan,
But thou's for ever.

Thou paints auld nature to the nines,
In thy sweet Caledonian lines;

Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines,
Where Philomel,

While nightly breezes sweep the vines,
Her griefs will tell!

In gowany glens thy burnie strays,
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes;
Or trots by hazely shaws or braes,
Wi' hawthorns gray,
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays,
At close o' day.

Thy rural loves are nature's sel';
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell;
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell
O' witchin' love,
That charm that can the strongest quell,
The sternest move.

ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR. BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL OF MAR.

"O, CAM ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir,

And did the battle see, man?"
"I saw the battle, sair and teugh,
And reekin'-red ran mony a sheugh,
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds,
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds,

Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades,
To meet them were na slow, man;
They rush'd, and push'd, and bluid outgush'd,
And mony a bouk did fa', man:
The great Argyle led on his files,

I wat they glanced twenty miles:

They hack'd and hash'd while broadswords clash'd,

And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd, and smash'd, Till fey men died awa', man.

But had you seen the philabegs,

And skyrin tartan trews, man,
When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs
And covenant true-blues, man;
In lines extended lang and large,
When bayonets opposed the large,
And thousands listen'd to the charge,

Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath,
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath,
They fled like frighted does, man.'

"O how deil, Tam, can that be true?
The chase gaed frae the North, man;

I saw myself, they did pursue

The horseman back to Forth, man;
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight,
They took the brig wi' a' their might:

And straught to Stirling winged their flight,
But cursed lot! the gates were shut,

And mony a hunted poor red-coat,
For fear amaist did swarf, man.'

"My sister Kate came up the gate
Wi' crowdie unto me, man:
She swore she saw some rebels run,
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man;
Their left-hand general had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae good will

That day their neiboors blood to spill;
For fear, by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o' brose-all crying woes,

And so it goes, you see, man.
They've lost some gallant gentlemen,
Amang the Highland clans, man;
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain,

Or fallen in whiggish hands, man:
Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right;
But mony bade the world guid-night;
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,
By red claymores, and muskets' knell,
Wi' dying yell, the Tories fell,

And whigs to hell did flee, man."144

SKETCH ON NEW YEAR'S DAY.
TO MRS. DUNLOP, 1790.

THIS day, Time winds th' exhausted chain,
To run the twelvemonths' 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.

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, 145
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray;)
From housewife cares a minute borrow-
-That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow-
And join with me a moralizing,

This day's propitious to be wise in.
First, what did yesternight deliver?
"Another year is gone for ever,"

And what is this day's strong suggestion!
"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-
Repose us in the silent dust.
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:
That on this frail, uncertain state,
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 honour'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)
Others now claim your chief regard;
Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

EXTEMPORE,

ON THE LATE MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE,146 AUTHOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATURAL HISTORY, AND MEMBER OF THE ANTIQUARIAN AND ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH.

SHREWD Willie Smellie to Crochallan came, The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same; His bristling beard just rising in its might. 'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night;

His uncombed grizzly locks wild, staring, thatch'd,

A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd;

Yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting rude,
His heart was warm, benevolent and good

POETICAL INSCRIPTION, FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE,

AT KERROUGHTREE, THE SEAT OF MR. HERONWRITTEN IN SUMMER, 1795.

THOU of an independent mind,

With soul resolved, with soul resigned:
Prepared Power's proudest frown to brave,
Who wilt thou be, nor have a slave ;
Virtue alone who dost revere,
Thy own reproach alone dost fear,
Approach this shrine, and worship here.

SONNET ON THE DEATH OF MR.
RIDDEL.

No more, ye warblers of the wood-no more,
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my ear:
Thou young-eyed Spring thy charms I cannot
bear;

More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.