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BURNS' GRANITE PUNCH-BOWL ;
IN THE POSSESSION OF AN EMINENT MERCANTILE GENTLEMAN,
AND PRODUCED ANNUALLY UPON THE POET'S BIRTH-DAY.
“ But knowledge to their eyes, her ample page,
“And froze the genial current of the soul.”
Tho' many a relic yet remains,
To grace the festive board;
Drawn from some Noble's wide domains,
Or fam’d “ Cellini's” hoard.
A prouder trophy can we find,
Each pleasure to renew;
Than the poor vase, whence Burns' mind,
Its inspiration drew ?
How oft at midnight's silent hour,
With grief and care opprest;
Each sorrow could arrest.
Could raise from poverty's cold soil,
To great Apollo's shrine,
Bestow'd “the spark divine.”
The feudal banner could recall,
With many a Highland Chief;
Whose gallant deeds and early fall,
Still wake the Patriot's grief.
6 O’er auld lang-syne," oh! heave a sigh,
(Rememb’ring joyous youth ;) As long-lost friends move pensive by,
Thro’ scenes of love and truth.
“ The Cotter's roof-tree,” why conceal?
With peace and comfort crown'd,
The ev’ning pray’r, the social meal,
(In rustic haunts still found.)
“ His mountain daisy" ne'er forget,
When vernal zephyrs blow; While Mem’ry pays the grateful debt,
Edina's offspring owe.
Then one brief hour let party cease,
Nor Whigs nor Tories scold;
Like Guelphs and Ghibelines at peace;
(Their Popes and Cæsars cold.)
O'er Ossian's legendary lore,
Or Scott's enchanting rhymes,
With Falstaff's bacchanalian roar,
“ We'll hear the midnight chimes.”
Yet hapless Flora claims a tear,*
Lochiel's Chief a sigh, While Balmerino's tragic bier,
Not malice could decry.
* Flora M‘Donald—whose steady attachment to the young Pretender is too well-known to be repeated,
Those scenes, (thank Heav'n !) long since have past,
Of turbulence and strife;
Disturbs domestic life.
’Ere then we quit our Minstrel's lyre,
With each romantic dream;
Let one fond wish the bosom fire,
And form our latest theme.
“ Long may fair Brunswick rule our isle,
6 And Freedom's cause defend ;
“O’er Erin's shores may concord smile,
« And rival factions blend.
“ Long may their bark, our Merchants helm,
“ Like our kind host of ev'ry realm,
“ The centre-prop—and stay.
“And may the Lares of his hearth,
“ These precincts ever guard, “ With roses strew our chequer'd path,
“ And crown the Ayrshire Bard.”
SONNET UPON A CLOSING YEAR.
“ We have seen the young and gay,
“ Carried where we all must lie ;
“ Miss we not the laughing voice?
“ Et in Arcadia ; Ego."
Where is many a lovely Belle,
Who in summer shone so gay?
In her dark and narrow cell,
Quickly mould’ring into clay.
Where is many a high-born youth,
First in Pleasure's flow'ry train;
Whisp’ring vows of love and truth,
Vows he ne'er will pour again?